"When I began, my purpose was to speak

Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou
know'st,

Another kinsman-he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade-and Luke to him
shall go,

And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift

He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor,

What can be gained?"

At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself.

He was a parish-boy-at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought

A basket, which they filled with pedlar's

And thus the old Man spake to him:"My Son,

To-morrow thou wilt leave me with full heart

I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should
touch

On things thou canst not know of.--
After thou

First cam'st into the world-as oft befalls To new-born infants-thou didst sleep

And said, "Nay, do not take it so
That these are things of which I need
not speak.

-Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others' hands; for, though
now old

Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth.

Both of them sleep together: here they

Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in

my work.

And till these three weeks past the land was free.

-It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me,

Luke,

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go."

At this the old Man paused: Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,

Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : This was a work for us; and now, my Son,

It is a work for me. But, lay one stoneHere, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.

Nay, Boy, be of good hope;-we both may live

To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale ;-do thou thy part:

I will do mine.-I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee:

Up to the heights, and in among the

The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart

He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;

And to the house together they returned. -Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,

Ere the night fell :-with morrow's dawn the Boy

Began his journey, and when he had reached

The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors,

Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,

That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their Kinsman

come,

Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous

news,

Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout

"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."

Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.

So, many months passed on: and once again

The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now

Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour

He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime
Luke began

To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of
love;

'Twill make a thing endurable, which else

Would overset the brain, or break the heart:

I have conversed with more than one who well

Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy

He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,

And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep,

And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. "Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old Man-and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went,

And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes

was he seen

THE SPARROWS' NEST

Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favorite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to birds that built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one of those nests. (Wordsworth.)

BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,

Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started-seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER

Extempore. This little poem was a favorite with Joanna Baillie. (Wordsworth)

Compare the description of the same scene by Wordsworth's sister: There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering, lively lake, green fields without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with fortytwo cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work ploughing, harrowing, and sowing: a dog barking now and then, cocks erowing, birds twittering, the snow in patches at the top of thehighest hills, yellow palms, purple and green · twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering spikes, stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oak glossy. We went on William finished his poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone." (Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 16, 1802.)

THE Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

1 Dorothy Wordsworth, called Emmeline also in the poem Toa Butterfly. See the beautiful lines To my Sister, p. 8, the last lines of the Sonnet p. 31, and notes on the Sonnets of 1802.

It is re

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. markable that this flower. coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beauti ful, and in such profusion, should not have been What adds noticed earlier in English verse. much to the interest that attends it is its habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air. Wordsworth.)

PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star:

Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little Flower!-I'll make a stir,
Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush

Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them; I aver

That they all are wanton wooers;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighborhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane; there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,

But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no ;
Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!
1802. 1807.

TO THE SAME FLOWER

PLEASURES newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last, my heart

First at sight of thee was glad ;
All unheard of as thou art.

Thou must needs, I think, have had,

Celandine! and long ago,

Praise of which I nothing know.

I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays
(Workman worthy to be sainted)