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 Neighbours 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 Sheep-fold. 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 break the heart:-Old Michael found it so.
I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the Old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up upon the sun, And listened to the wind; and as before Performed all kinds of labour 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 Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years from time to time He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her Husband: at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand.
The Cottage which was named The EVENING STAR Is gone-the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood:yet the Oak is left That grew beside their Door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn Performed, my slaughtered Lord have I required; And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn, Him of the infernal Gods have I desired: Celestial pity I again implore;—
Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore !"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the suppliant heav'n-ward lifts her hands; While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud, Her countenance brightens, and her eye expands, Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows, And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror! what hath she perceived?-O joy! What doth she look on?-whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy? His vital presence-his corporeal mold? It is if sense deceive her not-'tis He!
And a God leads him--winged Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake and touched her with his wand That calms all fear, "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodamia, that at Jove's command
Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours'
Accept the gift, behold him face to face."
Forth sprang the impassion'd Queen her Lord to clasp; Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The Phantom parts-but parts to re-unite, And re-assume his place before her sight.
"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone! Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice: This is our Palace,-yonder is thy throne; Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed This precious boon,-and blest a sad Abode.”
"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave His gifts imperfect:-Spectre though I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain ; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
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