Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition)

Whose memories will bear witness to my tale,

The Light was famous in its neighbourhood,

And was a public Symbol of the life,

The thrifty Pair had liv’d. For, as it chanc’d,

Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect North and South,

High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise,

And Westward to the village near the Lake.

And from this constant light so regular

And so far seen, the House itself by all

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,

Both old and young, was nam’d The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years,

The Shepherd, if he lov’d himself, must needs

Have lov’d his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart

This Son of his old age was yet more dear —

Effect which might perhaps have been produc’d

By that instinctive tenderness, the same

Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,

Or that a child, more than all other gifts,

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,

And stirrings of inquietude, when they

By tendency of nature needs must fail.

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts

Of the old Man his only Son was now

The dearest object that he knew on earth.

Exceeding was the love he bare to him,

His Heart and his Heart’s joy! For oftentimes

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

Had done him female service, not alone

For dalliance and delight, as is the use

Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc’d

To acts of tenderness; and he had rock’d

His cradle with a woman’s gentle hand.

And in a later time, ere yet the Boy

Had put on Boy’s attire, did Michael love,

Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

To have the young one in his sight, when he

Had work by his own door, or when he sate

With sheep before him on his Shepherd’s stool,

Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door

Stood, and from it’s enormous breadth of shade

Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,

Thence in our rustic dialect was call’d

The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade,

With others round them, earnest all and blithe,

Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

Of fond correction and reproof bestow’d

Upon the child, if he dislurb’d the sheep

By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

Scar’d them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven’s good grace the Boy grew up

A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek

Two steady roses that were five years old,

Then Michael from a winter coppice cut

With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop’d

With iron, making it throughout in all

Due requisites a perfect Shepherd’s Staff,

And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp’d

He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac’d

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock,

And to his office prematurely call’d

There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

Something between a hindrance and a help,

And for this cause not always, I believe,

Receiving from his Father hire of praise.

While this good household thus were living on

From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came

Distressful tidings. Long before, the time

Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound

In surety for his Brother’s Son, a man

Of an industrious life, and ample means,

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

Had press’d upon him, and old Michael now

Was summon’d to discharge the forfeiture,

A grievous penalty, but little less

Than half his substance. This un-look’d-for claim

At the first hearing, for a moment took

More hope out of his life than he supposed

That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gather’d so much strength

That he could look his trouble in the face,

It seem’d that his sole refuge was to sell

A portion of his patrimonial fields.

Such was his first resolve; he thought again,

And his heart fail’d him. “Isabel,” said he,

Two evenings after he had heard the news,

”I have been toiling more than seventy years,

And in the open sunshine of God’s love

Have we all liv’d, yet if these fields of ours

Should pass into a Stranger’s hand, I think

That I could not lie quiet in my grave.”

”Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself

Has scarcely been more diligent than I,

And I have liv’d to be a fool at last

To my own family. An evil Man

That was, and made an evil choice, if he

Were false to us; and if he were not false,

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but

’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

When I began, my purpose was to speak

Of remedies and of a chearful 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 knowest,

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

May come again to us. If here he stay,

What can be done? Where every one is poor

What can be gain’d?” At this, the old man paus’d,

And Isabel sate 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 Neighbours bought

A Basket, which they fill’d with Pedlar’s wares,

And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad

Went up to London, found a Master there,

Who out of many chose the trusty Boy

To go and overlook his merchandise

Beyond the seas, where he grew wond’rous rich,

And left estates and monies to the poor,

And at his birthplace built a Chapel, floor’d

With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands.

These thoughts, and many others of like sort,

Pass’d quickly thro’ the mind of Isabel,

And her face brighten’d. The Old Man was glad.

And thus resum’d. “Well I Isabel, this scheme

These two days has been meat and drink to me.

Far more than we have lost is left us yet.

— We have enough — I wish indeed that I

Were younger, but this hope is a good hope.

— Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best

Buy for him more, and let us send him forth

Tomorrow, or the next day, or to-night:

— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.”

Here Michael ceas’d, and to the fields went forth

With a light heart. The Housewife for five days

Was restless morn and night, and all day long

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare

Things needful for the journey of her Son.

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came

To stop her in her work; for, when she lay

By Michael’s side, she for the two last nights

Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:

And when they rose at morning she could see

That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon

She said to Luke, while they two by themselves

Were sitting at the door, “Thou must not go,

We have no other Child but thee to lose,

None to remember — do not go away,

For if thou leave thy Father he will die.”

The Lad made answer with a jocund voice,

And Isabel, when she had told her fears,