Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal

Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ

Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling by the chimney's edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which going by from year to year had found
And left the couple neither gay perhaps

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,

Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life

The thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-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 named The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years, The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dearLess from instinctive tenderness, the same Blind spirit, which is in the blood of allThan 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. 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 pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 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 sat With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool, Beneath that large old oak, which near their door Stood, and, from its enormous breadth of shade

Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,

Thence in our rustic dialect was called

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