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 Youth [34] made answer with a jocund voice; 305
  And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
  Recovered heart.  That evening her best fare
  Did she bring forth, and all together sat
  Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

  With daylight [35] Isabel resumed her work; 310
  And all the ensuing week the house appeared
  As cheerful as a grove in Spring:  at length
  The expected letter from their kinsman came,
  With kind assurances that he would do
  His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 315
  To which, requests were added, that forthwith
  He might be sent to him.  Ten times or more
  The letter was read over; Isabel
  Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
  Nor was there at that time on English land 320
  A prouder heart than Luke’s.  When Isabel
  Had to her house returned, the old Man said,
  “He shall depart to-morrow.”  To this word
  The Housewife answered, talking much of things
  Which, if at such short notice he should go, 325
  Would surely be forgotten.  But at length
  She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

  Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
  In that deep valley, Michael had designed
  To build a Sheep-fold; [G] and, before he heard 330
  The tidings of his melancholy loss,
  For this same purpose he had gathered up
  A heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge [36]
  Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
  With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:  335
  And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
  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, 340
  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 [37] thou canst not know of.—­After thou 345
  First cam’st into the world—­as oft befals [38]
  To new-born infants—­thou didst sleep away
  Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
  Then fell upon thee.  Day by day passed on,
  And still I loved thee with increasing love. 350
  Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
  Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
  First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
  While [39] thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
  Sing at thy Mother’s breast.  Month followed month, 355