|
IF from the public way you turn your steps | |
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, | |
You will suppose that with an upright path | |
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent | |
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. | 5 |
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook | |
The mountains have all opened out themselves, | |
And made a hidden valley of their own. | |
No habitation can be seen; but they | |
Who journey thither find themselves alone | 10 |
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites | |
That overhead are sailing in the sky. | |
It is in truth an utter solitude; | |
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell | |
But for one object which you might pass by, | 15 |
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook | |
Appears a struggling heap of unhewn stones! | |
And to that simple object appertains | |
A storyunenriched with strange events, | |
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, | 20 |
Or for the summer shade. It was the first | |
Of those domestic tales that spake to me | |
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men | |
Whom I already loved;not verily | |
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills | 25 |
Where was their occupation and abode. | |
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy | |
Careless of books, yet having felt the power | |
Of Nature, by the gentle agency | |
Of natural objects, led me on to feel | 30 |
For passions that were not my own, and think | |
(At random and imperfectly indeed) | |
On man, the heart of man, and human life. | |
Therefore, although it be a history | |
Homely and rude, I will relate the same | 35 |
For the delight of a few natural hearts; | |
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake | |
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills | |
Will be my second self when I am gone. | |
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Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale | 40 |
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; | |
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. | |
His bodily frame had been from youth to age | |
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, | |
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, | 45 |
And in his shepherds calling he was prompt | |
And watchful more than ordinary men. | |
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, | |
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, | |
When others heeded not, he heard the South | 50 |
Make subterraneous music, like the noise | |
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. | |
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock | |
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, | |
The winds are now devising work for me! | 55 |
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives | |
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him | |
Up to the mountains: he had been alone | |
Amid the heart of many thousand mists, | |
That came to him, and left him, on the heights. | 60 |
So lived he till his eightieth year was past. | |
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose | |
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, | |
Were things indifferent to the Shepherds thoughts. | |
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed | 65 |
The common air; hills, which with vigorous step | |
He had so often climbed; which had impressed | |
So many incidents upon his mind | |
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; | |
Which, like a book, preserved the memory | 70 |
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, | |
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts | |
The certainty of honourable gain; | |
Those fields, those hillswhat could they less? had laid | |
Strong hold on his affections, were to him | 75 |
A pleasurable feeling of blind love, | |
The pleasure which there is in life itself. | |
|
His days had not been passed in singleness. | |
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old | |
Though younger than himself full twenty years. | 80 |
She was a woman of a stirring life, | |
Whose heart was in her house; two wheels she had | |
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; | |
That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest | |
It was because the other was at work. | 85 |
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, | |
An only Child, who had been born to them | |
When Michael, telling oer his years, began | |
To deem that he was old,in shepherds phrase, | |
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, | 90 |
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, | |
The one of an inestimable worth, | |
Made all their household. I may truly say, | |
That they were as a proverb in the vale | |
For endless industry. When day was gone, | 95 |
And from their occupations out of doors | |
The Son and Father were come home, even then, | |
Their labour did not cease; unless when all | |
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, | |
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, | 100 |
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, | |
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal | |
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named) | |
And his old Father both betook themselves | |
To such convenient work as might employ | 105 |
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card | |
Wool for the Housewifes spindle, or repair | |
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, | |
Or other implement of house or field. | |
Down from the ceiling, by the chimneys edge, | 110 |
That in our ancient uncouth country style | |
With huge and black projection overbrowed | |
Large space beneath, as duly as the light | |
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; | |
An aged utensil, which had performed | 115 |
Service beyond all others of its kind. | |
Early at evening did it burnand late, | |
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, | |
Which, going by from year to year, had found, | |
And left, the couple neither gay perhaps | 120 |
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 sate, | |
Father and Son, while far into the night | 125 |
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 | 130 |
That 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; | 135 |
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, | 140 |
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs | |
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michaels heart | |
This son of his old age was yet more dear | |
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same | |
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all | 145 |
Than that a child, more than all other gifts | |
That earth can offer to declining man, | |
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, | |
And stirrings of inquietude, when they | |
By tendency of nature needs must fail. | 150 |
Exceeding was the love he bare to him, | |
His heart and his hearts 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 | 155 |
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced | |
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked | |
His cradle, as with a womans gentle hand. | |
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy | |
Had put on boys attire, did Michael love, | 160 |
Albeit of a stern unbending mind, | |
To have the young-one in his sight, when he | |
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherds stool | |
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched | |
Under the large old oak, that near his door | 165 |
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, | |
Chosen for the Shearers 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, | 170 |
With others round them, earnest all and blithe, | |
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks | |
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed | |
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep | |
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts | 175 |
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. | |
And when by Heavens 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 | 180 |
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped | |
With iron, making it throughout in all | |
Due requisites a perfect shepherds staff, | |
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt | |
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed | 185 |
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; | |
And, to his office prematurely called, | |
There stood the urchin, as you will divine, | |
Something between a hindrance and a help; | |
And for this cause not always, I believe, | 190 |
Receiving from his Father hire of praise; | |
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, | |
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. | |
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand | |
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, | 195 |
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, | |
He with his Father daily went, and they | |
Were as companions, why should I relate | |
That objects which the Shepherd loved before | |
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came | 200 |
Feelings and emanationsthings which were | |
Light to the sun and music to the wind; | |
And that the old Mans heart seemed born again? | |
Thus in his Fathers sight the Boy grew up: | |
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, | 205 |
He was his comfort and his daily hope. | |
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While in this sort the simple household lived | |
From day to day, to Michaels ear there came | |
Distressful tidings. Long before the time | |
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound | 210 |
In surety for his brothers son, a man | |
Of an industrious life, and ample means; | |
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly | |
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now | |
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, | 215 |
A grievous penalty, but little less | |
Than half his substance. This unlooked-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. | 220 |
As soon as he had armed himself with strength | |
To look his troubles in the face, it seemed | |
The Shepherds sole resource to sell at once | |
A portion of his patrimonial fields. | |
Such was his first resolve; he thought again, | 225 |
And his heart failed 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 Gods love | |
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours | 230 |
Should pass into a strangers hand, I think | |
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. | |
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself | |
Has scarcely been more diligent than I; | |
And I have lived to be a fool at last | 235 |
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 | 240 |
Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. | |
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; | 245 |
He shall possess it, free as is the wind | |
That passes over it. We have, thou knowst, | |
Another kinsmanhe will be our friend | |
In this distress. He is a prosperous man, | |
Thriving in tradeand Luke to him shall go, | 250 |
And with his kinsmans 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? | 255 |
At this the old Man paused,And Isabel sat silent, for her mind | |
Was busy, looking back into past times. | |
Theres Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, | |
He was a parish boyat the church-door | 260 |
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence | |
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought | |
A basket, which they filled with pedlars wares; | |
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad | |
Went up to London, found a master there, | 265 |
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy | |
To go and overlook his merchandise | |
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, | |
And left estates and monies to the poor, | |
And, at his birthplace, built a chapel floored | 270 |
With marble which he sent from foreign lands. | |
These thoughts, and many others of like sort, | |
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, | |
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, | |
And thus resumed:Well, Isabel! this scheme | 275 |
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. | |
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. | |
We have enoughI wish indeed that I | |
Were younger;but this hope is a good hope. | |
Make ready Lukes best garments, of the best | 280 |
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth | |
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: | |
If he could go, the Boy should go to-night. | |
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth | |
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days | 285 |
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 | 290 |
By Michaels side, she through the last two 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 | 295 |
Were sitting at the door, Thou must not go: | |
We have no other Child but thee to lose, | |
None to rememberdo not go away, | |
For if thou leave thy Father he will die. | |
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; | 300 |
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 Isabel resumed her work; | 305 |
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; | 310 |
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 | 315 |
A prouder heart than Lukes. 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, | 320 |
Would surely be forgotten. But at length | |
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. | |
Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, | |
In that deep valley, Michael had designed | |
To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard | 325 |
The tidings of his melancholy loss, | |
For this same purpose he had gathered up | |
A heap of stones, which by the streamlets edge | |
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. | |
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked; | 330 |
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, | 335 |
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 | 340 |
First camst into the worldas oft befalls | |
To new-born infantsthou didst sleep away | |
Two days, and blessings from thy Fathers tongue | |
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, | |
And still I loved thee with increasing love. | 345 |
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds | |
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside | |
First uttering, without words, a natural tune: | |
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy | |
Sing at thy Mothers breast. Month followed month, | 350 |
And in the open fields my life was passed | |
And on the mountains; else I think that thou | |
Hadst been brought up upon thy Fathers knees. | |
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, | |
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young | 355 |
Have played together, nor with me didst thou | |
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know. | |
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words | |
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, | |
And said, Nay, do not take it soI see | 360 |
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 hand; for, though now old | 365 |
Beyond the common life of man, I still | |
Remember them who loved me in my youth. | |
Both of them sleep together; here they lived, | |
As all their Forefathers had done; and when | |
At length their time was come, they were not loth | 370 |
To give their bodies to the family mould. | |
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived: | |
But, tis a long time to look back, my Son | |
And see so little gained from threescore years. | |
These fields were burthened when they came to me; | 375 |
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 | 380 |
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, | |
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good | |
That thou shouldst 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 stone | |
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. | |
Nay, Boy, be of good hope;we both may live | 390 |
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 storms, | 395 |
Will I without thee go again, and do | |
All works which I was wont to do alone, | |
Before I knew thy face.Heaven bless thee, Boy! | |
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast | |
With many hopes; it should be soyesyes | 400 |
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish | |
To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me | |
Only by links of love: when thou art gone, | |
What will be left to us!But, I forget | |
My purposes: Lay now the corner-stone, | 405 |
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, | |
When thou art gone away, should evil men | |
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, | |
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, | |
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear | 410 |
And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou | |
Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, | |
Who, being innocent, did for that cause | |
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well | |
When thou returnst, thou in this place wilt see | 415 |
A work which is not here: a covenant | |
Twill be between us; but, whatever fate | |
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, | |
And bear thy memory with me to the grave. | |
The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, | 420 |
And, as his Father had requested, laid | |
The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight | |
The old Mans grief broke from him; to his heart | |
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; | |
And to the house together they returned. | 425 |
Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, | |
Ere the Night fell:with morrows 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, | 430 |
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, | 435 |
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 | 440 |
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, | 445 |
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; | 450 |
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 news. | 455 |
His bodily frame had been from youth to age | |
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks | |
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, | |
And listened to the wind; and, as before, | |
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, | 460 |
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 | 465 |
For the old Manand 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 | |
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, | 470 |
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. | |
The length of full seven years, from time to time, | |
He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, | |
And left the work unfinished when he died. | |
Three years, or little more, did Isabel | 475 |
Survive her Husband: at her death the estate | |
Was sold, and went into a strangers hand. | |
The Cottage which was named THE EVENING STAR | |
Is gonethe ploughshare has been through the ground | |
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought | 480 |
In all the neighbourhood:yet the oak is left | |
That grew beside their door; and the remains | |
Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen | |
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. | |
|