| |
| | If from the public way you turn your steps |
| | Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, |
| | You will suppose that with an upright path |
| | Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent |
| 5 | | The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face. |
| | But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook |
| | The mountains have all open'd out themselves, |
| | And made a hidden valley of their own. |
| | |
| | No habitation there is seen; but such |
| 10 | | As journey thither find themselves alone |
| | 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 |
| 15 | | But for one object which you might pass by, |
| | Might see and notice not. Beside the brook |
| | There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones! |
| | And to that place a story appertains, |
| | Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, |
| 20 | | Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, |
| | Or for the summer shade. It was the first, |
| | The earliest of those tales that spake to me |
| | Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men |
| | Whom I already lov'd, not verily |
| 25 | | For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills |
| | 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 |
| 30 | | Of natural objects led me on to feel |
| | 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 |
| 35 | | Homely and rude, I will relate the same |
| | 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. |
| | |
| 40 | | Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale |
| | 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 |
| 45 | | Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, |
| | And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt |
| | And watchful more than ordinary men. |
| | Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, |
| | Of blasts of every tone, and often-times |
| 50 | | When others heeded not, He heard the South |
| | 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 |
| 55 | | The winds are now devising work for me! |
| | And truly at all times the storm, that drives |
| | The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him |
| | Up to the mountains: he had been alone |
| | Amid the heart of many thousand mists |
| 60 | | That came to him and left him on the heights. |
| | So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd. |
| | |
| | And grossly that man errs, who should suppose |
| | That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks |
| | Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. |
| 65 | | Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd |
| | The common air; the hills, which he so oft |
| | Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd |
| | So many incidents upon his mind |
| | Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; |
| 70 | | Which like a book preserv'd the memory |
| | Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd, |
| | Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, |
| | So grateful in themselves, the certainty |
| | Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills |
| 75 | | Which were his living Being, even more |
| | Than his own Blood - what could they less? had laid |
| | Strong hold on his affections, were to him |
| | A pleasurable feeling of blind love, |
| | The pleasure which there is in life itself. |
| 80 | | He had not passed his days in singleness. |
| | He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old |
| | Though younger than himself full twenty years. |
| | She was a woman of a stirring life |
| | Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had |
| 85 | | 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. |
| | The Pair had but one Inmate in their house, |
| | An only Child, who had been born to them |
| 90 | | When Michael telling o'er his years began |
| | To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase, |
| | With one foot in the grave. This only son, |
| | With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm. |
| | The one of an inestimable worth, |
| 95 | | Made all their Household. I may truly say, |
| | That they were as a proverb in the vale |
| | For endless industry. When day was gone, |
| | And from their occupations out of doors |
| | The Son and Father were come home, even then, |
| 100 | | Their labour did not cease, unless when all |
| | Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there |
| | Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, |
| | Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes, |
| | And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal |
| 105 | | Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd) |
| | 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 House-wife's spindle, or repair |
| 110 | | Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, |
| | Or other implement of house or field. |
| | |
| | Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge, |
| | Which in our ancient uncouth country style |
| | Did with a huge projection overbrow |
| 115 | | Large space beneath, as duly as the light |
| | Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp; |
| | An aged utensil, which had perform'd |
| | Service beyond all others of its kind. |
| | Early at evening did it burn and late, |
| 120 | | Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours |
| | Which going by from year to year had found |
| | And left the Couple neither gay perhaps |
| | Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes |
| | Living a life of eager industry. |
| | |
| 125 | | And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year, |
| | There by the light of this old lamp they sate, |
| | Father and Son, while late into the night |
| | The House-wife plied her own peculiar work, |
| | Making the cottage thro' the silent hours |
| 130 | | Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. |
| | Not with a waste of words, but for the sake |
| | Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give |
| | To many living now, I of this Lamp |
| | Speak thus minutely: for there are no few |
| 135 | | 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 |
| 140 | | 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 |
| 145 | | 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 Help-mate; but to Michael's heart |
| 150 | | 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, |
| 155 | | 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 |
| 160 | | 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 |
| 165 | | 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 |
| 170 | | 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, |
| 175 | | 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, 1 a name which yet it bears. |
| 180 | | 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 |
| 185 | | 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, |
| 190 | | 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 |
| 195 | | 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, |
| 200 | | And for this cause not always, I believe, |
| | 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 Luke, full ten years old, could stand |
| 205 | | Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights, |
| | | 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 Shepherd loved before |
| 210 | | Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came |
| | Feelings and emanations, things which were |
| | Light to the sun and music to the wind; |
| | And that the Old Man's heart seemed born agai. |
| | Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up: |
| 215 | | And nowwhen he had reached his eighteenth year, |
| | He was his comfort and his daily hope. |
| | While this good household thus were living on |
| | From day to day, to Michael's ear there came |
| | Distressful tidings. Long before, the time |
| 220 | | 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 |
| 225 | | 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 |
| 230 | | 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. |
| 235 | | 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 sun-shine of God's love |
| 240 | | 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, |
| 245 | | 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 |
| 250 | | 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 |
| 255 | | 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, |
| 260 | | 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 |
| 265 | | 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 |
| 270 | | 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, |
| 275 | | 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 birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd |
| 280 | | 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 |
| 285 | | 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 |
| 290 | | 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 ceas'd, and to the fields went forth |
| | With a light heart. The House-wife for five days |
| 295 | | 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 |
| 300 | | 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 |
| 305 | | 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, |
| 310 | | And Isabel, when she had told her fears, |
| | Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare |
| | Did she bring forth, and all together sate |
| | Like happy people round a Christmas fire. |
| | |
| | Next morning Isabel resum'd her work, |
| 315 | | And all the ensuing week the house appear'd |
| | 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, |
| 320 | | 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 shew it to the neighbours round: |
| | Nor was there at that time on English Land |
| 325 | | A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel |
| | Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said, |
| | He shall depart to-morrow. To this word |
| | The House - wife answered, talking much of things |
| | Which, if at such, short notice he should go, |
| 330 | | Would surely be forgotten. But at length |
| | She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. |
| | |
| | Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, |
| | In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd |
| | To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard |
| 335 | | The tidings of his melancholy loss, |
| | For this same purpose he had gathered up |
| | A heap of stones, which close to the brook side |
| | Lay thrown together, ready for the work. |
| | With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd; |
| 340 | | And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, |
| | 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, |
| 345 | | 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 speak |
| | Of things thou caust not know of. - After thou |
| 350 | | First cam'st into the world, as it befalls |
| | To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away |
| | Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue |
| | Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on, |
| | And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love. |
| 355 | | Never to living ear came sweeter sounds |
| | Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side |
| | First uttering without words a natural tune, |
| | When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy |
| | Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month, |
| 360 | | And in the open fields my life was pass'd |
| | And in the mountains, else I think that thou |
| | Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees. |
| | - But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills, |
| | As well thou know'st, in us the old and young |
| 365 | | Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou |
| | Lack any pleasure which a boy can know. |
| | |
| | Luke had a manly heart; but at these words |
| | He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand, |
| | And said, Nay do not take it so - I see |
| 370 | | 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 |
| | Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old |
| 375 | | Beyond the common life of man, I still |
| | Remember them who lov'd me in my youth. |
| | Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd |
| | As all their Forefathers had done, and when |
| | At length their time was come, they were not loth |
| 380 | | To give their bodies to the family mold. |
| | I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd. |
| | But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, |
| | And see so little gain from sixty years. |
| | These fields were burthen'd when they came to me; |
| 385 | | 'Till I was forty years of age, not more |
| | Than half of my inheritance was mine. |
| | I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work, |
| | And 'till these three weeks past the land was free. |
| | - It looks as if it never could endure |
| 390 | | Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, |
| | If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good |
| | That thou should'st go. At this the Old Man paus'd, |
| | Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, |
| | Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd: |
| 395 | | 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. |
| | I for the purpose brought thee to this place. |
| | Nay, Boy, be of good hope: - we both may live |
| 400 | | To see a better day. At eighty-four |
| | I still am strong and stout; - do thou thy part, |
| | I will do mine. - I will begin again |
| | With many tasks that were resign'd to thee; |
| | Up to the heights, and in among the storms, |
| 405 | | 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 so - yes - yes - |
| 410 | | I knew that thou could'st 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, |
| 415 | | As I requested, and hereafter, Luke, |
| | When thou art gone away, should evil men |
| | Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be |
| | Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear |
| | And all temptation, let it be to thee |
| 420 | | An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd, |
| | Who, being innocent, did for that cause |
| | Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well - |
| | When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see |
| | A work which is not here, a covenant |
| 425 | | '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 stoop'd down, |
| | And as his Father had requested, laid |
| 430 | | The first stone of the Sheep-fold; at the sight |
| | The Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heart |
| | He press'd his Son, he kissed him and wept; |
| | And to the House together they return'd. |
| | |
| | Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy |
| 435 | | Began his journey, and when he had reach'd |
| | The public Way, he put on a bold face; |
| | And all the Neighbours as he pass'd their doors |
| | Came forth, with wishes and with farewell pray'rs, |
| | That follow'd him 'till he was out of sight. |
| | |
| 440 | | A good report did from their Kinsman come, |
| | Of Luke and his well-doing; and the Boy |
| | Wrote loving letters, full of wond'rous news, |
| | Which, as the House-wife phrased it, were throughout |
| | The prettiest letters that were ever seen. |
| | |
| 445 | | Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. |
| | So, many months pass'd 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 |
| 450 | | 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 |
| 455 | | 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. |
| 460 | | I have convers'd 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 |
| 465 | | He went, and still look'd up upon the sun. |
| | And listen'd to the wind; and as before |
| | Perform'd all kinds of labour for his Sheep, |
| | And for the land his small inheritance. |
| | |
| | And to that hollow Dell from time to time |
| 470 | | 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 - ands 'tis believ'd by all |
| | That many and many a day he thither went, |
| 475 | | 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 |
| 480 | | 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. |
| 485 | | The Cottage which was nam'd 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 |
| 490 | | Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen |
| | Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill. |
| | |
| | 1 Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. |
First published 1800.
Contributed by Robert Clark.
