To M. H.
Our walk was far among the ancient trees:There was no road, nor any wood-man's path,But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growthOf weed sapling, on the soft green turfBeneath the branches of itself had madeA track which brought us to a slip of lawn,And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drinkOn its firm margin, even as from a wellOr some stone-bason which the Herdsman's handHad shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sunOr wind from any quarter ever comeBut as a blessing to this calm recess,This glade of water and this one green field.The spot was made by Nature for herself:The travellers know it not, and 'twill remainUnknown to them; but it is beautiful,And if a man should plant his cottage near.Should sleep beneath the shelter of its tress,And blend its waters with his daily meal,He would so love it that in his death-hourIts image would survive among his thoughts,And, therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nookWith all its beeches we have named from You.
If from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.But, courage! for beside that boisterous BrookThe mountains have all open'd out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation there is seen; but suchAs journey thither find themselves aloneWith a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kitesThat overhead are sailing in the sky.It is in truth an utter solitude,Nor should I have made mention of this DellBut for one object which you might pass by,Might see and notice not. Beside the brookThere is a straggling heap of unhewn stones!And to that place a story appertains,Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events,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 meOf Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, menWhom I already lov'd, not verilyFor their own sakes, but for the fields and hillsWhere was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boyCareless of books, yet having felt the powerOf Nature, by the gentle agencyOf natural objects led me on to feelFor passions that were not my own, and thinkAt random and imperfectly indeedOn man; the heart of man and human life.Therefore, although it be a historyHomely and rude, I will relate the sameFor the delight of a few natural hearts,And with yet fonder feeling, for the sakeOf youthful Poets, who among these HillsWill be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere ValeThere 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 ageOf an unusual strength: his mind was keenIntense and frugal, apt for all affairs,And in his Shepherd's calling he was promptAnd watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds,Of blasts of every tone, and often-timesWhen others heeded not, He heard the SouthMake subterraneous music, like the noiseOf Bagpipers on distant Highland hills;The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flockBethought him, and he to himself would sayThe winds are now devising work for me!
And truly at all times the storm, that drivesThe Traveller to a shelter, summon'd himUp to the mountains: he had been aloneAmid the heart of many thousand mistsThat 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 supposeThat the green Valleys, and the Streams and RocksWere things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'dThe common air; the hills, which he so oftHad climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'dSo many incidents upon his mindOf hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;Which like a book preserv'd the memoryOf the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd,Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts,So grateful in themselves, the certaintyOf honorable gains; these fields, these hillsWhich were his living Being, even moreThan his own Blood—what could they less? had laidStrong hold on his affections, were to himA pleasurable feeling of blind love,The pleasure which there is in life itself.
He had not passed his days in singleness.He had a Wife, a comely Matron, oldThough younger than himself full twenty years.She was a woman of a stirring lifeWhose heart was in her house: two wheels she hadOf 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 themWhen Michael telling o'er his years beganTo 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,Made all their Household. I may truly say,That they were as a proverb in the valeFor endless industry. When day was gone,And from their occupations out of doorsThe Son and Father were come home, even then,Their labour did not cease, unless when allTurn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and thereEach 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 mealWas ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd)And his old Father, both betook themselvesTo such convenient work, as might employTheir hands by the fire-side; perhaps to cardWool for the House-wife's spindle, or repairSome 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 styleDid with a huge projection overbrowLarge space beneath, as duly as the lightOf day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp;An aged utensil, which had perform'dService beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn and late,Surviving Comrade of uncounted HoursWhich going by from year to year had foundAnd left the Couple neither gay perhapsNor chearful, yet with objects and with hopesLiving a life of eager industry.
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 nightThe House-wife plied her own peculiar work,Making the cottage thro' the silent hoursMurmur as with the sound of summer flies.
Not with a waste of words, but for the sakeOf pleasure, which I know that I shall giveTo many living now, I of this LampSpeak thus minutely: for there are no fewWhose 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 groundStood 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 regularAnd so far seen, the House itself by allWho 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 needsHave lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heartThis Son of his old age was yet more dear—Effect which might perhaps have been produc'dBy that instinctive tenderness, the sameBlind 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 theyBy tendency of nature needs must fail.
From such, and other causes, to the thoughtsOf the old Man his only Son was nowThe dearest object that he knew on earth.Exceeding was the love he bare to him,His Heart and his Heart's joy! For oftentimesOld Michael, while he was a babe in arms,Had done him female service, not aloneFor dalliance and delight, as is the useOf Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'dTo acts of tenderness; and he had rock'dHis cradle with a woman's gentle hand.
And in a later time, ere yet the BoyHad put on Boy's attire, did Michael love,Albeit of a stern unbending mind,To have the young one in his sight, when heHad work by his own door, or when he sateWith sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool,Beneath that large old Oak, which near their doorStood, and from it's enormous breadth of shadeChosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,Thence in our rustic dialect was call'dThe CLIPPING TREE, [10] a name which yet it bears.
[Footnote 10: Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.]
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,With others round them, earnest all and blithe,Would Michael exercise his heart with looksOf fond correction and reproof bestow'dUpon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheepBy catching at their legs, or with his shoutsScar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew upA healthy Lad, and carried in his cheekTwo steady roses that were five years old,Then Michael from a winter coppice cutWith his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'dWith iron, making it throughout in allDue requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff,And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'dHe as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'dAt gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock,And to his office prematurely call'dThere 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 onFrom day to day, to Michael's ear there cameDistressful tidings. Long before, the timeOf which I speak, the Shepherd had been boundIn surety for his Brother's Son, a manOf an industrious life, and ample means,But unforeseen misfortunes suddenlyHad press'd upon him, and old Michael nowWas summon'd to discharge the forfeiture,A grievous penalty, but little lessThan half his substance. This un-look'd-for claimAt the first hearing, for a moment tookMore hope out of his life than he supposedThat any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had gather'd so much strengthThat he could look his trouble in the face,It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sellA 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 sun-shine of God's loveHave we all liv'd, yet if these fields of oursShould pass into a Stranger's hand, I thinkThat I could not lie quiet in my grave."
"Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itselfHas scarcely been more diligent than I,And I have liv'd to be a fool at lastTo my own family. An evil ManThat was, and made an evil choice, if heWere false to us; and if he were not false,There are ten thousand to whom loss like thisHad been no sorrow. I forgive him—but'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.When I began, my purpose was to speakOf remedies and of a chearful hope."
"Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the landShall not go from us, and it shall be free,He shall possess it, free as is the windThat passes over it. We have, thou knowest,Another Kinsman, he will be our friendIn 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 thenMay come again to us. If here he stay,What can be done? Where every one is poorWhat can be gain'd?" At this, the old man paus'd,And Isabel sate silent, for her mindWas busy, looking back into past times.
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,He was a parish-boy—at the church-doorThey made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours boughtA Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares,And with this Basket on his arm, the LadWent up to London, found a Master there,Who out of many chose the trusty BoyTo go and overlook his merchandiseBeyond 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'dWith 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 schemeThese 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 IWere younger, but this hope is a good hope.—Make ready Luke's best garments, of the bestBuy for him more, and let us send him forthTo-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 forthWith a light heart. The House-wife for five daysWas restless morn and night, and all day longWrought on with her best fingers to prepareThings needful for the journey of her Son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday cameTo stop her in her work; for, when she layBy Michael's side, she for the two last nightsHeard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:And when they rose at morning she could seeThat all his hopes were gone. That day at noonShe said to Luke, while they two by themselvesWere 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,Recover'd heart. That evening her best fareDid she bring forth, and all together sateLike happy people round a Christmas fire.
Next morning Isabel resum'd her work,And all the ensuing week the house appear'dAs cheerful as a grove in Spring: at lengthThe expected letter from their Kinsman came,With kind assurances that he would doHis utmost for the welfare of the Boy,To which requests were added that forthwithHe might be sent to him. Ten times or moreThe letter was read over; IsabelWent forth to shew it to the neighbours round:Nor was there at that time on English LandA prouder heart than Luke's. When IsabelHad to her house return'd, the Old Man said,"He shall depart to-morrow." To this wordThe House—wife answered, talking much of thingsWhich, if at such, short notice he should go,Would surely be forgotten. But at lengthShe gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,In that deep Valley, Michael had design'dTo build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heardThe tidings of his melancholy loss,For this same purpose he had gathered upA heap of stones, which close to the brook sideLay thrown together, ready for the work.With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd;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 heartI look upon thee, for thou art the sameThat wert a promise to me ere thy birth,And all thy life hast been my daily joy.I will relate to thee some little partOf our two histories; 'twill do thee goodWhen thou art from me, even if I should speakOf things thou caust not know of.—After thouFirst cam'st into the world, as it befallsTo new-born infants, thou didst sleep awayTwo days, and blessings from thy Father's tongueThen fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on,And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love."
Never to living ear came sweeter soundsThan when I heard thee by our own fire-sideFirst uttering without words a natural tune,When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joySing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month,And in the open fields my life was pass'dAnd in the mountains, else I think that thouHadst 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 youngHave play'd together, nor with me didst thouLack any pleasure which a boy can know.
Luke had a manly heart; but at these wordsHe sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand,And said, "Nay do not take it so—I seeThat these are things of which I need not speak.—Even to the utmost I have been to theeA kind and a good Father: and hereinI but repay a gift which I myselfReceiv'd at others' hands, for, though now oldBeyond the common life of man, I stillRemember them who lov'd me in my youth."
Both of them sleep together: here they liv'dAs all their Forefathers had done, and whenAt length their time was come, they were not lothTo 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;'Till I was forty years of age, not moreThan 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 endureAnother Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,If I judge ill for thee, but it seems goodThat 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:"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 liveTo see a better day. At eighty-fourI still am strong and stout;—do thou thy part,I will do mine.—I will begin againWith many tasks that were resign'd to thee;Up to the heights, and in among the storms,Will I without thee go again, and doAll 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 fastWith many hopes—it should be so—yes—yes—I knew that thou could'st never have a wishTo leave me, Luke, thou hast been bound to meOnly by links of love, when thou art goneWhat will be left to us!—But, I forgetMy purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,As I requested, and hereafter, Luke,When thou art gone away, should evil menBe thy companions, let this Sheep-fold beThy anchor and thy shield; amid all fearAnd all temptation, let it be to theeAn emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd,Who, being innocent, did for that causeBestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt seeA work which is not here, a covenant'Twill be between us—but whatever fateBefall 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, laidThe first stone of the Sheep-fold; at the sightThe Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heartHe 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 BoyBegan his journey, and when he had reach'dThe public Way, he put on a bold face;And all the Neighbours as he pass'd their doorsCame forth, with wishes and with farewell pray'rs,That follow'd him 'till he was out of sight.
A good report did from their Kinsman come,Of Luke and his well-doing; and the BoyWrote loving letters, full of wond'rous news,Which, as the House-wife phrased it, were throughoutThe prettiest letters that were ever seen.
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.So, many months pass'd on: and once againThe Shepherd went about his daily workWith confident and cheerful thoughts; and nowSometimes when he could find a leisure hourHe to that valley took his way, and thereWrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke beganTo slacken in his duty, and at lengthHe in the dissolute city gave himselfTo evil courses: ignominy and shameFell on him, so that he was driven at lastTo seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of love;'Twill make a thing endurable, which elseWould break the heart:—Old Michael found it so.I have convers'd with more than one who wellRemember the Old Man, and what he wasYears after he had heard this heavy news.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength. Among the rocksHe went, and still look'd up upon the sun.And listen'd to the wind; and as beforePerform'd all kinds of labour for his Sheep,And for the land his small inheritance.
And to that hollow Dell from time to timeDid he repair, to build the Fold of whichHis flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yetThe pity which was then in every heartFor the Old Man—ands 'tis believ'd by allThat many and many a day he thither went,And never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seenSitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.The length of full seven years from time to timeHe 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 estateWas sold, and went into a Stranger's hand.The Cottage which was nam'd The Evening StarIs gone, the ploughshare has been through the groundOn which it stood; great changes have been wroughtIn all the neighbourhood, yet the Oak is leftThat grew beside their Door; and the remainsOf the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seenBeside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill.
NOTES TO THE POEM of THE BROTHERS.
Page 26—line 20 "There were two springs that bubbled side by side." The impressive circumstance here described, actually took place some years ago in this country, upon an eminence called Kidstow Pike, one of the highest of the mountains that surround Hawes-water. The summit of the pike was stricken by lightning; and every trace of one of the fountains disappeared, while the other continued to flow as before.
Page 29—line 5 "The thought of death sits easy on the man," &c. There is not any thing more worthy of remark in the manners of the inhabitants of these mountains, than the tranquillity, I might say indifference, with which they think and talk upon the subject of death. Some of the country church-yards, as here described, do not contain a single tombstone, and most of them have a very small number.
Page 213—line 14 "There's Richard Bateman," &c. This story alludedto here is well known in the country. The chapel is called IngsChapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading fromKendal to Ambleside.
Page 217—line 4 "—had design'd to build a sheep-fold." etc. It may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold in these mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with different divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for the convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose.
[Transcriber's note: the errata have all been corrected in this copy.]