| |
| 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 story—unenriched 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. | |
| |
| 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 shepherd’s 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 Shepherd’s 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 hills—what 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 o’er his years, began | |
| To deem that he was old,—in shepherd’s 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 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, | 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 burn—and 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 Michael’s 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 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 | 155 |
| Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced | |
| To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked | |
| His cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand. | |
| And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy | |
| Had put on boy’s 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 shepherd’s 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 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, | 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 Heaven’s 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 shepherd’s 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 emanations—things which were | |
| Light to the sun and music to the wind; | |
| And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again? | |
| Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up: | |
| And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, | 205 |
| He was his comfort and his daily hope. | |
| |
| While in this sort the simple household lived | |
| From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came | |
| Distressful tidings. Long before the time | |
| Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound | 210 |
| In surety for his brother’s 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 Shepherd’s 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 God’s love | |
| Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours | 230 |
| 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 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 know’st, | |
| Another kinsman—he will be our friend | |
| In this distress. He is a prosperous man, | |
| Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go, | 250 |
| And with his kinsman’s 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. | |
| There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, | |
| He was a parish boy—at the church-door | 260 |
| They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence | |
| And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought | |
| A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s 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 enough—I wish indeed that I | |
| Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope. | |
| —Make ready Luke’s 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 Michael’s 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 remember—do 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 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, | 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 streamlet’s 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 cam’st into the world—as oft 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 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 Mother’s 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 Father’s 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 so—I 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 so—yes—yes— | 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 | |
| May’st 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 return’st, 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 Man’s 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 morrow’s 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 Man—and ’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 stranger’s hand. | |
| The Cottage which was named THE EVENING STAR | |
| Is gone—the 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. | |
| |
