THE DANISH BOY
A FRAGMENT

                                   I

          Between two sister moorland rills
          There is a spot that seems to lie
          Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
          And sacred to the sky.
          And in this smooth and open dell
          There is a tempest-stricken tree;
          A corner-stone by lightning cut,
          The last stone of a lonely hut;
          And in this dell you see
          A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
          The shadow of a Danish Boy.

                                   II

          In clouds above, the lark is heard,
          But drops not here to earth for rest;
          Within this lonesome nook the bird
          Did never build her nest.
          No beast, no bird hath here his home;
          Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
          Pass high above those fragrant bells
          To other flowers:--to other dells
          Their burthens do they bear;
          The Danish Boy walks here alone:
          The lovely dell is all his own.

                                  III

          A Spirit of noon-day is he;
          Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;
          Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
          Nor herd-boy of the wood.
          A regal vest of fur he wears,
          In colour like a raven's wing;
          It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
          But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
          As budding pines in spring;
          His helmet has a vernal grace,
          Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

                                   IV

          A harp is from his shoulder slung;
          Resting the harp upon his knee,
          To words of a forgotten tongue
          He suits its melody.
          Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
          He is the darling and the joy;
          And often, when no cause appears,
          The mountain-ponies prick their ears,
          --They hear the Danish Boy,
          While in the dell he sings alone
          Beside the tree and corner-stone.

                                   V

          There sits he; in his face you spy
          No trace of a ferocious air,
          Nor ever was a cloudless sky
          So steady or so fair.
          The lovely Danish Boy is blest
          And happy in his flowery cove:
          From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
          And yet he warbles songs of war,
          That seem like songs of love,
          For calm and gentle is his mien;
          Like a dead Boy he is serene.
                                                              1799.

LUCY GRAY
OR, SOLITUDE

          Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
          And, when I crossed the wild,
          I chanced to see at break of day
          The solitary child.

          No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
          She dwelt on a wide moor,
          --The sweetest thing that ever grew
          Beside a human door!

          You yet may spy the fawn at play,
          The hare upon the green;                                    10
          But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
          Will never more be seen.

          "To-night will be a stormy night--
          You to the town must go;
          And take a lantern, Child, to light
          Your mother through the snow."

          "That, Father! will I gladly do:
          'Tis scarcely afternoon--
          The minster-clock has just struck two,
          And yonder is the moon!"                                    20

          At this the Father raised his hook,
          And snapped a faggot-band;
          He plied his work;--and Lucy took
          The lantern in her hand.

          Not blither is the mountain roe:
          With many a wanton stroke
          Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
          That rises up like smoke.

          The storm came on before its time:
          She wandered up and down;                                   30
          And many a hill did Lucy climb:
          But never reached the town.

          The wretched parents all that night
          Went shouting far and wide;
          But there was neither sound nor sight
          To serve them for a guide.

          At day-break on a hill they stood
          That overlooked the moor;
          And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
          A furlong from their door.                                  40

          They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,
          "In heaven we all shall meet;"
          --When in the snow the mother spied
          The print of Lucy's feet.

          Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
          They tracked the footmarks small;
          And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
          And by the long stone-wall;

          And then an open field they crossed:
          The marks were still the same;                              50
          They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
          And to the bridge they came.

          They followed from the snowy bank
          Those footmarks, one by one,
          Into the middle of the plank;
          And further there were none!

          --Yet some maintain that to this day
          She is a living child;
          That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
          Upon the lonesome wild.                                     60

          O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
          And never looks behind;
          And sings a solitary song
          That whistles in the wind.
                                                              1799.

RUTH

          When Ruth was left half desolate,
          Her Father took another Mate;
          And Ruth, not seven years old,
          A slighted child, at her own will
          Went wandering over dale and hill,
          In thoughtless freedom, bold.

          And she had made a pipe of straw,
          And music from that pipe could draw
          Like sounds of winds and floods;
          Had built a bower upon the green,                           10
          As if she from her birth had been
          An infant of the woods.

          Beneath her father's roof, alone
          She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
          Herself her own delight;
          Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
          And, passing thus the live-long day,
          She grew to woman's height.

          There came a Youth from Georgia's shore--
          A military casque he wore,                                  20
          With splendid feathers drest;
          He brought them from the Cherokees;
          The feathers nodded in the breeze,
          And made a gallant crest.

          From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
          But no! he spake the English tongue,
          And bore a soldier's name;
          And, when America was free
          From battle and from jeopardy,
          He 'cross the ocean came.                                   30

          With hues of genius on his cheek
          In finest tones the Youth could speak:
          --While he was yet a boy,
          The moon, the glory of the sun,
          And streams that murmur as they run,
          Had been his dearest joy.

          He was a lovely Youth! I guess
          The panther in the wilderness
          Was not so fair as he;
          And, when he chose to sport and play,                       40
          No dolphin ever was so gay
          Upon the tropic sea.

          Among the Indians he had fought,
          And with him many tales he brought
          Of pleasure and of fear;
          Such tales as told to any maid
          By such a Youth, in the green shade,
          Were perilous to hear.

          He told of girls--a happy rout!
          Who quit their fold with dance and shout,                   50
          Their pleasant Indian town,
          To gather strawberries all day long;
          Returning with a choral song
          When daylight is gone down.

          He spake of plants that hourly change
          Their blossoms, through a boundless range
          Of intermingling hues;
          With budding, fading, faded flowers
          They stand the wonder of the bowers
          From morn to evening dews.                                  60

          He told of the magnolia, spread
          High as a cloud, high over head!
          The cypress and her spire;
          --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
          Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
          To set the hills on fire.

          The Youth of green savannahs spake,
          And many an endless, endless lake,
          With all its fairy crowds
          Of islands, that together lie                               70
          As quietly as spots of sky
          Among the evening clouds.

          "How pleasant," then he said, "it were
          A fisher or a hunter there,
          In sunshine or in shade
          To wander with an easy mind;
          And build a household fire, and find
          A home in every glade!

          "What days and what bright years! Ah me!
          Our life were life indeed, with thee                        80
          So passed in quiet bliss,
          And all the while," said he, "to know
          That we were in a world of woe,
          On such an earth as this!"

          And then he sometimes interwove
          Fond thoughts about a father's love
          "For there," said he, "are spun
          Around the heart such tender ties,
          That our own children to our eyes
          Are dearer than the sun.                                    90

          "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
          My helpmate in the woods to be,
          Our shed at night to rear;
          Or run, my own adopted bride,
          A sylvan huntress at my side,
          And drive the flying deer!

          "Beloved Ruth!"--No more he said,
          The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
          A solitary tear:
          She thought again--and did agree                           100
          With him to sail across the sea,
          And drive the flying deer.

          "And now, as fitting is and right,
          We in the church our faith will plight,
          A husband and a wife."
          Even so they did; and I may say
          That to sweet Ruth that happy day
          Was more than human life.

          Through dream and vision did she sink,
          Delighted all the while to think                           110
          That on those lonesome floods,
          And green savannahs, she should share
          His board with lawful joy, and bear
          His name in the wild woods.

          But, as you have before been told,
          This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
          And, with his dancing crest,
          So beautiful, through savage lands
          Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
          Of Indians in the West.                                    120

          The wind, the tempest roaring high,
          The tumult of a tropic sky,
          Might well be dangerous food
          For him, a Youth to whom was given
          So much of earth--so much of heaven,
          And such impetuous blood.

          Whatever in those climes he found
          Irregular in sight or sound
          Did to his mind impart
          A kindred impulse, seemed allied                           130
          To his own powers, and justified
          The workings of his heart.

          Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
          The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
          Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
          The breezes their own languor lent;
          The stars had feelings, which they sent
          Into those favoured bowers.

          Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
          That sometimes there did intervene                         140
          Pure hopes of high intent:
          For passions linked to forms so fair
          And stately, needs must have their share
          Of noble sentiment.

          But ill he lived, much evil saw,
          With men to whom no better law
          Nor better life was known;
          Deliberately, and undeceived,
          Those wild men's vices he received,
          And gave them back his own.                                150

          His genius and his moral frame
          Were thus impaired, and he became
          The slave of low desires:
          A Man who without self-control
          Would seek what the degraded soul
          Unworthily admires.

          And yet he with no feigned delight
          Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
          Had loved her, night and morn:
          What could he less than love a Maid                        160
          Whose heart with so much nature played?
          So kind and so forlorn!

          Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
          "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
          False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
          Encompassed me on every side
          When I, in confidence and pride,
          Had crossed the Atlantic main.

          "Before me shone a glorious world--
          Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled                         170
          To music suddenly:
          I looked upon those hills and plains,
          And seemed as if let loose from chains,
          To live at liberty.

          "No more of this; for now, by thee
          Dear Ruth! more happily set free
          With nobler zeal I burn;
          My soul from darkness is released,
          Like the whole sky when to the east
          The morning doth return."                                  180

          Full soon that better mind was gone;
          No hope, no wish remained, not one,--
          They stirred him now no more;
          New objects did new pleasure give,
          And once again he wished to live
          As lawless as before.

          Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
          They for the voyage were prepared,
          And went to the sea-shore,
          But, when they thither came the Youth                      190
          Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
          Could never find him more.

          God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had,
          That she in half a year was mad,
          And in a prison housed;
          And there, with many a doleful song
          Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
          She fearfully caroused.

          Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
          Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,                         200
          Nor pastimes of the May;
          --They all were with her in her cell;
          And a clear brook with cheerful knell
          Did o'er the pebbles play.

          When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
          There came a respite to her pain;
          She from her prison fled;
          But of the Vagrant none took thought;
          And where it liked her best she sought
          Her shelter and her bread.                                 210

          Among the fields she breathed again:
          The master-current of her brain
          Ran permanent and free;
          And, coming to the Banks of Tone,
          There did she rest; and dwell alone
          Under the greenwood tree.

          The engines of her pain, the tools
          That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
          And airs that gently stir
          The vernal leaves--she loved them still;                   220
          Nor ever taxed them with the ill
          Which had been done to her.

          A Barn her 'winter' bed supplies;
          But, till the warmth of summer skies
          And summer days is gone,
          (And all do in this tale agree)
          She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
          And other home hath none.

          An innocent life, yet far astray!
          And Ruth will, long before her day,                        230
          Be broken down and old:
          Sore aches she needs must have! but less
          Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
          From damp, and rain, and cold.

          If she is prest by want of food,
          She from her dwelling in the wood
          Repairs to a road-side;
          And there she begs at one steep place
          Where up and down with easy pace
          The horsemen-travellers ride.                              240

          That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
          Or thrown away; but with a flute
          Her loneliness she cheers:
          This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
          At evening in his homeward walk
          The Quantock woodman hears.

          I, too, have passed her on the hills
          Setting her little water-mills
          By spouts and fountains wild--
          Such small machinery as she turned                         250
          Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
          A young and happy Child!

          Farewell! and when thy days are told,
          Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
          Thy corpse shall buried be,
          For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
          And all the congregation sing
          A Christian psalm for thee.
                                                              1799.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY
ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY

      A plague on your languages, German and Norse!
      Let me have the song of the kettle;
      And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
      That gallops away with such fury and force
      On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

      See that Fly,--a disconsolate creature! perhaps
      A child of the field or the grove;
      And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
      Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
      And he creeps to the edge of my stove.                          10

      Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
      Which this comfortless oven environ!
      He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
      Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall,
      And now on the brink of the iron.

      Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
      The best of his skill he has tried;
      His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
      To the east and the west, to the south and the north;
      But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.                      20

      His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
      His eyesight and hearing are lost;
      Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
      And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
      Are glued to his sides by the frost.

      No brother, no mate has he near him--while I
      Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
      As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
      As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
      And woodbines were hanging above.                               30

      Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
      Thy life I would gladly sustain
      Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds
      Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds,
      And back to the forests again!
                                                              1799.

THE BROTHERS

      "These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
      A profitable life: some glance along,
      Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
      And they were butterflies to wheel about
      Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
      Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
      Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
      Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
      Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
      Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.                        10
      But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
      Why can he tarry 'yonder'?--In our churchyard
      Is neither epitaph nor monument,
      Tombstone nor name--only the turf we tread
      And a few natural graves."
                                  To Jane, his wife,
      Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
      It was a July evening; and he sate
      Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
      Of his old cottage,--as it chanced, that day,
      Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone                       20
      His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
      While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
      He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
      Who, in the open air, with due accord
      Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
      Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field
      In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
      Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
      While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
      Many a long look of wonder: and at last,                        30
      Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
      Of carded wool which the old man had piled
      He laid his implements with gentle care,
      Each in the other locked; and, down the path
      That from his cottage to the church-yard led,
      He took his way, impatient to accost
      The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
        'Twas one well known to him in former days,
      A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
      Had left that calling, tempted to entrust                       40
      His expectations to the fickle winds
      And perilous waters; with the mariners
      A fellow-mariner;--and so had fared
      Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
      Among the mountains, and he in his heart
      Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
      Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
      The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
      Of caves and trees:--and, when the regular wind
      Between the tropics filled the steady sail,                     50
      And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
      Lengthening invisibly its weary line
      Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
      Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
      Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
      And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam
      Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
      In union with the employment of his heart,
      He, thus by feverish passion overcome,                          60
      Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
      Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
      Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
      On verdant hills--with dwellings among trees,
      And shepherds clad in the same country grey
      Which he himself had worn.
                                    And now, at last,
      From perils manifold, with some small wealth
      Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
      To his paternal home he is returned,
      With a determined purpose to resume                             70
      The life he had lived there; both for the sake
      Of many darling pleasures, and the love
      Which to an only brother he has borne
      In all his hardships, since that happy time
      When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
      Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
      --They were the last of all their race: and now,
      When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
      Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire
      Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,                        80
      He to the solitary churchyard turned;
      That, as he knew in what particular spot
      His family were laid, he thence might learn
      If still his Brother lived, or to the file
      Another grave was added.--He had found
      Another grave,--near which a full half-hour
      He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew
      Such a confusion in his memory,
      That he began to doubt; and even to hope
      That he had seen this heap of turf before,--                    90
      That it was not another grave; but one
      He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
      As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
      Through fields which once had been well known to him:
      And oh what joy this recollection now
      Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
      And, looking round, imagined that he saw
      Strange alteration wrought on every side
      Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
      And everlasting hills themselves were changed.                 100
        By this the Priest, who down the field had come,
      Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate
      Stopped short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
      Perused him with a gay complacency.
      Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,
      'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
      Of the world's business to go wild alone:
      His arms have a perpetual holiday;
      The happy man will creep about the fields,
      Following his fancies by the hour, to bring                    110
      Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
      Into his face, until the setting sun
      Write fool upon his forehead.--Planted thus
      Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
      Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared
      The good Man might have communed with himself,
      But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
      Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,
      And, after greetings interchanged, and given
      By Leonard to the Vicar as to one                              120
      Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
        LEONARD. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
      Your years make up one peaceful family;
      And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
      And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
      They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral
      Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months;
      And yet, some changes must take place among you:
      And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,
      Can trace the finger of mortality,                             130
      And see, that with our threescore years and ten
      We are not all that perish.----I remember,
      (For many years ago I passed this road)
      There was a foot-way all along the fields
      By the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft!
      To me it does not seem to wear the face
      Which then it had!
        PRIEST. Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
      That chasm is much the same--
        LEONARD. But, surely, yonder--                               140
        PRIEST. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
      That does not play you false.--On that tall pike
      (It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
      There were two springs which bubbled side by side,
      As if they had been made that they might be
      Companions for each other: the huge crag
      Was rent with lightning--one hath disappeared;
      The other, left behind, is flowing still.
      For accidents and changes such as these,
      We want not store of them;--a waterspout                       150
      Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
      For folks that wander up and down like you,
      To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
      One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm
      Will come with loads of January snow,
      And in one night send twenty score of sheep
      To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies
      By some untoward death among the rocks:
      The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;
      A wood is felled:--and then for our own homes!                 160
      A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,
      A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
      The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
      And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
      To chronicle the time, we all have here
      A pair of diaries,--one serving, Sir,
      For the whole dale, and one for each fireside--
      Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
      Commend me to these valleys!
        LEONARD. Yet your Churchyard                                 170
      Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
      To say that you are heedless of the past:
      An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
      Here's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass,
      Cross-bones nor skull,--type of our earthly state
      Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home
      Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
        PRIEST. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!
      The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread
      If every English churchyard were like ours;                    180
      Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
      We have no need of names and epitaphs;
      We talk about the dead by our firesides.
      And then, for our immortal part! 'we' want
      No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
      The thought of death sits easy on the man
      Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
        LEONARD. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts
      Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
      You, Sir, could help me to the history                         190
      Of half these graves?
        PRIEST. For eight-score winters past,
      With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,
      Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,
      If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
      By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
      We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;
      Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
      Now there's a grave--your foot is half upon it,--
      It looks just like the rest; and yet that man                  200
      Died broken-hearted.
        LEONARD. 'Tis a common case.
      We'll take another: who is he that lies
      Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?
      It touches on that piece of native rock
      Left in the church-yard wall.
        PRIEST. That's Walter Ewbank.
      He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
      As ever were produced by youth and age
      Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.                    210
      Through five long generations had the heart
      Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds
      Of their inheritance, that single cottage--
      You see it yonder! and those few green fields.
      They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
      Each struggled, and each yielded as before
      A little--yet a little,--and old Walter,
      They left to him the family heart, and land
      With other burthens than the crop it bore.
      Year after year the old man still kept up                      220
      A cheerful mind,--and buffeted with bond,
      Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
      And went into his grave before his time.
      Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him
      God only knows, but to the very last
      He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
      His pace was never that of an old man:
      I almost see him tripping down the path
      With his two grandsons after him:--but you,
      Unless our Landlord be your host tonight,                      230
      Have far to travel,--and on these rough paths
      Even in the longest day of midsummer--
        LEONARD. But those two Orphans!
        PRIEST. Orphans!--Such they were--
      Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parents
      Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
      The old man was a father to the boys,
      Two fathers in one father: and if tears,
      Shed when he talked of them where they were not,
      And hauntings from the infirmity of love,                      240
      Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
      This old Man, in the day of his old age,
      Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir,
      To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
      Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
      Ay--you may turn that way--it is a grave
      Which will bear looking at.
        LEONARD. These boys--I hope
      They loved this good old Man?--
        PRIEST. They did--and truly:                                 250
      But that was what we almost overlooked,
      They were such darlings of each other. Yes,
      Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,
      The only kinsman near them, and though he
      Inclined to both by reason of his age,
      With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;
      They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
      And it all went into each other's hearts.
      Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
      Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,                      260
      To hear, to meet them!--From their house the school
      Is distant three short miles, and in the time
      Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse
      And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
      Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
      Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
      Would Leonard then, when eider boys remained
      At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,
      Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
      On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,                   270
      Ay, more than once I have seen him, midleg deep,
      Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
      Upon the hither side: and once I said,
      As I remember, looking round these rocks
      And hills on which we all of us were born,
      That God who made the great book of the world
      Would bless such piety--
        LEONARD. It may be then--
        PRIEST. Never did worthier lads break English bread:
      The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw                           280
      With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
      Could never keep those boys away from church,
      Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.
      Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner
      Among these rocks, and every hollow place
      That venturous foot could reach, to one or both
      Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
      Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
      They played like two young ravens on the crags:
      Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well               290
      As many of their betters--and for Leonard!
      The very night before he went away,
      In my own house I put into his hand
      A Bible, and I'd wager house and field
      That, if he be alive, he has it yet.
        LEONARD. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
      A comfort to each other--
        PRIEST. That they might
      Live to such end is what both old and young
      In this our valley all of us have wished,                      300
      And what, for my part, I have often prayed:
      But Leonard--
        LEONARD. Then James still is left among you!
        PRIEST. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:
      They had an uncle;--he was at that time
      A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:
      And, but for that same uncle, to this hour
      Leonard had never handled rope or shroud:
      For the boy loved the life which we lead here;
      And though of unripe years, a stripling only,                  310
      His soul was knit to this his native soil.
      But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
      To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
      The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
      A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
      Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:--
      Well--all was gone, and they were destitute,
      And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
      Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
      Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.           320
      If there were one among us who had heard
      That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
      From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks,
      And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
      The day would be a joyous festival;
      And those two bells of ours, which there you see--
      Hanging in the open air--but, O good Sir!
      This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him--
      Living or dead.--When last we heard of him,
      He was in slavery among the Moors                              330
      Upon the Barbary coast.--'Twas not a little
      That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
      Before it ended in his death, the Youth
      Was sadly crossed.--Poor Leonard! when we parted,
      He took me by the hand, and said to me,
      If e'er he should grow rich, he would return,
      To live in peace upon his father's land,
      And any his bones among us.
        LEONARD. If that day
      Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;              340
      He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
      As any that should meet him--
        PRIEST. Happy! Sir--
        LEONARD. You said his kindred all were in their graves,
      And that he had one Brother--
        PRIEST. That is but
      A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth
      James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
      And Leonard being always by his side
      Had done so many offices about him,                            350
      That, though he was not of a timid nature,
      Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy
      In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother
      Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
      The little colour that he had was soon
      Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined--
        LEONARD. But these are all the graves of full-grown men!
        PRIEST. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;
      He was the child of all the dale--he lived
      Three months with one, and six months with another,            360
      And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:
      And many, many happy days were his.
      But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief
      His absent Brother still was at his heart.
      And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found
      (A practice till this time unknown to him)
      That often, rising from his bed at night,
      He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
      He sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved!
      Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,                        370
      I judged you most unkindly.
        LEONARD. But this Youth,
      How did he die at last?
        PRIEST. One sweet May-morning,
      (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
      He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
      With two or three companions, whom their course
      Of occupation led from height to height
      Under a cloudless sun--till he, at length,
      Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge                       380
      The humour of the moment, lagged behind.
      You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape
      Of a vast building made of many crags;
      And in the midst is one particular rock
      That rises like a column from the vale,
      Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.
      Upon its aery summit crowned with heath,
      The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
      Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place
      On their return, they found that he was gone.                  390
      No ill was feared; till one of them by chance
      Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
      Which at that time was James's home, there learned
      That nobody had seen him all that day:
      The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
      The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
      Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon
      They found him at the foot of that same rock
      Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after
      I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies!                   400
        LEONARD. And that then 'is' his grave!--Before his death
      You say that he saw many happy years?
        PRIEST. Ay, that he did--
        LEONARD. And all went well with him?--
        PRIEST. If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes.
        LEONARD. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?--
        PRIEST. Yes, long before he died, he found that time
      Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
      His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,
      He talked about him with a cheerful love.                      410
        LEONARD. He could not come to an unhallowed end!
        PRIEST. Nay, God forbid!--You recollect I mentioned
      A habit which disquietude and grief
      Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
      That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
      On the soft heath,--and, waiting for his comrades,
      He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
      He to the margin of the precipice
      Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:
      And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth                    420
      Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think,
      His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
      It had been caught mid-way; and there for years
      It hung;--and mouldered there.
                                      The Priest here ended--
      The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
      A gushing from his heart, that took away
      The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
      And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,
      As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,--
      And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"              430
      The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
      He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating
      That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
      The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
      But added, that, the evening being calm,
      He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
        It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
      That overhung the road: he there stopped short,
      And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
      All that the Priest had said: his early years                  440
      Were with him:--his long absence, cherished hopes,
      And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
      All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,
      This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed
      A place in which he could not bear to live:
      So he relinquished all his purposes.
      He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,
      That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
      Reminding him of what had passed between them;
      And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,                        450
      That it was from the weakness of his heart
      He had not dared to tell him who he was.
      This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
      A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.
                                                              1800.

MICHAEL
A PASTORAL POEM

      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.
      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,
      Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
      Appears a straggling 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
      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
      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,
      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!"
      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
      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
      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.
      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
      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
      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
      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
      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;
      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--
      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
      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
      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
      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
      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,
      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,
      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,
      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 trouble 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,
      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
      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;
      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?"
                            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
      They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence                260
      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,
      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 birth-place, built a chapel, floored
      With marble which he sent from foreign lands.                  270
      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
      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
      Buy for him more, and let us send him forth                    280
      To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
      --If he 'could' go, the Boy should go tonight."
        Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
      With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
      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
      By Michael's side, she through the last two nights             290
      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
      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;
      And Isabel, when she had told her fears,                       300
      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;
      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;
      To which, requests were added, that forthwith                  310
      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
      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,
      Would surely be forgotten. But at length                       320
      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
      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:
      And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,             330
      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,
      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
      First cam'st into the world--as oft befalls                    340
      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.
      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,
      And in the open fields my life was passed                      350
      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
      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
      That these are things of which I need not speak.               360
      --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' hands; for, though now old
      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
      To give their bodies to the family mould.                      370
      I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived:
      But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
      And see so little gain from threescore years.
      These fields were burthened when they came to me;
      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
      Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,                       380
      If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
      That thou should'st 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
      To see a better day. At eighty-four
      I still am strong and hale;--do thou thy part;                 390
      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,
      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--
      I knew that thou could'st never have a wish
      To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me                  400
      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,
      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
      And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
      May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,                410
      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
      '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,
      And, as his Father had requested, laid
      The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight                 420
      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.
      --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,
      Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
      That followed him till he was out of sight.                    430
        A good report did from their Kinsman come,
      Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy
      Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
      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
      With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
      Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour                    440
      He to that valley took his way, and there
      Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began
      To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
      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;
      'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
      Would overset the brain, or break the heart:                   450
      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.
      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,
      And for the land, his small inheritance.
      And to that hollow dell from time to time                      460
      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--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,
      Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
      The length of full seven years, from time to time,             470
      He at the building of this Sheepfold 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.
      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
      In all the neighbourhood:--yet the oak is left
      That grew beside their door; and the remains                   480
      Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen
      Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
                                                              1800.

THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS;
OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE
A PASTORAL

          The valley rings with mirth and joy;
          Among the hills the echoes play
          A never never ending song,
          To welcome in the May.
          The magpie chatters with delight;
          The mountain raven's youngling brood
          Have left the mother and the nest;
          And they go rambling east and west
          In search of their own food;
          Or through the glittering vapours dart                      10
          In very wantonness of heart.

          Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
          Two boys are sitting in the sun;
          Their work, if any work they have,
          Is out of mind--or done.
          On pipes of sycamore they play
          The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
          Or with that plant which in our dale
          We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
          Their rusty hats they trim:                                 20
          And thus, as happy as the day,
          Those Shepherds wear the time away.

          Along the river's stony marge
          The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
          The thrush is busy in the wood,
          And carols loud and strong.
          A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
          All newly born! both earth and sky
          Keep jubilee, and more than all,
          Those boys with their green coronal;                        30
          They never hear the cry,
          That plaintive cry! which up the hill
          Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

          Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
          "Down to the stump of yon old yew
          We'll for our whistles run a race."
          --Away the shepherds flew;
          They leapt--they ran--and when they came
          Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
          Seeing that he should lose the prize,                       40
          "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries--
          James stopped with no good will:
          Said Walter then, exulting, "Here
          You'll find a task for half a year.

          "Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross--
          Come on, and tread where I shall tread."
          The other took him at his word,
          And followed as he led.
          It was a spot which you may see
          If ever you to Langdale go;                                 50
          Into a chasm a mighty block
          Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:
          The gulf is deep below;
          And, in a basin black and small,
          Receives a lofty waterfall.

          With staff in hand across the cleft
          The challenger pursued his march;
          And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained
          The middle of the arch.
          When list! he hears a piteous moan--                        60
          Again!--his heart within him dies--
          His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,
          He totters, pallid as a ghost,
          And, looking down, espies
          A lamb, that in the pool is pent
          Within that black and frightful rent.

          The lamb had slipped into the stream,
          And safe without a bruise or wound
          The cataract had borne him down
          Into the gulf profound.                                     70
          His dam had seen him when he fell,
          She saw him down the torrent borne;
          And, while with all a mother's love
          She from the lofty rocks above
          Sent forth a cry forlorn,
          The lamb, still swimming round and round,
          Made answer to that plaintive sound.

          When he had learnt what thing it was,
          That sent this rueful cry; I ween
          The Boy recovered heart, and told                           80
          The sight which he had seen.
          Both gladly now deferred their task;
          Nor was there wanting other aid--
          A Poet, one who loves the brooks
          Far better than the sages' books,
          By chance had thither strayed;
          And there the helpless lamb he found
          By those huge rocks encompassed round.

          He drew it from the troubled pool,
          And brought it forth into the light:                        90
          The Shepherds met him with his charge,
          An unexpected sight!
          Into their arms the lamb they took,
          Whose life and limbs the flood had spared;
          Then up the steep ascent they hied,
          And placed him at his mother's side;
          And gently did the Bard
          Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,
          And bade them better mind their trade.
                                                              1800.

THE PET-LAMB
A PASTORAL

  The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
  A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.

  Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
  And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
  While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

  The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
  Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure
      shook.                                                          10
  "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
  That I almost received her heart into my own.

  'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
  I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
  Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:
  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

  Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
  I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
  If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
  Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:           20

  "What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?
  Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
  Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

  "What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
  Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
  This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

  "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
  This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;              30
  For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
  The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

  "Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
  When my father found thee first in places far away;
  Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
  And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

  "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
  A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
  A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
  Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.                   40

  "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
  Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
  And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

  "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
  Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
  My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

  "It will not, will not rest!--Poor creature, can it be
  That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?           50
  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
  And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

  "Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
  I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
  The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

  "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
  Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard by.
  Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
  Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again!"              60

  --As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
  And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 'mine'.

  Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
  "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,
  For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone,
  That I almost received her heart into my own."
                                                              1800.

POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES
I

          It was an April morning: fresh and clear
          The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
          Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
          Of waters which the winter had supplied
          Was softened down into a vernal tone.
          The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
          And hopes and wishes, from all living things
          Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
          The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
          The steps of June; as if their various hues                 10
          Were only hindrances that stood between
          Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
          Such an entire contentment in the air
          That every naked ash, and tardy tree
          Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
          With which it looked on this delightful day
          Were native to the summer.--Up the brook
          I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
          Alive to all things and forgetting all.
          At length I to a sudden turning came                        20
          In this continuous glen, where down a rock
          The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
          Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
          Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
          Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
          The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
          Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
          Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
          Or like some natural produce of the air,
          That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;         30
          But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch,
          The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
          With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
          And, on a summit, distant a short space,
          By any who should look beyond the dell,
          A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
          I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
          "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
          My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
          ----Soon did the spot become my other home,                 40
          My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
          And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
          To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
          Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
          Years after we are gone and in our graves,
          When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
          May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
                                                              1800.

POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES
II. TO JOANNA

          Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
          The time of early youth; and there you learned,
          From years of quiet industry, to love
          The living Beings by your own fireside,
          With such a strong devotion, that your heart
          Is slow to meet the sympathies of them
          Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
          And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
          Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
          Dwelling retired in our simplicity                          10
          Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
          Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
          So distant from us now for two long years,
          That you will gladly listen to discourse,
          However trivial, if you thence be taught
          That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
          Familiarly of you and of old times.
            While I was seated, now some ten days past,
          Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
          Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,             20
          The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
          Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,
          "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
          And when will she return to us?" he paused;
          And, after short exchange of village news,
          He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
          Reviving obsolete idolatry,
          I, like a Runic Priest, in characters
          Of formidable size had chiselled out
          Some uncouth name upon the native rock,                     30
          Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
          --Now, by those dear immunities of heart
          Engendered between malice and true love,
          I was not loth to be so catechised,
          And this was my reply:--"As it befell,
          One summer morning we had walked abroad
          At break of day, Joanna and myself.
          --'Twas that delightful season when the broom,
          Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
          Along the copses runs in veins of gold.                     40
          Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
          And when we came in front of that tall rock
          That eastward looks, I there stopped short--and stood
          Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye
          From base to summit; such delight I found
          To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower
          That intermixture of delicious hues,
          Along so vast a surface, all at once,
          In one impression, by connecting force
          Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.                   50
          --When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
          Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
          That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
          The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
          Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;
          That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
          Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
          And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth
          A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
          And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;                60
          Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
          Carried the Lady's voice,--old Skiddaw blew
          His speaking-trumpet;--back out of the clouds
          Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
          And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
          --Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
          Who in the hey-day of astonishment
          Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
          A work accomplished by the brotherhood
          Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched                 70
          With dreams and visionary impulses
          To me alone imparted, sure I am
          That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
          And, while we both were listening, to my side
          The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
          To shelter from some object of her fear.
          --And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
          Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
          Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
          And silent morning, I sat down, and there,                  80
          In memory of affections old and true,
          I chiselled out in those rude characters
          Joanna's name deep in the living stone:--
          And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,
          Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK."
                                                              1800.