Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 14

And there, myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Saunter'd on this retir'd and difficult way.

--Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Play'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along,

It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had toss'd ash.o.r.e, Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough, Each on the other heap'd along the line Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd By some internal feeling, skimm'd along Close to the surface of the lake that lay Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there, In all its sportive wanderings all the while Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its very playmate, and its moving soul.

--And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam'd, Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere Sole-sitting by the sh.o.r.es of old Romance.

--So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And in the fashion which I have describ'd, Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd Along the indented sh.o.r.e; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw Before us on a point of jutting land The tall and upright figure of a Man Attir'd in peasant's garb, who stood alone Angling beside the margin of the lake.

That way we turn'd our steps: nor was it long, Ere making ready comments on the sight Which then we saw, with one and the same voice We all cried out, that he must be indeed An idle man, who thus could lose a day Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stor'd Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.

Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turn'd his head To greet us--and we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I look'd at them, Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.-- Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was chang'd To serious musing and to self-reproach.

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserv'd in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity.

--Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv'd The same admonishment, have call'd the plate By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by Mariner was giv'n to Bay Or Foreland on a new-discover'd coast, And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.

V.

_To M. H_.

Our walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any wood-man's path, But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed sapling, on the soft green turf Beneath the branches of itself had made A track which brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods.

All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman's hand Had shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sun Or wind from any quarter ever come But as a blessing to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field.

The spot was made by Nature for herself: The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful, And if a man should plant his cottage near.

Should sleep beneath the shelter of its tress, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it that in his death-hour Its image would survive among his thoughts, And, therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook With all its beeches we have named from You.

MICHAEL, _A PASTORAL POEM_.

_MICHAEL_,

_A PASTORAL POEM_

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.

But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook The mountains have all open'd out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is seen; but such As journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky.

It is in truth an utter solitude, Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pa.s.s by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones!

And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, Or for the summer shade. It was the first, The earliest of those tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men Whom I already lov'd, not verily 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 For pa.s.sions 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 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 he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone, and often-times When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills; The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say The winds are now devising work for me!

And truly at all times the storm, that drives The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists That came to him and left him on the heights.

So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pa.s.s'd.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.

Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd The common air; the hills, which he so oft Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which like a book preserv'd the memory Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd, Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills Which were his living Being, even more Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself.

He had not pa.s.sed his days in singleness.

He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old Though younger than himself full twenty years.

She was a woman of a stirring life Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had 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, 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 Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd) And his old Father, both betook themselves To such convenient work, as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge, Which in our ancient uncouth country style Did with a huge projection overbrow Large s.p.a.ce beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had perform'd Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn and late, Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours Which going by from year to year had found And left the Couple neither gay perhaps Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while late into the night The House-wife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage thro' the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

Not with a waste of words, but for the sake Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give To many living now, I of this Lamp Speak thus minutely: for there are no few Whose memories will bear witness to my tale, The Light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public Symbol of the life, The thrifty Pair had liv'd. For, as it chanc'd, Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect North and South, High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise, And Westward to the village near the Lake.

And from this constant light so regular And so far seen, the House itself by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was nam'd The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years, The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart This Son of his old age was yet more dear-- Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd By that instinctive tenderness, the same Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all, Or that a child, more than all other gifts, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail.

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts Of the old Man his only Son was now The dearest object that he knew on earth.

Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His Heart and his Heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For dalliance and delight, as is the use Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love, Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the young one in his sight, when he Had work by his own door, or when he sate With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd The CLIPPING TREE, [10] a name which yet it bears.

[Footnote 10: Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.]

There, while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock, And to his office prematurely call'd There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help, And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his Father hire of praise.

While this good household thus were living on 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 In surety for his Brother's Son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means, But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost.