A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; A piping Shepherd he might be, A Herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears nor 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.

A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee, And there in a forgotten tongue He warbles melody.

Of flocks and herds both far and near 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 sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.

When near this blasted tree you pass, Two sods are plainly to be seen Close at its root, and each with grass Is cover'd fresh and green.

Like turf upon a new-made grave These two green sods together lie, Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind Can these two sods together bind, Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, But side by side the two are laid, As if just sever'd by the spade.

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; They seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES.



ADVERTISEMENT.

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.



POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES.



1.

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 soften'd 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 appear'd as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades Of various green were hindrances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance With which it look'd on this delightful day Were native to the summer.—Up the brook I roam'd in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all.

At length I to a sudden turning came 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, appear'd 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 listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here, 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 gaz'd and gaz'd, 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, 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.



II.

To JOANNA.

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow towards 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 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 are 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, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paus'd, 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 chisel'd out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. —Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engender'd betwixt malice and true love, I was not both to be so catechiz'd, And this was my reply.—"As it befel, One summer morning we had walk'd abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. —'Twas that delightful season, when the broom, Full flower'd, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold."

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks, And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, And trac'd 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, imag'd in the heart.

—When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud. The rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd 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 answer'd with a mountain tone: 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 toss'd it from his misty head. Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd With dreams and visionary impulses, Is not for me to tell; but 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, is if she wish'd To shelter from some object of her fear.

—And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm And silent morning, I sate down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chissel'd out in those rude characters Joanna's name upon the living stone. And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.

NOTE.

In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.



III.

There is an Eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our Orchard seat. And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible, and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favorite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'd With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.



IV.

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. 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 ashore, 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 shores 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 shore; 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 pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, 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 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 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 pass'd.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 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 passed his days in singleness. He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had 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 space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had perform'd Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn and late, 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.

As soon as he had gather'd so much strength That he could look his trouble in the face, It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sun-shine of God's love Have we all liv'd, yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave."

"Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself Has scarcely been more diligent than I, And I have liv'd to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil Man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him—but 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a chearful hope."

"Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free, He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou knowest, Another Kinsman, he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go, And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift, He quickly will repair this loss, and then May come again to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor What can be gain'd?" At this, the old man paus'd, And Isabel sate silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times.

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy—at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares, And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad Went up to London, found a Master there, Who out of many chose the trusty Boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas, where he grew wond'rous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Pass'd quickly thro' the mind of Isabel, And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad.

And thus resum'd. "Well I Isabel, this scheme 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 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceas'd, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The House-wife for five days 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 for the two last nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go, We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember—do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father he will die." The Lad made answer with a jocund voice, And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sate Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

Next morning Isabel resum'd her work, And all the ensuing week the house appear'd As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their Kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy, To which requests were added that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to shew it to the neighbours round: Nor was there at that time on English Land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The House—wife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such, short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which close to the brook side Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd; And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, And thus the Old Man spake to him. "My Son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should speak Of things thou caust not know of.—After thou First cam'st into the world, as it befalls To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on, And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love."

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side First uttering without words a natural tune, When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month, And in the open fields my life was pass'd And in the mountains, else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees. —But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills, As well thou know'st, in us the old and young Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.

Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand, And said, "Nay do not take it so—I see That these are things of which I need not speak. —Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father: and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who lov'd me in my youth."

Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd As all their Forefathers had done, and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mold. I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd. But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from sixty years. These fields were burthen'd when they came to me; 'Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine.

"I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work, And 'till these three weeks past the land was free. —It looks as if it never could endure Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go." At this the Old Man paus'd, Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd: "This was a work for us, and now, my Son, It is a work for me. But, lay one Stone— Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. I for the purpose brought thee to this place."

Nay, Boy, be of good hope:—we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and stout;—do thou thy part, I will do mine.—I will begin again With many tasks that were resign'd to thee; Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 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 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, let this Sheep-fold be Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear And all temptation, let it be to thee An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well— When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here, a covenant 'Twill be between us—but whatever fate Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave.

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd down, And as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheep-fold; at the sight The Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heart He press'd his Son, he kissed him and wept; And to the House together they return'd.

Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reach'd The public Way, he put on a bold face; And all the Neighbours as he pass'd their doors Came forth, with wishes and with farewell pray'rs, That follow'd him 'till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing; and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wond'rous news, Which, as the House-wife phrased it, were throughout The prettiest letters that were ever seen.

Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months pass'd on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty, and at length He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would break the heart:—Old Michael found it so. I have convers'd with more than one who well Remember the Old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still look'd up upon the sun. And listen'd to the wind; and as before Perform'd all kinds of labour for his Sheep, And for the land his small inheritance.

And to that hollow Dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the Old Man—ands 'tis believ'd by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years from time to time He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died.

Three years, or little more, did Isabel, Survive her Husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. The Cottage which was nam'd The Evening Star Is gone, the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood, yet the Oak is left That grew beside their Door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill.



NOTES TO THE POEM of THE BROTHERS.

NOTE I.

Page 26—line 20 "There were two springs that bubbled side by side." The impressive circumstance here described, actually took place some years ago in this country, upon an eminence called Kidstow Pike, one of the highest of the mountains that surround Hawes-water. The summit of the pike was stricken by lightning; and every trace of one of the fountains disappeared, while the other continued to flow as before.

NOTE II.

Page 29—line 5 "The thought of death sits easy on the man," &c. There is not any thing more worthy of remark in the manners of the inhabitants of these mountains, than the tranquillity, I might say indifference, with which they think and talk upon the subject of death. Some of the country church-yards, as here described, do not contain a single tombstone, and most of them have a very small number.

NOTES TO THE POEM OF MICHAEL.

NOTE I.

Page 213—line 14 "There's Richard Bateman," &c. This story alluded to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called Ings Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside.

NOTE II.

Page 217—line 4 "—had design'd to build a sheep-fold." etc. It may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold in these mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with different divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for the convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose.

END.

ERRATA.

[Transcriber's note: the errata have all been corrected in this copy.]