Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Therefore, although it be a history

Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland-Girl! from Thee to part;
For, I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And Thee, the spirit of them all!

MICHAEL,

A PASTORAL POEM.

IF from the public way you turn your steps |
Up the tumultuous brook of Green - head
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 beside that boisterous
brook

The mountains have all opened out them-
selves,

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 ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer-shade. It was the first,
The carliest of those 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

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 learned the meaning of all
winds,

Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
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-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.

So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should sup-

pose

That the green Valleys, and the Streáms,
and Rocks
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's
thoughts.

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had
breathed

The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps: which had
impressed

So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which like a book preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gain; 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.

His days had not been passed in singleness.

For passions that were not my own, and His Helpmate was a comely Matron, old— Though younger then himself full twenty

think

(At random and imperfectly indeed)

years.

On man, the heart of man, and human life. 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,

Down from the cieling, 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 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
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with
hopes,

Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke was in his eighteenth

year,

heart

Effect which might perhaps have been pro-
This son of his old age was yet more dear-
duced

By that instinctive tenderness, the same
Or that a child, more than all other gifts,
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all—
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
thoughts,
From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Of the old man his only Son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
His Heart, and his Heart's joy! For often-
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,

times

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforced
For dalliance and delight, as is the use
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
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
With sheep before him on his shepherd's
Had work by his own door, or when he sat

stool,

Beneath that large old Oak, which near their
door
Stood, and, from its enormous breadth 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,

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
Scared them while they lay still beneath
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
the shears.

There by the light of this old Lamp they sat,
Father and Son, while late 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
The thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek

And when by Heaven's good grace the
Boy grew up

1

With a light heart.

The Housewife for | To-morrow thou will leave me with full
five days
heart

long

Was restless morn and night, and all day I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare | And all my life hast been my daily joy.
Things needful for the journey of her Son. I will relate to thee some little part
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay When thou art from me, even if I should
By Michael's side, she through the two last
speak
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 Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas-fire.

Next morning Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared

Of things thou canst not know of.-After
thou

First cam'st into the world-as it befalls
The 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
Then 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 followed
month,

And in the open fields my life was passed
And on the mountains, else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's
knees.

But we were playmates, Luke: among these
hills,

As well thou knowst, in us the old and young

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 forth-Luke had a manly heart, but at these words

with

Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."

He sobbed aloud. The Old Man grasped his He might be sent to him. Ten times or more hand, The letter was read over; Isabel And said: "Nay, do not take it so I see Went forth to show it to the Neighbours That these are things of which I need not

round;

speak.

Nor was there at that time on English Land | -Even to the utmost I have been to thee A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel A kind and a good Father: and herein Had to her house returned, the Old Man I but repay a gift which I myself said, Received at others' hands; for, though now old

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
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head
Ghyll,

In that deep Valley, Michael had designed
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 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,
And thus the Old Man spake to him:-"My
Son,

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-mold.
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they
lived.

But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from sixty 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 never could endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good

Heat the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; And left the work unfinished when he died. And to the House together they returned. Three years, or little more, did Isabel -Hushed was that House in peace, or seem- Survive her Husband: at her death the estate ing peace, Was sold and went into a stranger's hand. with morrow's dawn The Cottage which was named THE Eveningthe Boy STAR

Ere the night fell:
Began his journey, and when he had reached Is gone-the ploughshare has been through
The public way, he put on a bold face;