(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 had he 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 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 imprest 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 The certainty of honorable 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, oldThough 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 labor did not cease; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 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 fire-side; 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, 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 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry.
And now when Luke had reached his eighteenth
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 neighborhood, And was a public symbol of the life
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, 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. 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,
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, 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
Seared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew
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 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, Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.
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