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 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!"

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,

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

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,

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 year,

There by the light of this old lamp they sat, 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
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 often-
times

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

Sat 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

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 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 equipped

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 course not always, I believe, 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

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

but

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him '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,

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,

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 birthplace built a chapel floored
With marble which he sent from foreign

lands.

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

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: If he could go, the boy should go to-night." 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 pre

pare

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

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.

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 forth-
with

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 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,

And thus the old man spake to him:

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.

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