This for the past, and things that may be viewed Or fancied in the obscurity of years From monumental hints: and thou, O friend! Pleased with some unpremeditated strains1 That then and there my mind had exercised An image, and a character, by books 325 Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in 360 Not hitherto reflected. Call we this strength, Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty. I called on Darkness-but before the word to take All objects from my sight; and lo! again 330 The Desert visible by dismal flames; It is the sacrificial altar, fed With living men-how deep the groans! the voice Of those that crowd the giant wicker2 thrills The monumental hillocks, and the pomp 335 Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. At other moments- (for through that wide waste 365 A partial judgment-and yet why? for then We were as strangers; and I may not Thus wrongfully of versé, however rude, I seemed about this time to gain clear sight Three summer days I roamed) where'er 375 the Plain Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or mounds, That yet survive, a work, as some divine, 340 Shaped by the Druids, so to represent Their knowledge of the heavens, and image Both of the object seen, and eye that sees. MICHAEL A PASTORAL POEM If from the public way you turn your steps You will suppose that with an upright path "The Descriptive Sketches, praised by Coleridge as the work of "a great and original poetic genius." 2 They did not meet until 1797. 3A Ghyll is a short, and, for the most part, a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running through it."-Wordsworth. 5 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But courage; for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they 10 Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. Nor should I have made mention of this 15 But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story-unenriched with strange events, 20 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;-not verily 25 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 30 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 35 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. To deem that he was old,-in shepherd's phrase, 90 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, This light was famous in its neighborhood, 130 And was a public symbol of the life That thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale 95 For endless industry. When day was gone, 135 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, 100 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed 140 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 105 To such convenient work as might employ 145 Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card Wool for the housewife's spindle, or re pair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 110 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed Their cottage on a plot of rising ground and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 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 Than that a child, more than all other gifts And stirrings of inquietude, when they 150 By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Large space beneath, as duly as the light 155 Of day grew dim the housewife hung a lamp; 115 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, 120 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 sate, 125 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. 160 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 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 165 Under the large old oak, that near his door Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 170 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 175 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 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time 210 Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; 180 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he 220 hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt 185 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; 190 And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, 225 Than half his substance. This unlookedfor claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took That any old man ever could have lost. strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love 230 Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours Against the mountain blasts; and to the 235 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 200 Were dearer now? that from the boy Feelings and emanations-things which 240 245 Another kinsman-he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 250 Thriving in trade-and Luke to him shall go, And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift |