Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2

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,11 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 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

1

This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins.

2

This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, Author of the Hurricane.

3

The great Gavel, so called I imagine, from its resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a River which follows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.

4

The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.

5

'Gill', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.