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Might see and notice not. Beside the brook

His days had not been passed in singleness. Appears a straccling heap of unhewn stones!

His Helpmate was a comely Matron, oldAnd to that place a story appertains,

Though younger than himself full twenty years. Which, though it be ungarnished with events,

She was a woman of a stirring life, Is not untit, I deem, for the fireside,

Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had Or for the summer shade. It was the first

Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, Of those domestic tales that spake to me

That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest, Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men

It was because the other was at work. Whom I already loved ;-not verily

The Pair had but one Inmate in their house, For their own sakes, but for the fields and bills An only Child, who had been born to them Where was their occupation and abode.

When Michael, telling o'er his years, began And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy

To deem that he was old,-in Shepherd's phrase, Careless of books, yet having felt the power

With one foot in the grave. This only Son, Of Nature, by the gentle agency

With two brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, Of natural objects led me on to feel

The one of an inestimable worth, For passions that were not my own, and think Made all their Household. I may truly say, (at random and imperfectly indeed)

That they were as a proverb in the vale Ou man, the heart of man, and human life.

For endless industry. When day was gone, Therefore, although it be a history

And from their occupations out of doors Homely and rude, I will relate the same

The Son and Father were come home, even then, For the delight of a few natural hearts;

Their labour did not cease; unless when all And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake

Turned to their cleanly supper-buard, and there, Of youthful Poets, who among these lilis

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Will be my second self when I am gone.

Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal

Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was named)
Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale

And his old Father both betook themselves There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was bis name; To such convenient work as might employ An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card His bodily frame had been from youth to age Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen,

Some injury done to sickle, tlail, or scythe,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,

Or other implement of house or field.
Aod in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.

Down from the ceiling by the chimney's edge
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, That in our ancient uncoutlı country style
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,

Did with a huge projection overbrow
When others heeded not, He heard the South

Large space beneath, as duly as the light Make subterraneous music, like the noise

Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp; Of Bagpipers on distant Highland bills.

An aged utensil, which had performed The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock

Service beyond all others of its kind. Bethought him, and he to himself would say,

Early at evening did it burn and late, « The winds are now devising work for me!»

Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours,
And, truly, at all times, the storm-that drives Which going by from year to year had found
The Traveller to a shelter-summoned him

And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Up to the mountains : he had been alone

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Amid the heart of many thousand mists,

Living a life of cager industry. That came to him and left him on the heiglats. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year So lived he till his eightieth year was past.

There by the light of this old Lamp they sal, And grossly that man errs, who should suppose Father and Son, while late into the night That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks, The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Making the cottage through the silent hours Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. The common air; the hills, which he so oft

This Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed and was a public Symbol of the life
incidents

ирор
his mind

The thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;

Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground Which like a book preserved the memory

Stood single, with large prospect, North and South, Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts,

And Westward to the village near the Lake; So grateful in themselves, the certainty

And from this constant light, so regular Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills,

And so far seen, the House itself, by all Which were his living Being, even more

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Than his own blood—what could they less? had laid Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of buind love,

Thus living on through such a length of years, The pleasure which there is in life itself.

The Shepherd, if be loved himself, must needs

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So many

Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up; This son of his old age was yet more dear

And now when he had reached bis eighteenth year, Less from instinctive tenderness, the same

He was his comfort and his daily hope. Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of allThan that a child, more than all other gifts, Brings bope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, While in this sort the simple Household lived And surrings of inquietude, when they

From day to day, to Michael's ear there came by tendency of pature needs must fail.

Distressful tidings. Long before the time Exceeding was the love he bare to him,

Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound His lleart and his llearis joy! For oftentimes In surety for his Brother's Son, a man Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

Of an industrious life, and ample means,llad dooe him female service, not alone

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly For pastime and delight, as is the use

Had prest upon him,-aud old Michael now I Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforced

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked

A grievous penalty, but little less Mis cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,

At the first hearing, for a moment took And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy

More hope out of his life than he supposed Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love,

That any old man ever could have lost. Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

As soon as he had gathered so much strength To have the Young-one in his sight, when he

That he could look his trouble in the face,
Had work by his owo door, or when he sat

It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Bencath that large old Oak, which near their door Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
Stood, and, from its cuormous breadth of shade, And his heart failed lim, « Isabel,» said he,
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Two evenings after he had heard the news,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called

« I have been toiling more than seventy years,
The CLIPPING Tree,' a name which yet it bears. And in the open sunshine of God's love
There, while they two were sitting in the shade, Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
With others round tbern, earnest all and blithe, Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Of fond correction and reproof bestowed

Our lor is a hard lot; the sun himself l'pon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep

Has scarcely been more diligent than 1; By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

And I have lived to be a fool at last Scared them, wlule they lay still beneath the shears. To my own family. An evil Man

That was, and made an evil choice, if he And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up Were false to us; and if he were not false, A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Two steady roses that were five

Uad been no sorrow. I forgive him-but Thea Michael from a winter coppice cut

'T were better to be dumb than to talk thus. With his own hand a sapling, which he booped When I began, my purpose was to speak With iron, makiog it throughout in all

Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff,

Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land And gave it to the Roy; wherewith equipt

Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; He as a Watchiman oftentimes was placed

lle shall possess it, free as is the wind At gate or gap, lo stem or turn the tlock;

That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, And, to his oftice prematurely called,

Another Kinsman-he will be our friend There stood the Crchin, as you will divine,

In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Something between a binderance and a help;

Thriving in trade-and Luke to him shall go, And for this cause not always, I believe,

And with his Kinsman's belp and his own thrift Receiving from lsis Father lure of praise;

He quickly will repair this loss, and then Though uought was left undone which staff or voice, May come again to us. If here he stay, Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. What can be done? Where every one is poor,

What can be gained?» At this the Old Man paused, But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand And Isabel sat silent, for her mind i Against the mouolain blasts; and to the heights, Was busy, looking back into past times. Sot fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He with his Father daily went, and they

He was a Parish -at the Church-door I were as companions, why should I relate

They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, | That objects which the Shepherd loved before

Aud half penoics, where with the neighbours bought Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came A Basket, which they filled with Pedlar's wares; Feelings and emanations-things which were

And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad, Ligbe to the sun and music to the wind;

Wept up to London, found a Master there, And that the Old Man's heart scemed born again. Who out of many chose the trusty Boy • Clipping is the word used in the Norrb of England for shcar- To go and overlook his merchandise

beyond the seas : where he grew wonderous rich,

years old,

And left estates and monies to the poor,
And at his birth-place built a Chapel Noored
With Marble, which he sent from foreigu lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The Old Nan 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 Houscwife 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 through the iwo 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 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 sal
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full beari
1 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; 't will do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou canst not know of.--.After thou
First cam'st into the world--as oft 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 passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living car 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, dilst 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 know'st, in us the old and young llave played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.» Luke had a manly heart; but at these words lle 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 Fatber : and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old 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 Al length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mouid. I wished that thou shouldsı live the life they lived. But 't is a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inberitance was mine. | toiled and toiled; God blessed 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 shouldst go.» At this the Old Man paused;
Then pointing to the Stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed :
« This was a work for us; and now, my Son,
It is a work for me. But, lay one Stone-
llere, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ;-we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale;--do thou thy part,
I will do mine.-I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee;
Cp to the heights, and in among

the storms,
Will I without thee go again, and do
All works which I was wout to do alone,
Before I knew thy face.-llesven bless thee, Boy!
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

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 forthwith 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 llousewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short potice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at case.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-hcad Ghyll, la that deep Valley, Michael bad designed To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose be bad gathered up A heap of stones, which by the Streamlei'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,

Did he repair, to build the fold' of which
His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yét
The pity which was then in every heart
For the Old Man-and 't is believed by all
That many and

many a day he thither weót, And never lifted up a' single stone.

With many hopes—It should be so— Yes--yes-
I knew that thou couldst 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 he left to us!-But, I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
As I requested; add hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou

Vayat bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,
| Who, being innocent, did for that cause
| Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-

When thou return'st, thou in this place will see
A work which is not here: a covenant
'T will 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 stooped down, dod, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight

The Old Man's gricf broke from him, to his heart | He pressed his Soo, he kissed him and wept; And to the House together they returned.

-Blushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell;— with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public Way, he put on a bold face; And all the Neighbours as he passed their doors Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight.

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was lic seen' Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, Then old, beside bim, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years from time to time lle 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 named the EVENING STAR Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought Jo all the neighbourhood:-yel 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-lread Ghyl.

THE WAGGONÉR.

A food report did from their Xinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wonderous news. Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout * The prettiest letters that were ever seen.» Both parents read them with rejoicing bearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work

With conhdept and cheerful thoughts; and now | Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour

He so 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: iguoming and shame
Fell on bim, so that he was driven at last
To seek a biding-place beyond the seas.

TO CHARLES LAMB, Esq. MY DEAR FRIEND, Woen I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Dell,

you asked « why The WAGGONER was not added ?» -To

say

the truth,- from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this linie Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, Tue WAGGONER was read to you in manuscript; and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on wbich is partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Deing therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowJedgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am

Very truly yours,

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Rydal Mount, May 20, 1819.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 1 T will make a thing codurable, which else

Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
I lave conversed with more than one who well
Remember the Old Man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this locavy news.
This bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
Ile went, and still looked up upon the sun,
And listened to the wiod; and as before
Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep,
And for the land luis small inheritance.
And to that hollow Dell from time to time

CANTO 1. 'T is spent-this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The dor-lawk, solitary bird, Round the dim crays on heavy pinions wheeling, Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune; That constant voice is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noop!

Confiding Glow-worms! 't is a night Propitious to your earth-horn light; But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between,

Each, in his station twinkling not,
Seems changed into a pallid spot.
The air, as in a lion's den,
Is close and hot;—and now and then
Comes a tired and sultry breeze
With a haunting and a panting,
Like the stilling of discase ;
The mountains rise to wonderous height,
And in the heavens there hangs a weight;
But the dews allay the heat,
And the silence makes it sweet.

Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'T is Benjamin the Waggoner;Who long hath irod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mixed with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The Wain announces-by whose side, Along the banks of Rydal Mere, He paces on, a trusty Guide, Listen! you can scarcely hear! Hither he his course is bending; Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the cracey hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes ;Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb!

The Horses have worked with right good-will, And now have gained the top of the hill; He was patient--they were strongAnd now they smoothly glide along, Gathering breath, and pleased to win The praises of mild Benjamin. Heaven shield him from mishap and snare! But why so early with this prayer?Is it for threatenings in the sky ? Or for some other danger nigba ? No, nope is near lim yet, though he Be one of much infirmity; For, at the bottom of the Brow, Where once the Dove and OLIVE-BOUGII Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial hcart;There, where the Dove and OLIVE-BOUGH Once hung, a Poet harbours now,A simple water-drinking Bard; Wly need our Hero then (though frail His best resolves) be on his guard? He marches by, secure and bold, Yet, while he thinks on times of old, It seems that all looks wonderous cold, He shrugs his shoulders--shakes bis headAnd, for the honest folk within, It is a doubt with Benjamin Whether they be alive or dead !

If he resist that tempting door,
Which with such friendly voice will call,
If he resist those casement panes,
And that bright gleam which thence will fall
Upon bis Leader's bells and mancs,
Inviting him with cheerful lure ;
For still, though all be dark elsewliere,
Some shining notice will be there,
OF

open house and ready fare.
The place to Benjamin full well
Is known, and by as strong a spell
As used to be that sign of love
And hope—the OLIVE-BOUGII and Dove;
He knows it to his cost, good Man !
Who does not know the famous SFAN?
Uncouch although the object be,
An image of perplexity;
Yet not the less it is our boast,
For it was painted by the lost ;
His own conceit the figure planned,
'T was coloured all by his own hand;
And that frail Child of thirsty clay,
Of whom I sing this rustic lay,
Could tell with self-dissatisfaction
Quaint stories of the Bird's attraction !!

Well! that is past—and in despite
Of open door and shining light.
And now the Conqueror essays
The long ascent of Dunmail-raise ;
And with his Team is gepule here
As when he clornb from Rydal Mere;
Ilis wliip they do not dread- his voice
They only hear it to rejoice.
To stand or go is at their pleasure;
Their efforts and their time they measure
By generous pride within the breast;
And, while they straio, and while they rest,
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.

Now am I fairly safe to-night-
And never was my heart more liglat.
I trespassed lately worse than ever-
But Heaven will bless a good endeavour;
And, to my soul's delight, I find
The evil One is left behind.
Yes, let my master fume and fret,
Herc am I-with my

llorses yet!
My jolly Team, he finds that

ye
Will work for nobody but me!
Good proof of this the Country gained,
One day, when ye were vexed and strained
Entrusted to another's care,
And forced unworthy stripes to bear.
Here was it-on this rugged spot
Which now, contented with our lot,
We climb—that, piteously abused,
Ye plunged in anger and confused :
As chance would have it, passing by
I saw you in your jeopardy :
A word from me was like a charm--
The ranks were taken with one mind;
And your huge burthen; safe from harm,

Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 1 This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the progress of reg mani) bas been supplanted by a professional production.

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Here is no danger,-none at all! Beyond bis wish is he secure; But pass a mile-and then for trial,Then for the pride of self-denial;

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