The pony, Betty, and her boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, betimes abroad,

That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long time lay Susan lost in thought,
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her messenger and nurse;

And as her mind grew worse and worse,
Her body it grew better.

She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And while her mind was fighting thus,
Her body still grew better.

"Alas! what is become of them?
These fears can never be endured,

I'll to the wood."-The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed,
As if by magic cured.

Away she posts uphill and down,
And to the wood at length is come;

She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting
As ever was in Christendom.

The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;
The owls have hooted all night long,
And with the owls began my song,
And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, Tell us, Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,
What you have heard, what you have seen,
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."

Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been
From eight o'clock till five.

And thus, to Betty's question, he
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)

"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
And the sun did shine so cold."
Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel's story.

MICHAEL.

A PASTORAL POEM.

IF from the public way you turn your steps; Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,

You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.

[brook

But, courage! for around that boisterous The mountains have all opened out themselves,

And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen but they
Who 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
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnished with
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
events,

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
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 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; [limb. An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 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

pose

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 sup[rocks, That the green valleys, and the streams and Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. [breathed Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had The common air; the hills, which he so oft Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed

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,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gain; 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.

His days had not been passed in single

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
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and
there,
[milk,

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, [when their meal

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 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
Did with a huge projection overbrow
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
Living a life of eager industry. [hopes,
And now, when Luke had reached his
eighteenth year
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late 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
The 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.

years,

[needs The shepherd, if he loved himself, must 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
Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all-
Than 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.
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 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 sat With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool, [door Beneath that large old oak, which near their Stood, and, from its enormous breadth 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. [shade, There, while they two were sitting in the 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

And for this course not always, I believe, Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which. staff or voice, [perform. Cr looks, or threatening gestures could

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand [heights, Against the mountain blasts; and to the Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before [came

Were dearer now? that from the boy there Feelings and emanations-things which

were

Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old man's heart seemed born again.

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up; And now when he had reached his eighteenth year,

He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived [came From day to day, to Michael's ear there 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 prest upon him,-and old Michael
[ture,
Was summoned to discharge the forfei
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked.
for claim

now

[word "He shall depart to-morrow." To this 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 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 by the streamlet's edge

son,

Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; [stopped, And soon as they had reached the place he And thus the old man spake to him."My [heart To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full 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 [After thou Of things thou canst not know of.First cam'st into the world-as oft befalls To new-born infants-thou didst sleep away [tongue Two days, and blessings from thy father's Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed

on,

And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fireside [tune; First uttering, without words, a natural When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy [lowed month, Sing at thy mother's breast. Month folAnd in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains, else I think that thou [knees. Hadst been brought up upon thy father's But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, [young As well thou know'st, in us the old and Have played together, nor with me didst thou

Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good father: and here.n
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 At length their time was come, they were not loath

To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived.

But 'tis 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 inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, [was free. And till these three weeks past the land 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; [they stood, Then, pointing to the stones near which 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-
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own
hands.
[live
Nay, boy, be of good hope;-we both may
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;
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! [ing fast Thy heart these two weeks has been beatWith many hopes-It should be so-Yesyes