And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee !" At this he grasped my hand, and said, " Alas! that cannot be.” That half-mad thing of witty rhymes fears ; How merrily it goes ! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. We rose up from the fountain-side ; 1799. 1800. “ And here, on this delightful day, “My eyes are dim with childish tears, “ The blackbird amid leafy trees, LUCY GRAY OR, SOLITUDE Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body however was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated and the spiritualizing of the character might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavored to throw over common life with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating subjects of the same kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers, into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judg ment. (Wordsworth.) See also Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, Sept. 11, 1816. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comradle Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, -The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! “ But we are pressed by heavy laws; “If there be one who need bemoan You yet may spy the fawn at play, • Now both himself and me he wrongs, MICHAEL At this the Father raised his hook, A PASTORAL POEM Not blither is the mountain roe : The storm came on before its time : The wretched parents all that night a At daybreak on the hill they stood cried, “In heaven we all shall meet ;" -When in the snow the mother spied 'The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall ; Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as “ The Brothers." The Sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and cir. cumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north. (Wordsworth.) IF from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 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. But, courage! for around that boister ous brook The mountains have all opened out them. selves, 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 simple object appertains A story-unenriched with strange events, 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, 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 And then an open field they crossed: men -Yet some maintain that to this day 1799. 1800. to age Of Nature, by the gentle agency 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 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 The traveller to shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he hail been alone Ainid 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 Shep herd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills, which with vig orous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the mem ory Of the dumb animals, whom he had savel, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honorable gain ;, Those fields, those bills--what could they less? bad 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 sin gleness. Ilis Helpmate was a comely matron, oldThough younger than himself fulltwenty 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 oli,--in shep herd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son, With two brave sheep-dogstried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Blade 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 labor did not cease ; unless when all Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with mess of pottage and skimmed milk, a 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 them selves To such convenient work as might em ploy Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, fail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chim ney's edge, That in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection over browed 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 sate, 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 neighbor hood, 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 EVENING STAR. of years, The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Mi chael'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 allThan that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-look ing 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 oftentimes 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 en forced To acts of tenderness; and he liad 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 shep herd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the large old oak, that near hia 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. 1 Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. (Wordsuorth.) came DOW old ; 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 Opon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still be neath 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 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 equipt 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 di vine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this cause 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 heights, 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 Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came Feelings and emanations—things which 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 eigh teenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple house hold lived 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 Was suinmoned to discharge the forfeit ure, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked. for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he sup posed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look bis trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, And his heart failed him. Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the “I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of once news, 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 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 Had been no sorrow, I forgive him ;-. but 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. were |
