The man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not

say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was chang'd
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserv'd in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with Charity.

-Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then re

ceiy'd The same admonishment, have call’d the place By a menorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by mariner was given to bay Or foreland on a new discover'd coast, And Point RASH-JUDGMENT is the name

V.

was

To M. H. OUR walk far

among

the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any woodman's path, But the thick umbragechecking the wild growth. Of weed and 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 trees, 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.

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 deli
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook.
There is a stragling 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 bis

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 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 a shelter, summon’d him
Up to the nountains: 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 Vallies, 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

impressid