Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  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, 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 he
althy 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 partr />
  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.”