Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:

  And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 330

  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 part

  Of our two histories; ‘twill do thee good

  When thou art from me, even if I should touch

  On things thou canst not know of.—After thou

  First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls 340

  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 ear came sweeter sounds

  Than when I heard thee by our own fireside

  First uttering, without words, a natural tune;

  While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy

  Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,

  And in the open fields my life was passed 350

  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 knowest, in us the old and young

  Have played together, nor with me didst thou

  Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.”

  Luke had a manly heart; but at these words

  He 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. 360

  —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

  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 loth

  To give their bodies to the family mould. 370

  I wished that thou should’st 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,

  And till these three weeks past the land was free.

  —It looks as if it never could endure

  Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 380

  If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good

  That thou should’st 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—

  Here, 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; 390

  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!

  Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

  With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—

  I knew that thou could’st never have a wish

  To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 400

  Only by links of love: when thou art gone,

  What will be left to us!—But, I forget

  My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,

  As I requested; and 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

  May’st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 410

  Who, being innocent, did for that cause

  Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—

  When thou return’st, thou in this place wilt see

  A work which is not here: a covenant

  ‘Twill 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,

  And, as his Father had requested, laid

  The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight 420

  The old Man’s grief broke from him; to his heart

  He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;

  And to the house together they returned.

  —Hushed 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. 430

  A good report did from their Kinsman come,

  Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy

  Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,

  Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout

  “The prettiest letters that were ever seen.”

  Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.

  So, many months passed on: and once again

  The Shepherd went about his daily work

  With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now

  Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 440

  He to that valley took his way, and there

  Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began

  To slacken in his duty; and, at length,

  He in the dissolute city gave himself

  To evil courses: ignominy and shame

  Fell on him, so that he was driven at last

  To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

  There is a comfort in the strength of love;

  ‘Twill make a thing endurable, which else

  Would overset the brain, or break the heart: 450

  I have conversed with more than one who well

  Remember the old Man, and what he was

  Years after he had heard this heavy news.

  His bodily frame had been from youth to age

  Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks

  He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,

  And listened to the wind; and, as before,

  Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,

  And for the land, his small inheritance.

  And to that hollow dell from time to time 460

  Did he repair, to build the Fold of which

  His flock had need. ‘Tis not forgotten yet

  The pity which was then in every heart

  For the old Man—and ‘tis believed by all

  That many and many a day he thither went,

  And never lifted up a single stone.

  There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen

  Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,

  Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

&nbs
p; The length of full seven years, from time to time, 470

  He at the building of this Sheepfold 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

  In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left

  That grew beside their door; and the remains 480

  Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen

  Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.

  1800.

  THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS

  OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE

  A PASTORAL

  THE valley rings with mirth and joy;

  Among the hills the echoes play

  A never never ending song,

  To welcome in the May.

  The magpie chatters with delight;

  The mountain raven’s youngling brood

  Have left the mother and the nest;

  And they go rambling east and west

  In search of their own food;

  Or through the glittering vapours dart 10

  In very wantonness of heart.

  Beneath a rock, upon the grass,

  Two boys are sitting in the sun;

  Their work, if any work they have,

  Is out of mind—or done.

  On pipes of sycamore they play

  The fragments of a Christmas hymn;

  Or with that plant which in our dale

  We call stag-horn, or fox’s tail,

  Their rusty hats they trim:20

  And thus, as happy as the day,

  Those Shepherds wear the time away.

  Along the river’s stony marge

  The sand-lark chants a joyous song;

  The thrush is busy in the wood,

  And carols loud and strong.

  A thousand lambs are on the rocks,

  All newly born! both earth and sky

  Keep jubilee, and more than all,

  Those boys with their green coronal; 30

  They never hear the cry,

  That plaintive cry! which up the hill

  Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

  Said Walter, leaping from the ground,

  “Down to the stump of yon old yew

  We’ll for our whistles run a race.”

  —Away the shepherds flew;

  They leapt—they ran—and when they came

  Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,

  Seeing that he should lose the prize, 40

  “Stop!” to his comrade Walter cries—

  James stopped with no good will:

  Said Walter then, exulting, “Here

  You’ll find a task for half a year.

  “Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross—

  Come on, and tread where I shall tread.”

  The other took him at his word,

  And followed as he led.

  It was a spot which you may see

  If ever you to Langdale go; 50

  Into a chasm a mighty block

  Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:

  The gulf is deep below;

  And, in a basin black and small,

  Receives a lofty waterfall.

  With staff in hand across the cleft

  The challenger pursued his march;

  And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained

  The middle of the arch.

  When list! he hears a piteous moan— 60

  Again!—his heart within him dies—

  His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,

  He totters, pallid as a ghost,

  And, looking down, espies

  A lamb, that in the pool is pent

  Within that black and frightful rent.

  The lamb had slipped into the stream,

  And safe without a bruise or wound

  The cataract had borne him down

  Into the gulf profound. 70

  His dam had seen him when he fell,

  She saw him down the torrent borne;

  And, while with all a mother’s love

  She from the lofty rocks above

  Sent forth a cry forlorn,

  The lamb, still swimming round and round,

  Made answer to that plaintive sound.

  When he had learnt what thing it was,

  That sent this rueful cry; I ween

  The Boy recovered heart, and told 80

  The sight which he had seen.

  Both gladly now deferred their task;

  Nor was there wanting other aid—

  A Poet, one who loves the brooks

  Far better than the sages’ books,

  By chance had thither strayed;

  And there the helpless lamb he found

  By those huge rocks encompassed round.

  He drew it from the troubled pool,

  And brought it forth into the light: 90

  The Shepherds met him with his charge,

  An unexpected sight!

  Into their arms the lamb they took,

  Whose life and limbs the flood had spared;

  Then up the steep ascent they hied,

  And placed him at his mother’s side;

  And gently did the Bard

  Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,

  And bade them better mind their trade.

  1800.

  THE PET-LAMB

  A PASTORAL

  THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;

  I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”

  And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied

  A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.

  Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,

  And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;

  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,

  While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

  The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,

  Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure

  shook. 10

  “Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a tone

  That I almost received her heart into my own.

  ‘Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!

  I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.

  Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:

  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

  Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place

  I unobserved could see the workings of her face:

  If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,

  Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing: 20

  “What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?

  Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?

  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;

  Rest, little young One, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?

  “What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?

  Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:

  This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;

  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

  “If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

  This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; 30

  For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need’st not fear,

  The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

  “Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day

  When my father found thee first in places far away;

  Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert ow
ned by none,

  And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

  “He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:

  A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?

  A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean

  Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. 40

  “Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can

  Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;

  And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,

  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

  “Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,

  Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;

  My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold

  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

  “It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be

  That ‘tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee? 50

  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,

  And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

  “Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!

  I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;

  The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,

  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

  “Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;

  Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.

  Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?

  Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!” 60

  —As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;

  And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,

  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was ‘mine’.

  Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;

  “Nay,” said I, “more than half to the damsel must belong,

  For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone,

  That I almost received her heart into my own.”

  1800.

  POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES I

  IT was an April morning: fresh and clear

  The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,

  Ran with a young man’s speed; and yet the voice

  Of waters which the winter had supplied

  Was softened down into a vernal tone.

  The spirit of enjoyment and desire,

  And hopes and wishes, from all living things

  Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.

  The budding groves seemed eager to urge on

  The steps of June; as if their various hues 10

  Were only hindrances that stood between