Wordsworth

by Gavin Herbertson

  To stop her in her work: for, when she lay

  By Michael’s side, she through the last two 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 Youth made answer with a jocund voice;

  And Isabel, when she had told her fears,

  Recovered heart. That evening her best fare

  Did she bring forth, and all together sat

  Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

  With daylight Isabel resumed her work;

  And all the ensuing week the house appeared

  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 show 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 returned, the old Man said,

  “He shall depart to-morrow.” To this word

  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 Green-head 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

  Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

  With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:

  And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,

  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 befals

  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 fire-side

  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

  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 gra sped 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

  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.

  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,

  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;

  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

  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,

  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

  Befal 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 Sheep-fold. At the sight

  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 Hou
se 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.

  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

  He to that valley took his way, and there

  Wrought at the Sheep-fold. 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:

  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

  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 Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen

  Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,

  Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

  The length of full seven years, from time to time,

  He at the building of this Sheep-fold 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

  Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen

  Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

  The Idle Shepherd-Boys

  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

  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:

  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;

  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,

  “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;

  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—

  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.

  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

  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:

  The Shepherds met him with his charg
e,

  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.

  The Waterfall and the Eglantine

  I

  “Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,”

  Exclaimed an angry Voice,

  “Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self

  Between me and my choice!”

  A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows

  Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,

  That, all bespattered with his foam,

  And dancing high and dancing low,

  Was living, as a child might know,

  In an unhappy home.

  II

  “Dost thou presume my course to block?

  Off, off! or, puny Thing!

  I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock

  To which thy fibres cling.”

  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;

  The patient Briar suffered long,

  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

  Hoping the danger would be past;

  But, seeing no relief, at last,

  He ventured to reply.

  III

  “Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me not;

  Why should we dwell in strife?

  We who in this sequestered spot

  Once lived a happy life!

  You stirred me on my rocky bed—

  What pleasure through my veins you spread

  The summer long, from day to day,

  My leaves you freshened and bedewed;

  Nor was it common gratitude

  That did your cares repay.

  IV

  “When spring came on with bud and bell,

  Among these rocks did I

  Before you hang my wreaths to tell

  That gentle days were nigh!

  And in the sultry summer hours,

  I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;

  And in my leaves—now shed and gone,

  The linnet lodged, and for us two

  Chanted his pretty songs, when you

  Had little voice or none.

  V

  “But now proud thoughts are in your breast—

  What grief is mine you see,

  Ah! would you think, even yet how blest

  Together we might be!

  Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

  Some ornaments to me are left—

  Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,

  With which I, in my humble way,

  Would deck you many a winter day,