Part 14 (1/2)

”And now the fiery charioteer of day Drove down the western steep his blazing car, When homeward all return to close their sports, And usher in with dance the sable night.

The sprightly music sounds, the youths advance, And blooming virgins from the beauteous group: Then joined in couples, active as the light, They tread the mazy dance; the swains the while Join in sweet toil, and press the given hand, And slyly talk of love; or else, askance, Speak by their looks the feelings of the heart.”

THE SHEPHERD OF GREEN-HEAD GHYLL.

A TALE OF GRASMERE VALE.

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 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 boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, 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 pa.s.s by-- Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!

And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is 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, men 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 Of nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For pa.s.sions 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 his 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 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 a shelter--summoned 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 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 shepherd's thoughts.

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; the hills, which he so oft Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hards.h.i.+p, skill, or courage, joy or fear; Which like a book preserved the memory Of the dumb animals whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain; 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.

His days had not been pa.s.sed in singleness.

His helpmate was 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 Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named) And his old father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card wool For the housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge That in our ancient uncouth country style Did with a huge projection overbrow Large s.p.a.ce 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 sat, Father and son, while late 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 neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life The 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 And so far seen, the house itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years, The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear-- Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all-- Than 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.

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 enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And, in a latter 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 sat With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool, Beneath that large old oak, which near their door Stood--and, from its enormous breadth of shade, Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree,[5] a name which yet it bears.

There while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blythe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath 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 old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hands 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 equipp'd 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 divine, Something between a hinderance 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 were 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 eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived 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 prest upon him, and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture; 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 supposed That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gathered so much strength That he could look his trouble in the face, It seemed that his whole refuge was to sell 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 news, ”I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open suns.h.i.+ne of G.o.d's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pa.s.s 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.

When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.