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 he had 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 hardship, 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 passed 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 couvenient work as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; 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 cieling, 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 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 was in 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
The thrifty Pair had lived.
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 named The EVENING STAR.
Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear- Effect which might perhaps have been produced
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
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