MICHAEL. A PASTORAL POEM. 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. [brook But, courage! for around that boisterous The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. That overhead are sailing in the sky. Nor should I have made mention of this dell Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first hills Where was their occupation and abode. Of natural objects led me on to feel Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his [limb. name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 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 [rocks, That the green valleys, and the streams and Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. [breathed Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 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; Strong hold on his affections, were to him His days had not been passed in single ness. His helpmate was a comely matron, oldThough younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, It was because the other was at work. 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, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, [when their meal And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 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 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 ceiling by the chimney's edge That in our ancient uncouth country style And There by the light of this old lamp they sat, 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 | With iron, making it throughou. in all years, [needs Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, The shepherd, if he loved himself, must And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt Have loved his helpmate; but to Michael's He as a watchman oftentimes was placed heart 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 hindrance and a help; This son of his old age was yet more dear- And stirrings of inquietude, when they Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, And, in a later time, ere yet the boy To have the young one in his sight, when Had work by his own door, or when he sat Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks And when by Heaven's good grace the A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek And for this course not always, I believe, But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could Were dearer now? that from the boy there 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 In surety for his brother's son, a man now Was summoned to discharge the forfei- At the first hearing, for a moment took That he could look his trouble in the face, Clipping is the word used in the North of A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, scheme And his heart failed him." Isabel," said he, | And thus resumed :-" Well, Isabel! this Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he est, These two days has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: pare Things needful for the journey of her son. see That passes over it. We have, thou know-To stop her in her work: for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the two last nights [sleep: Heard him, how he was troubled in his And when they rose at morning she could [noon That all his hopes were gone. That day at She said to Luke, while they two by themselves [go: Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not 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; Another kinsman-he will be our friend He was a parish-boy-at the church-door wares; And with this basket on his arm, the lad, And left estates and moneys to the poor, And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Did she bring forth, and all together sat With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in spring: at length came, With kind assurances that he would do Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel | Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Had to her house returned, the old man Luke had a manly heart; but at these said, words [word "He shall depart to-morrow." To this 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 Greenhead 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 ; [stopped, And soon as they had reached the place he And thus the old man spake to him.-"My son, [heart To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full 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 speak [After thou Of things thou canst not know of.First cam'st into the world-as oft befalls To new-born infants-thou didst sleep away [tongue Two days, and blessings from thy father's 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 heard thee by our own fireside [tune; First uttering, without words, a natural When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy [lowed month, Sing at thy mother's breast. Month folAnd in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains, else I think that thou [knees. Hadst been brought up upon thy father's But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, [young As well thou know'st, in us the old and Have played together, nor with me didst thou [his hand, He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped 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 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 loath To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou shouldst 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, [was free. And till these three weeks past the land 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 shouldst go." At this the old man paused; [they stood, Then, pointing to the stones near which 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 stoneHere, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. [live Nay, boy, be of good hope;--we both may 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 Will I without thee go again, and do |