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                 If from the public way you turn your steps
                 Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 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 pass by
                 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
                 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
                 And to that simple object appertains
                 A story-unenriched with strange events,
                 Yet 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 passions 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 ths 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; hills, which with vigorous step
                 He had so often climbed: 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
                 The certainty of honourable gain;
                 Those fields, those hills-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 the cleanly supper-board, and there,
                 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
                 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
                 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the 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
                 With huge and black projection overbrowed
                 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 bum-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 sate,
                 Father and Son, while far 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
                 That 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
                 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all —
                 Than that a child, more than all other gifts
                 That earth can offer to declining man,
                 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, as with a woman's gentle hand.
                    And, in a later 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
                 Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
                 Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
                 Under the large old oak, that near his door
                 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
                 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
                 Thence in our rustic dialect was called
                 The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
                 There, while they two were sitting in the shade
                 With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
                 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 hand 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 equipt
                 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 hindrance 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 armed himself with strength
                 To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
                 The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
                 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 sunshine of God's love
                 Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
                 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
                 That I could not be 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.
                 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
                 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
                 He shall possess it, free as is the wind
                 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
                 Another kinsman — he will be our friend
                 In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
                 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go,
                 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
                 He quickly will repair this loss, and then
                 He may return to us. If here he stay,
                 What can be done? Where every one is poor,
                 What can be gained?"
                    At this the old Man paused,
                 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
                 Was   busy, looking back into past times.
                 There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
                 He was a parish-boy — at the church-door
                 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
                 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
                 A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
                 And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
                 Went up to London, found a master there,
                 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
                 To go and overlook his merchandise
                 Beyond the seas: where he grew wondrous rich,
                 And left estates and monies to the poor,
                 And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored
                 With marble which he sent from foreign lands.
                 These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
                 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
                 And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
                 And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! this scheme
                 These two days, has been meat and drink to me.
                 Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
                 — We have enough — I wish indeed that I
                 Were younger; — but this hope is a good hope.
                 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
                 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
                 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
                 — If he _could_ go, the Boy should go to-night."
                    Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
                 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
                 Was restless morn and night, and all day long
                 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
                 Things needful for the journey of her son.
                 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
                 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 Greenhead Ghyll,
                 In that deep valley, Michael had designed
                 To build a Sheepfold; 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 befalls
                 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
                 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.
                 — 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
                 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
                 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.
                 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 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:
                 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 Sheepfold, 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 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
                 Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen
                 Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.