Volume 8 — 1800

I hate that Andrew Jones; he’ll breed His children up to waste and pillage. I wish the press-gang or the drum Would with its rattling music come,[341] And sweep him from the village! 5 I said not this, because he loves Through the long day to swear and tipple; But for the poor dear sake of one To whom a foul deed he had done, A friendless man, a travelling cripple! 10 For this poor crawling helpless wretch Some horseman who was passing by,[342] A penny on the ground had thrown; But the poor cripple was alone And could not stoop—no help was nigh. 15 Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground For it had long been droughty weather; So with his staff the cripple wrought Among the dust till he had brought The half-pennies together. 20 It chanced that Andrew passed that way Just at the time; and there he found The cripple in the mid-day heat Standing alone, and at his feet He saw the penny on the ground. 25 He stooped and took the penny up:[343] And when the cripple nearer drew, Quoth Andrew, “Under half-a-crown, What a man finds is all his own, And so, my friend, good-day to you.” 30 And hence I said, that Andrew’s boys Will all be trained to waste and pillage: And wished the press-gang, or the drum Would with its rattling music come,[344] And sweep him from the village! 35

There is a shapeless crowd of unhewn stones[345] That lie together, some in heaps, and some In lines, that seem to keep themselves alive In the last dotage of a dying form. At least so seems it to a man who stands In such a lonely place.

Shall he who gives his days to low pursuits, Amid the undistinguishable crowd Of cities, ’mid the same eternal flow Of the same objects, melted and reduced To one identity, by differences That have no law, no meaning, and no end, Shall he feel yearning to those lifeless forms, And shall we think that Nature is less kind To those, who all day long, through a long life, Have walked within her sight? It cannot be. Mary Wordsworth, Dorothy Wordsworth, William Wordsworth. Sat. Eve., 20 past 6, May 29.

There are who think that strong affection, love,

I will relate a tale for those who love To lie beside the lonely mountain brooks, And hear the voices of the winds and flowers. … … It befell At the first falling of the autumnal snows, Old Michael and his son one day went forth In search of a stray sheep. It was the time When from the heights our shepherds drive their flocks To gather all their mountain family Into the homestalls, ere they send them back There to defend themselves the winter long. Old Michael for this purpose had driven down His flock into the vale, but as it chanced, A single sheep was wanting. They had sought The straggler during all the previous day All over their own pastures, and beyond. And now at sunrise, sallying forth again Far did they go that morning: with their search Beginning towards the south, where from Dove Crag (Ill home for bird so gentle), they looked down On Deep-dale-head, and Brothers water (named From those two Brothers that were drowned therein); Thence northward did they pass by Arthur’s seat,[346] And Fairfield’s highest summit, on the right Leaving St. Sunday’s Crag, to Grisdale tarn They shot, and over that cloud-loving hill, Seat-Sandal, a fond lover of the clouds; Thence up Helvellyn, a superior mount, With prospect underneath of Striding edge, And Grisdale’s houseless vale, along the brink Of Sheep-cot-cove, and those two other coves, Huge skeletons of crags which from the coast Of old Helvellyn spread their arms abroad And make a stormy harbour for the winds. Far went these shepherds in their devious quest, From mountain ridges peeping as they passed Down into every nook; … … and many a sheep On height or bottom[347] did they see, in flocks Or single. And although it needs must seem Hard to believe, yet could they well discern Even at the utmost distance of two miles (Such strength of vision to the shepherd’s eye Doth practice give) that neither in the flocks Nor in the single sheep was what they sought. So to Helvellyn’s eastern side they went, Down looking on that hollow, where the pool Of Thirlmere flashes like a warrior’s shield His light high up among the gloomy rocks, With sight of now and then a straggling gleam On Armath’s[348] pleasant fields. And now they came, To that high spring which bears no human name, As one unknown by others, aptly called The fountain of the mists. The father stooped To drink of the clear water, laid himself Flat on the ground, even as a boy might do, To drink of the cold well. When in like sort His son had drunk, the old man said to him That now he might be proud, for he that day Had slaked his thirst out of a famous well, The highest fountain known on British land. Thence, journeying on a second time, they passed Those small flat stones, which, ranged by traveller’s hands In cyphers on Helvellyn’s highest ridge, Lie loose on the bare turf, some half-o’ergrown By the grey moss, but not a single stone Unsettled by a wanton blow from foot Of shepherd, man or boy. They have respect For strangers who have travelled far perhaps, For men who in such places, feeling there The grandeur of the earth, have left inscribed Their epitaph, which rain and snow And the strong wind have reverenced. … 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 lov’d 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 seem’d 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. … Though often thus industriously they passed[349] Whole hours with but small interchange of speech, Yet were there times in which they did not want Discourse both wise and pleasant,[350] shrewd remarks Of moral prudence,[351] clothed in images Lively and beautiful, in rural forms, That made their conversation fresh and fair As is a landscape; and the shepherd oft Would draw out of his heart the mysteries[352] And admirations that were there, of God And of his works: or, yielding to the bent Of his peculiar humour, would let loose His tongue, and give it the wind’s freedom; then, Discoursing on remote imaginations, strong Conceits, devices, plans, and schemes,[353] Of alterations human hands might make Among the mountains, fens which might be drained, Mines opened, forests planted, and rocks split, The fancies of a solitary man.[354] Not with a waste of words, but for the sake Of pleasure which I know that I shall give To many living now, have I described Old Michael’s manners and discourse, and thus Minutely spoken of that aged Lamp Round which the Shepherd and his household sate —The light was famous in the neighbourhood And was a public symbol …

… At length the boy Said, “Father, ’tis lost labour; with your leave I will go back and range a second time The grounds which we have hunted through before.” So saying, homeward, down the hill the boy Sprang like a gust of wind: [and with a heart Brimful of glory said within himself, “I know where I shall find him, though the storm Have driven him twenty miles.” For ye must know][355] that though the storm Drive one of those poor creatures miles and miles, If he can crawl, he will return again To his own hills, the spots where when a lamb He learned to pasture at his mother’s side. Bethinking him of this, again the boy Pursued his way toward a brook, whose course Was through that unfenced tract of mountain ground Which to his father’s little farm belonged, The home and ancient birthright of their flock. Down the deep channel of the stream he went, Prying through every nook. Meanwhile the rain Began to fall upon the mountain tops, Thick storm, and heavy, which for three hours’ space Abated not; and all that time the boy Was busy in his search, until at length He spied the sheep upon a plot of grass, An island in the brook. It was a place Remote and deep, piled round with rocks, where foot Of man or beast was seldom used to tread. But now, when everywhere the summer grass Began to fail, this sheep by hunger pressed Had left his fellows, made his way alone To the green plot of pasture in the brook. Before the boy knew well what he had seen He leapt upon the island, with proud heart, And with a shepherd’s joy. Immediately The sheep sprang forward to the further shore, And was borne headlong by the roaring flood. At this the boy looked round him, and his heart Fainted with fear. Thrice did he turn his face To either bank, nor could he summon up The courage that was needful to leap back ’Cross the tempestuous torrent; so he stood A prisoner on the island, not without More than one thought of death, and his last hour. Meantime the father had returned alone To his own home, and now at the approach Of evening he went forth to meet his son, Nor could he guess the cause for which the boy Had stayed so long. The shepherd took his way Up his own mountain grounds, where, as he walked Along the steep that overhung the brook, He seemed to hear a voice, which was again Repeated, like the whistling of a kite. At this, not knowing why—as often-times The old man afterwards was heard to say— Down to the brook he went, and tracked its course Upwards among the o’erhanging rocks; nor Had he gone far ere he espied the boy Right in the middle of the roaring stream. Without distress or fear the shepherd heard The outcry of his son: he stretched his staff Towards him, bade him leap, which word scarce said The boy was safe.… …

No doubt if you in terms direct had asked Whether he loved the mountains, true it is That with blunt repetition of your words He might have stared at you, and said that they Were frightful to behold, but had you then Discoursed with him … Of his own business, and the goings on Of earth and sky, then truly had you seen That in his thoughts there were obscurities, Wonder, and admiration, things that wrought Not less than a religion in his heart. And if it was his fortune to converse With any who could talk of common things In an unusual way, and give to them Unusual aspects, or by questions apt Wake sudden recognitions, that were like Creations in the mind (and were indeed Creations often), then when he discoursed Of mountain sights, this untaught shepherd stood Before the man with whom he so conversed And looked at him as with a poet’s eye. But speaking of the vale in which he dwelt, And those bare rocks, if you had asked if he For other pastures would exchange the same And dwell elsewhere, … … you then had seen At once what spirit of love was in his heart. … I have related that this Shepherd loved The fields and mountains, not alone for this That from his very childhood he had lived Among them, with a body hale and stout, And with a vigorous mind … … But exclude Such reasons, and he had less cause to love His native vale and patrimonial fields Than others have, for Michael had liv’d on Childless, until the time when he began To look towards the shutting in of life.