Chapter 5

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the vallies, let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows, And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never House, misnamed of industry, Make him a captive; for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age.

Let him be free of mountain solitudes, And have around him, whether heard or nor, The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now Have been so long familiar with the earth, No more behold the horizontal sun Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.

And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank Of high-way side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally, As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd, So in the eye of Nature let him die.

_RURAL ARCHITECTURE_.

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a Counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb, and there they built up without mortar or lime A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay, They built him and christen'd him all in one day, An Urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones. Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the North Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away. And what did these School-boys?--The very next day They went and they built up another.

--Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag. --Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag! And I'll build up a Giant with you.

Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the 'high road between Keswick' and Ambleside.

_A POET'S EPITAPH_.

Art thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business train'd and bred, --First learn to love one living man; _Then_ may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh; Go, carry to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falshood of thy sallow face.

Art thou a man of purple cheer? A rosy man, right plump to see? Approach; yet Doctor, not too near: This grave no cushion is for thee.

Art thou a man of gallant pride, A Soldier, and no mail of chaff? Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a Peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Philosopher! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece O turn aside, and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy pin-point of a soul away!

--A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And He has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling Nor form nor feeling great nor small, A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All in All!

Shut close the door! press down the latch: Sleep in thy intellectual crust, Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch, Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shews of sky and earth. Of hill and valley he has view'd; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak, both man and boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand.

--Come hither in thy hour of strength, Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length Or build thy house upon this grave.--

_A CHARACTER_, _In the antithetical Manner_.

I marvel how Nature could ever find space For the weight and the levity seen in his face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom, And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs, Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there. There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.

What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, --Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart, And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.

A FRAGMENT

Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowrets of the hills, And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy.

In clouds above, the lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his beet; But in this lonesome nook the bird Did never build his nest.

No beast, no bird hath here his home; The bees borne on the breezy air Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers, to other dells. Nor ever linger there. The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.

A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; A piping Shepherd he might be, A Herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew, But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee, And there in a forgotten tongue He warbles melody.

Of flocks and herds both far and near He is the darling and the joy, And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.

When near this blasted tree you pass, Two sods are plainly to be seen Close at its root, and each with grass Is cover'd fresh and green.

Like turf upon a new-made grave These two green sods together lie, Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind Can these two sods together bind, Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, But side by side the two are laid, As if just sever'd by the spade.

There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove; From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war; They seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.

POEMS ON THE _NAMING OF PLACES_.

ADVERTISEMENT.

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.

_POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES_.

1.

It was an April Morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was soften'd down into a vernal tone.

The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves appear'd as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades Of various green were hindrances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance With which it look'd on this delightful day Were native to the summer.--Up the brook I roam'd in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all.

At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here, But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain Cottage might be seen. I gaz'd and gaz'd, and to myself I said, "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."

--Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

II.

_To JOANNA_.

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow towards the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. Yet we who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paus'd, And after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete Idolatry, I like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size, had chisel'd out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. --Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engender'd betwixt malice and true love, I was not both to be so catechiz'd, And this was my reply.--"As it befel, One summer morning we had walk'd abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. --'Twas that delightful season, when the broom, Full flower'd, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold."

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks, And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imag'd in the heart.

--When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud. The rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again: That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone: Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,--old Skiddaw blew His speaking trumpet;--back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head. Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd With dreams and visionary impulses, Is not for me to tell; but sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'd To shelter from some object of her fear.

--And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm And silent morning, I sate down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chissel'd out in those rude characters Joanna's name upon the living stone. And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.

NOTE.

In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.

III.

There is an Eminence,--of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our Orchard seat. And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible, and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favorite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'd With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.

IV.

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. And there, myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Saunter'd on this retir'd and difficult way. --Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Play'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along,

It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore, Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough, Each on the other heap'd along the line Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd By some internal feeling, skimm'd along Close to the surface of the lake that lay Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there, In all its sportive wanderings all the while Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its very playmate, and its moving soul.

--And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam'd, Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. --So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And in the fashion which I have describ'd, Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw Before us on a point of jutting land The tall and upright figure of a Man Attir'd in peasant's garb, who stood alone Angling beside the margin of the lake. That way we turn'd our steps: nor was it long, Ere making ready comments on the sight Which then we saw, with one and the same voice We all cried out, that he must be indeed An idle man, who thus could lose a day Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stor'd Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.

Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turn'd his head To greet us--and we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I look'd at them, Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.-- Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was chang'd To serious musing and to self-reproach.

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserv'd in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. --Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv'd The same admonishment, have call'd the plate By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by Mariner was giv'n to Bay Or Foreland on a new-discover'd coast, And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.

V.

_To M. H_.

Our walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any wood-man's path, But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed sapling, on the soft green turf Beneath the branches of itself had made A track which brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods.

All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman's hand Had shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sun Or wind from any quarter ever come But as a blessing to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself: The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful, And if a man should plant his cottage near. Should sleep beneath the shelter of its tress, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it that in his death-hour Its image would survive among his thoughts, And, therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook With all its beeches we have named from You.

MICHAEL, _A PASTORAL POEM_.

_MICHAEL_,

_A PASTORAL POEM_

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, 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 beside that boisterous Brook The mountains have all open'd out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is seen; but such As 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 There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, Or for the summer shade. It was the first, The earliest of those tales that spake to me Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men Whom I already lov'd, 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 he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone, and often-times 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, summon'd 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 liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd.