That oaten pipe of hers is mute Or thrown away: but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers;
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock woodman hears.
I, too, have pass'd her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild- Such small machinery as she turn'd Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, A young and happy child!
Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee.
THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, And the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, And recognized it, though an alter'd form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old.
'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay;
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'- And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
To be a prodigal's favourite-then, worse truth, A miser's pensioner-behold our lot!
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
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 struggling 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 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; 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 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 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.
« AnteriorContinuar » |