SIMON LEE WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [This poem is one of Wordsworth's characteristic contributions to the Lyrical Ballads, of which he said that they were distinguished from the poetry of the day in that "the feeling therein developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not the action and situation to the feeling." Compare with this remark lines 61-68.] In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Full five-and-thirty years he lived No man like him the horn could sound, ΙΟ 20 This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her husband's side, And though you with your utmost skill From labor could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little, all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store, As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive And now I fear that you expect How patiently you've waited, Some tale will be related. O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer day I chanced to see The mattock tottered in his hand; "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee; I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long 50 60 70 80 The tears into his eyes were brought, -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. (1798) 2 still. Always. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; You yet may spy the fawn at play, "To-night will be a stormy nightYou to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light "That, Father! will I gladly do: The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!" At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;-and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 80 30 The wretched parents all that night At daybreak on the hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 40 A furlong from their door. They wept-and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet -When in the snow the mother spied Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And then an open field they crossed: They followed from the snowy bank -Yet some maintain that to this day, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. (1800) MICHAEL WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 50 60 [Of this poem Wordsworth wrote: "The sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end,"— that is, at Grasmere.] 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. 20 And to that simple object appertains Where was their occupation and abode. Of Nature, by the gentle agency 30 Of natural objects, led me on to feel (At random and imperfectly, indeed) Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40 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 50 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 traveler 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. 60 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 68 So many incidents upon his mind Strong hold on his affections, were to him 130 This light was famous in its neighborhood, 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, 140 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, 148 And stirrings of inquietude, when they Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked |