Wordsworth (11 page)

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,

While Harry held her by the arm –

‘God! who art never out of hearing,

O may he never more be warm!’

The cold, cold moon above her head,

Thus on her knees did Goody pray;

Young Harry heard what she had said:

And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow

That he was cold and very chill:

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,

Alas! that day for Harry Gill!

That day he wore a riding-coat,

But not a whit the warmer he:

Another was on Thursday brought,

And ere the Sabbath he had three.

’Twas all in vain, a useless matter,

And blankets were about him pinned;

Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,

Like a loose casement in the wind.

And Harry’s flesh it fell away;

And all who see him say, ’tis plain,

That, live as long as live he may,

He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,

A-bed or up, to young or old;

But ever to himself he mutters,

‘Poor Harry Gill is very cold.’

A-bed or up, by night or day;

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

– A simple Child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

– Her beauty made me glad.

‘Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?’

‘How many? Seven in all,’ she said,

And wondering looked at me.

‘And where are they? I pray you tell.’

She answered, ’Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

‘Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother.’

‘You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be.’

Then did the little Maid reply,

‘Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree.’

‘You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five.’

‘Their graves are green, they may be seen,’

The little Maid replied,

’Twelve steps or more from my mother’s dooar,

And they are side by side.

’My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

’And often after sun-set, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

’The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

’So in the church-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

‘And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side.’

‘How many are you, then,’ said I,

‘If they two are in heaven?’

Quick was the little Maid’s reply,

‘O Master! we are seven.’

‘But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!’

’Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, ‘Nay, we are seven!’

The post-boy drove with fierce career,

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;

When, as we hurried on, my ear

Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound, – and more and more;

It seemed to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;

He stopped his horses at the word,

But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,

Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast

The horses scampered through the rain;

But, hearing soon upon the blast

The cry, I bade him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

‘Whence comes,’ said I, ‘this piteous moan?’

And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

‘My cloak!’ no other word she spake,

But loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her innocent heart would break;

And down from off her seat she leapt.

‘What ails you, child?’ – she sobbed, ‘Look here!’

I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e’er

From any garden scare-crow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,

It hung, nor could at once be freed;

But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,

A miserable rag indeed!

‘And whither are you going, child,

Tonight along these lonesome ways?’

‘To Durham,’ answered she, half wild –

‘Then come with me into the chaise.’

Insensible to all relief

Sat the poor girl, and forth did send

Sob after sob, as if her grief

Could never, never have an end.

‘My child, in Durham do you dwell?’

She checked herself in her distress,

And said, ’My name is Alice Fell;

I’m fatherless and motherless.

‘And I to Durham, Sir, belong.’

Again, as if the thought would choke

Her very heart, her grief grew strong;

And all was for her tattered cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey’s end

Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,

As if she had lost her only friend

She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post;

Of Alice and her grief I told;

And I gave money to the host,

To buy a new cloak for the old.

‘And let it be of duffle grey,

As warm a cloak as man can sell!’

Proud creature was she the next day,

The little orphan, Alice Fell!

If from the public way you turn your steps

Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 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 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 fire-side; 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
.