Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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 woodman’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.

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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 fireside,

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 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, 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.

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 chearful spirits he had breath’d

The common air; the hills, which he so oft

Had climb’d with vigorous steps; which had impress’d

So many incidents upon his mind

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;

Which like a book preserv’d the memory

Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav’d,

Had fed or shelter’d, linking to such acts,

So grateful in themselves, the certainty

Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills

Which were his living Being, even more

Than his own Blood — 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.

He had not passed his days in singleness.

He had a Wife, 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

Turn’d to their cleanly supper-board, and there

Each with a mess of pottage and skimm’d milk,

Sate round their basket pil’d with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal

Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam’d)

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 cicling by the chimney’s edge,

Which in our ancient uncouth country style

Did with a huge projection overbrow

Large space beneath, as duly as the light

Of day grew dim, the Housewife hung a lamp;

An aged utensil, which had perform’d

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 chearful, yet with objects and with hopes

Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year,

There by the light of this old lamp they sate,

Father and Son, while late into the night

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,

Making the cottage thro’ the silent hours

Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

Not with a waste of words, but for the sake

Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give

To many living now, I of this Lamp

Speak thus minutely: for there are no few