For while they all were travelling home, Now Johnny all night long had heard And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a Traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) "The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the Sun did shine so cold." -Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story. XXIX. MICHAEL, A PASTORAL POEM. IF from the public way you turn your steps 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 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Or for the summer shade. It was the first 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. 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 So Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Than his own blood what could they less? had laid 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 |