Hence he had 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; the hills, which he so oft

Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had im

pressed

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,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gain; 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

Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese.

their meal

Yet when

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 cieling by the chimney's edge,
Which in our antient 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 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 was in his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old Lamp they sat,
Father and Son, while late 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.
The Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public Symbol of the life
The 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 Dunmal-Raise,