До ближней рощи было недалеко,                     И там в тени развесистых деревьев                     Присел несчастный путник. Перед ним                     Рассказ недавний ожил вдруг невольно,                     Он детство вспомнил, долгие скитанья.                     Он вспомнил все. Теснились перед ним                     Надежд и мыслей прежних вереницы,                     Которые он так лелеял нежно                     В душе всего лишь час тому назад.                     И в этот миг ему так ясно стало,                     Что для него теперь уж невозможно                     Вернуться снова в мирную долину,                     Где протекли все лучшие года.                     В душе созрело новое решенье,                     И он, дойдя опять до Эннердела,                     Священнику отправил в ту же ночь                     Письмо, где он просил его прощенья,                     Что вечером во время их беседы                     По слабости душевной не назвался                     И имя скрыл свое. Потом он снова                     На свой корабль вернулся и теперь,                     Седой моряк, навек сроднился с морем.

MICHAEL

A Pastoral Poem

                 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.                  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 ths 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
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