University of Virginia Library

In a fair valley of fair Westmoreland,
Of English counties fairest, near the Lake
Which by consent is crowned the queen of all,
Sweet Windermere, a market village lies,
Built part upon the fell, part in the vale.
One long street stretches close beneath a hill,
From end to end in length about a mile;
Another clambers up a church-crowned brow,
With houses clustering round a place of graves.
Nor stops the village here; it runs still on,
Nor ceases till you reach a sunny height,
From which a glorious landscape fronts the eye,—
Here are blue hills, green dales, and silver streams,
And fern-clad fells, and mountains throned in cloud—
The Langdales rising over all to heaven,
And Windermere, a stretch of spacious lake,
Set in a frame of meadow and of wood,
And roar of Stock-Ghyll Force heard far below.
Bright pasture-lands abound, watered by streams
Pure as the river that flowed gently through
The garden planted by the Lord in Eden,
And which, four-branched, ran over sands of gold.
It is a storied country—haunted ground—
Not from its wondrous loveliness alone,
But from the memories of the good and great
Who long had made it their adopted home,—
Poets and scholars, men of note and fame,
Who made their mark upon the world beyond,
And left it better than they found it;—men
Drawn hither by the beauty breathing round,—
Mountains which catch the first gleam of the sun,
And lakes that mirror in their placid breasts
Meadow, and wood, and fell, and rugged scar;
And when the night draws darkness o'er the land,
And sows the purple skies with silver stars,
Glasses their brightness in the tranquil wave.

Here, in this vale, some sixty years ago,
Before the new church with its fair churchyard
Fronted the east, or its strong massive spire
Caught on its top the flaming morning rays
As suns at dawn rose over Wansfell's head,
And filled with light the valley far below,
Lived Wilfred Ray, a statesman, well-to-do.
This Wilfred had a story of his own;
And there are those alive who tell it still—
A strange adventure of their native hills.

The winter had with fitful storms set in,
Rain, hail, and snow, and frost that bound the streams
And spread its icy coating o'er the tarns
And smaller lakes at first; and then the cold
So fierce and bitter grew, and stayed so long,
That Windermere itself at length did yield
Subjection to its thrall, and lay one sheet
Of ice from end to end, from Waterhead
To Newby Bridge, where the small rivulet
Flows murmuring as loth to leave the lake.
At this time Wilfred was some four months old,
The first-born of his parents, and their joy,
A crown of bliss to Ruth and Michael Ray.
Their married life ran on in full content,
Close to the little mill whose dripping wheels
Are washed and turn'd by the tumultuous Stock.
Michael a native was of Ambleside,
Village as yet, and not a busy town,
As now, with many a change which follows
On what are called improvements, march of mind.
Tourists, who “fly like doves unto their windows,”
Excursion trains, and steam-boats on the lake,
Have robb'd the land of quiet and repose;
And for the summer months send forth
Their crowds like swarms of locusts through the vale.
And yet, 'tis well that toilers from our towns,
Leaving the smoke, the dizzy noise of wheels,
The whirling roar of engines, and the air
Dark, close, and stifling, should come forth, and see
God's face in fair blue skies, in fields and flowers,
And hear His voice in soft and whispering winds,
In rushing torrents, and in foaming falls.
Well, they should breathe at times a purer air,
And see the cloudless heavens bright and clear,
Where prayers may pierce direct, not through a pall
Of yellow smoke, which hides the sun from view.
Ah! well that tender childhood, pale and wan,
Should leave the busy loom, and roaring wheels,
And sometimes see the lambs upon the sward,
And chase the butterfly on flowery meads;
Or mark the bee collecting honied store,
And hear the melody of singing birds.
Haply, they carry back to stifling homes
Some gentler thoughts of Nature, Man, and God.

Close to the wooded shores of Ullswater,
A lonely lake, shut in by purple hills,
And glassing great Helvellyn in its wave,
Ruth Ray was born, and came to womanhood.
Here did she grow in beauty year by year,
As innocent and active as a fawn;
To her young feet each grassy slope and dell,
Each tangled copse, each mountain clothed with ferns,
Or bare and naked as the slate itself,
Were things familiar as the sanded floor
Of her own cottage. Well she knew the lake,
Each bay, each landing-place, each shady nook,
To which her boat might smoothly glide, or where
It might be moored with safety to the shore.
At sunny morn, or tranquil eve, she dipped
Right oft her oars in waters all so clear,
That you could see some fathoms down, and watch
The tiny fish, with bright and glistering backs,
Glance swiftly here and there, and in their sport
Rush through the feathery grass, or tangled weed.
She was the idol of her parents' home,
Their only girl. Two stalwart sons they had—
Tall, strong, and with the independent gait
And manly beauty of this northern land.
They helped their father in his farming well,
And mowed the hay, and reaped the scanty crops,
Scarce ripe for sickle ere the winter's breath
Came blowing chilly down the mountain's side.
They drove the sheep up to the hills in spring,
To feed through all the happy summer time
On sweet and spacious tracts of fragrant fell.

Michael had—in his visits to the dale,
To purchase sheep, and stock his little farm—
Seen Fair Ruth Fletcher, gentle, modest, true,
Sweet as the summer, fair as budding spring.
Ah! well remembered he the day when first
They met, she shy as lily of the vale,
That loves the covert of its sword-shaped leaves,
And shrinking, hides its beauty from the sun.
She sat within her boat, close to the shore,
Beneath the shady boughs of birch and pine,
And thinking no one near, beguiled the time
With simple song, which charmed the listening ear;
So clear the voice, so silver sweet the tone,—

'Tis well to be a maiden free,
To roam o'er dale and hill,
To feel the sweets of liberty,
And wander where I will.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
Softly the breezes blow,
But shadows fall, the light begins to go.

The whole day long I sing my song,
Because I am my own—
Because to none I do belong,
But to myself alone.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
Shall it be ever so?
Shall days to come be like the long ago?

Some that I meet say love is sweet,
Some say 'tis full of care,
And others that 'tis passing fleet,
Gone like a breath of air.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
From joy oft springs our woe,
And quickly pass all brightest things below.

Content I feel, I wish no change,
I wander at my will;
Thro' field, o'er fell, I freely range,
By lake, and wood, and hill.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
My heart's my own, I know,
And mine shall be, whoe'er may come or go.

I need not say that vow she did not keep,
Or tell how Michael wooed, and won her heart.
Nor lightly was she won, this mountain maid.
They had of happy courtship many days.
Ask the green woods, the verdurous hills, the streams,
Where oft in tender dawns, and dewy eves,
They wandered hand in hand together;—ask
The lake, where oft in balmy noons they dipped
Their oars, and idly floated down the flood.
The end of all these pleasant meetings this,
Ruth loved as deeply as she was beloved;
And left her home and parents for his sake,
Though not without some trembling and regrets.
Some natural tears shed on her wedding-day,
When she had turned to leave the church with him,
Whose life would be henceforth one life with hers,
Through all the happy years of wedded bliss.
He bore her proudly home—her home and his—
And found she was a light within the house—
An ever-present brightness and a joy,
Her voice made ceaseless music in his heart,
Her love refreshed him after hours of toil,
And all too quickly fled the months away,
As some great river flows whose rapid stream
Knows neither let nor hindrance in its flow;
And one fair autumn day a child was born,
And Ruth became the mother of a boy,
Which brought another joy to Michael's home,
And brimmed his cup, until it overflowed,
And sang his heart, as sing the birds in May.

One winter day—the boy was four months old—
Ruth rose betimes, prepared for early walk,
To Patterdale across the fells; for news
Had come her father was not well, and yearned
To have her near him some two days or more.
And she would take her babe—for she was proud
Of her fair child—the boy would cheer
The old man's heart, and do him worlds of good.
So she made ready for her wintry walk,
By Kirkstone Pass, and thence to Patterdale.
Michael and she had never parted since
Their marriage day. And could he have his wish,
They had not parted now; but he was bound
To meet at Grasmere on that very day
The land-steward from the Hall, and there with him
To settle rent and terms for lease of farm
He fain would add to that which now he held.
But still for love's sweet sake he went with her
A mile or so, and carried his sweet boy,
Who crowed, and laughed, and brimful was of glee,
As though the bright and bracing air had sent
Fresh strength through all his round and rosy limbs.
He left her where the lonely Kirkstone Pass
Comes into view—a Pass which, steep and wild,
With rocks fantastic, leads by Hartsop Fell,
Down to the winding Deepdale, near which gleams
Fair Brothers Water. There they kissed and parted,
And hope and love sang sweetly in their hearts,
For on the third day they should meet again.
Her father's house she reached a little tired,
And found the old man better, glad, and moved
To see her and the infant, who, not strange,
Looked out at him, with great blue wondering eyes,
And cooed, and made great dimples in his cheek.
The visit was a happy one though brief,
And when she said “Good-bye,” 'twas with the hope,
That as the spring returned with genial breath,
And vernal breezes blowing soft and mild,
They all might meet again; and “father, he
Should come,” she said, “and bring her mother too,
And visit her and Michael, as they once
Had done before; and sure she was the change
Would do them good, and gladden all their hearts.”

The morn was drear and cold, and darkened o'er
With scudding clouds, that fled before a wind
Biting and bitter, threatening fall of snow.
They fain had kept her, but she would not stay;
“Michael expected her, they were to meet
Upon the Kirkstone Pass, so he had said.
She would not disappoint him, had no fears,
Was strong and well, the snow might never come,
Or, if it did, would not be much—a storm,
And over.” So against their wish she took
Her way, and wrapped the babe in many a shawl,
And pressed him to her breast to keep him warm.
And then she journeyed bravely on her road,
Along the rugged pathway, torn by rains,
And broken by the torrents from the hills.
She crossed the little bridge, beneath whose arch
The Goldrill runs, of yellow, tawny hue,
And by the hills that, 'neath a leaden sky,
Looked black and frowning, and then up the dell,
Close by High Hartsop, nestling 'neath Dove Crags.
So for some weary miles upon her way.
The ruthless wind swept fiercely down the vale,
Whirling white flakes of snow, which now fell fast,
And blotted out the heavens, and the hills
To right and left, and blocked up all the paths.
Poor Ruth! Soon wearied with the ceaseless fight
Against the tempest, breathless, blinded too,
By showers of driving sleet, she could but stop,
And turn her from the wind, then sink all faint
Upon a crag that jutted on the road.
Her babe began to cry; she pressed it close,
And held it firmly to her throbbing heart,
Then breathed a piteous, earnest prayer to God.
There was no other help; no house was near,
Not even shepherd's hut upon the waste,
And desolation reigned around. Still roared
The savage wind; still fell the pitiless snow;
Still darker grew the day, and drifting mists
Came down, and settled on the mountain-tops,
And threw a ghostly shroud o'er all the land.
Ruth struggled to her feet again; again
The tempest's fury fronted, and held on
With slow and aching feet, and fainting heart.
The boy was heavy in her arms, a weight
She felt she had not strength to carry far.
Had she to battle with the storm alone,
She would have kept up heart, and bravely fought
Against the blustering wind, and driving snow.
But with her babe she knew the fight was vain.
A feeling came upon her of despair;
She thought of home, her happy, happy home—
Her husband, and his love, and all the loss
To both; her infant too; the certain death
Before the boy and her, unless some help
Were quickly sent her by a pitying God;
And a sharp cry, that tore her heart in twain,
Burst from her lips, of “Michael! Michael! Michael!”
This passed, and then she turned her thoughts to God,
And tried to bend to His her will, and say,
“Not mine, O Father! oh, not mine, but Thine!”
And then she cried, “My boy, oh, save my boy!
For me, if I must die, so be it, Lord,
I'll lay me down upon this bed of snow,
And fall asleep, content to wake in heaven;
But spare my babe, good Lord, for Michael's sake,
I die in peace, if Thou wilt spare my boy.”
And then she stripped herself of cloak and shawl,
Of all in dress she had of soft and warm,
And laid part in a crevice, 'twixt two crags,
A woollen bed on which the babe might lie,
And part wrapped round her darling, who then smiled
Up in her face. Then with a long, long kiss,
The last that she should ever press upon
Those rosy lips, she laid him, with a prayer,
As Moses was committed to the ark,
Between the spaces of the sheltering crags,
Where neither snow could reach, nor tempest come;
This done, she couched beside him on the snow—
The white and wintry bed of freezing snow,
Her only thought to screen him from the wind;
Her body flung between her child and death.
And there she lay till numbing sleep came on,
And wrapped her in its fatal lethargy.
Then blacker grew the eve, the shadows fell;
The drifts came down on mountain and on moor,
And drew a dreary pall o'er all the vale.

Michael this morn had set out somewhat late,
Detained an hour or more, against his will.
When he was free again—the business done—
He hurried off at once to meet his wife,
Hoping to reach the little inn, that crowns
The Kirkstone Pass, somewhere about the noon;
And after resting there awhile with Ruth,
To leave for home again, before the short
And wintry-looking day, which threatened storm,
Closed in, and darkness fell upon the vale.
Lightly he trod the road all hard beneath;
And then the snow began to fall, and winds
Came in wild gusts, and howled across the fells,
He heeded not the weather, but passed on,
Thinking of that glad meeting at the end.
So for a while. But thicker grew the air,
And faster fell the snow, and louder roared
The wind across the fells all dark and dull,
And shrieked adown each ghyll and mountain gorge,
As if avenging spirits were abroad
On mere and mountain all along the waste.
At last his eyes were blinded by the flakes
That, cold and white, were driven in his face;
And as the road was choked up by the drift—
Stone wall and hedge being level with the path—
He lost himself, and wandered on the Screes,
And knew not where he was, or where the way,
And so stood still, perplexed what next to do;
And as he stood there, doubting, on the fell,
He fancied that he heard a plaintive voice—
A voice like Ruth's, low, pleading in its tone,
And somewhat smothered, calling three times o'er,—
“Michael! Michael! Michael!” He started wild,
Shuddered, and clasped his hands in agony,
And shrieked out, “Ruth! Dear Ruth!” Then, “Ruth!”—again,
“Where art thou, Ruth?” Then waited for reply
That never came upon his straining ear:
No answer was there now but that of winds
That drove in drifts the falling clouds of snow.

Then, with a cry hot from his heart to God,
Moved blindly on, and might have wandered there
Till lost in some deep pit or treacherous chasm,
Had not a shepherd's dog, sent out in search
Of some poor straggling sheep, crouched at his feet
And barked, as glad to see a human face.
The dog he followed—followed numb and cold,
With aching feet, slow steps, and sinking heart,
Unto the lonely inn, where travellers rest
Who cross the Pass, and which doth proudly claim
To be the “Highest house inhabited”
Within the pleasant borders of our isle.
'Twas evening now, and all was dark and drear;
The landscape wrapped in winding-sheet of snow,
Which covered o'er the dead and buried earth.
And Ruth, where was she? Ruth, his wife, his life?
Where the dear babe that filled his home with joy?
Not there. They had not seen, or heard of her.
Perchance she had not left her father's house,
But stayed at Patterdale until the storm
Should pass. Surely they'd keep her at their hearth
On such a day as this, nor let her leave
Until the wild and driving tempest pass'd;
So Michael hoped—so Michael fondly prayed.
But still he had a terror at the heart,
—A strange and dreadful fear that blanch'd his cheek,
And smote him with an anguish beyond words.
Still must he wait, in doubt until the morn,
And pass the long, long night as best he may.
The storm now somewhat lulled, and the wind fell,
And the snow ceased, the sky began to clear,
While, 'midst the rack of scudding clouds,
A friendly star shone faintly in the blue.
No bed did Michael press that awful night,
But by the lonely fire, in thought and prayer,
He watched the breaking of the wintry dawn.
Soon as the first faint glimmer streaked the sky,
He and his host—a man of kindly heart,
Who made poor Michael's grief his own—the dog,
Which led him to the inn the night before,—
Started for Ullswater, along a road
Some six feet deep in snow. The morn was calm
As though no blustering wind had ever blown
Across the hills, or blast had scourged the clouds.
Poor Michael ne'er forgot that early walk,—
That wintry scene, his steps that sank full oft
In the white drift, the faint and hopeless hope,
The sickening doubt, the agonizing prayer,
The anguish gnawing at his quivering heart!
The shepherd-dog ran swiftly on before,
His pace the quickest o'er the yielding snow.
Just as they reached the bottom of the Pass,
Not far from Hartsop, where the little road
Begins to wind and curve to Goldrill Bridge,
He came to sudden pause, and sniffed the ground,
Then raised his head again, and uttered loud
A long and piteous whine, that ringing clear
Through the bright frosty air, smote on the ear
Of Michael, striking to his faltering heart,
Until he staggered 'neath the awful dread
That wrung and tortured him, and brought the sweat
In drops of anguish to his dizzy brow.
He never knew with what a frantic bound,
With what a piercing cry of agony,
He reached the spot where howled the shepherd-dog;
And stooping down, to what at first sight seemed
A frozen mound of snow, he found his Ruth—
His wife—life of his life—heart of his heart—
Ruth stiff and cold upon her bed of snow;
Snow was her winding-sheet, snow wrapped her round,
Snow veiled her face, now whiter than itself.
Dead! Yes, poor Ruth was dead! The mother's love
Shone forth in sacrifice; love strong as death,
Yea, stronger far, and trampling upon death,
And rising more than conqueror o'er his fear.
The baby lived, and smiled a faint, sad smile,
As they unwound it from its pile of shawls;
Then cried in wailing tones and low—poor babe!
Lacking the nourishment it used to have
From the dear mother's breast; but safe and well,
And, far as they could see, unhurt, unharmed,
Spite the dread night it spent amid the snow.

It was the rescued life of his dear child
That saved poor Michael from a blank despair,—
Thanks to that God who planted in his home
So sweet a flower, to soothe his bitter grief,
And keep his heart from breaking. Long it was
Before he lifted up the head, whose hairs
Had turned to grey, changed by the agony
Of that one night,—his loss,—the crushing grief—
That pressed upon a sad and desolate soul.
Long, long it was before he could resume
The even tenor of his former life.
For flock, and farm, and field, in which he used
To take so much delight, a burden grew;
And though a man of faith and prayer, he found
It hard to say, “God's will, be done, not mine”—
And had it not been for the grace that fights
And conquers Nature, he had gained no power
To bow his head, and say the words at all.
Long was he restless—ranged the hills, the dales,
And sought for peace of mind 'midst Nature's scenes,
Where he met God alone, and prayed for strength
To suffer, and be patient, nor repine.
In the church too, so simple, plain, and rude,
He listened for all words of rest and hope,
And learned that God is good, that all His ways,
Though sometimes dark, hard oft to understand,
Are full of wisdom, mercy, truth, and love.
Thus, though his heart was breaking 'neath the blow,
He bowed his head to kiss the hand that smote,
And so confessed, “He doeth all things well.”
Her grave, that lay outside the little church,
Was ever kept fresh dressed with fragrant flowers;
And here he oft was found, at early morn,
And in the shadows of the quiet eve.
So years passed on, and Wilfred, his dear boy—
Ruth's image, with her eyes, and sunny hair—
Grew from a child to lad, from lad to man,
And was his father's comfort and his joy;
And Michael felt, so long as he was spared,
His mother's spirit was not lost to earth.