Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/238

216 My daily walk along that wide champaign,

That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west,

And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge

Of the Hercynian forest. Yet, hail to you

Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales,

Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice,

Powers of my native region! Ye that seize

The heart with firmer grasp! Your snows and streams

Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds,

That howl so dismally for him who treads

Companionless your awful solitudes!

There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long

To wait upon the storms: of their approach

Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives

His flock, and thither from the homestead bears

A toilsome burden up the craggy ways,

And deals it out, their regular nourishment

Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring

Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs,

And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs

Higher and higher, him his office leads

To watch their goings, whatsoever track

The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home

At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun

Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat,