’Tis true, hath in my walks been often heard, Sent from the mountains or the sheltered fields; 320 Shout after shout--reiterated whoop In manner of a bird that takes delight In answering to itself; or like a hound Single at chase among the lonely woods, His yell repeating;[368] yet it was in truth 325 A human voice--a Spirit of coming night, How solemn when the sky is dark, and earth Not dark, nor yet enlightened, but by snow Made visible, amid a noise of winds And bleatings manifold of mountain sheep, 330 Which in that iteration recognise Their summons, and are gathering round for food, Devoured with keenness ere to grove or bank Or rocky _bield_ with patience they retire. That very voice, which, in some timid mood 335 Of superstitious fancy, might have seemed Awful as ever stray Demoniac uttered, His steps to govern in the Wilderness; Or as the Norman Curfew’s regular beat, To hearths when first they darkened at the knell: 340 That Shepherd’s voice, it may have reached mine ear Debased and under profanation, made The ready Organ of articulate sounds From ribaldry, impiety, or wrath Issuing when shame hath ceased to check the brawls 345 Of some abused Festivity--so be it. I came not dreaming of unruffled life, Untainted manners; born among the hills, Bred also there, I wanted not a scale To regulate my hopes. Pleased with the good, 350 I shrink not from the evil with disgust, Or with immoderate pain. I look for Man, The common creature of the brotherhood, Differing but little from the Man elsewhere, For selfishness, and envy, and revenge, 355 Ill neighbourhood--pity that this should be-- Flattery and double-dealing, strife and wrong. Yet is it something gained, it is in truth A mighty gain, that Labour here preserves His rosy face, a servant only here 360 Of the fire-side, or of the open field, A freeman, therefore, sound and unimpaired; That extreme penury is here unknown, And cold and hunger’s abject wretchedness, Mortal to body, and the heaven-born mind; 365 That they who want, are not too great a weight For those who can relieve. Here may the heart Breathe in the air of fellow-suffering Dreadless, as in a kind of fresher breeze Of her own native element, the hand 370 Be ready and unwearied without plea From tasks too frequent, or beyond its power For languor, or indifference, or despair. And as these lofty barriers break the force Of winds, this deep Vale,--as it doth in part 375 Conceal us from the storm,--so here abides