372. Michael

A Pastoral Poem

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  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 struggling 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 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; hills, which with vigorous step

  He had so often climbed; which had impressed

  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

  The certainty of honourable gain;

  Those fields, those hills—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.

  His days had not been passed in singleness.

  His Helpmate was 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 the cleanly supper-board, and there,

  Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,

  Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,

  And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal

  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 fireside; 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 ceiling, by the chimney’s edge,

  That in our ancient uncouth country style

  With huge and black projection overbrowed

  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 had reached his eighteenth year,

  There by the light of this old lamp they sate,

  Father and Son, while far 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.

  This light was famous in its neighbourhood,

  And was a public symbol of the life

  That 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 Dunmail-Raise,

  And westward to the village near the lake;

  And from this constant light, so regular

  And so far seen, the House itself, by all

  Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,

  Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.

  Thus living on through such a length of years,

  The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs

  Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart

  This son of his old age was yet more dear—

  Less from instinctive tenderness, the same

  Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—

  Than that a child, more than all other gifts

  That earth can offer to declining man,

  Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,

  And stirrings of inquietude, when they

  By tendency of nature needs must fail.

  Exceeding was the love he bare to him,

  His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes

  Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

  Had done him female service, not alone

  For pastime and delight, as is the use

  Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced

  To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked

  His cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand.

  And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy

  Had put on boy’s attire, did Michael love,

  Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

  To have the young-one in his sight, when he

  Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd’s stool

  Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched

  Under the large old oak, that near his door

  Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,

  Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,

  Thence in our rustic dialect was called

  The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.

  There, while they two were sitting in the shade,

  With others round them, earnest all and blithe,

  Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

  Of fond correction and reproof bestowed

  Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep

  By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

  Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

  And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up

  A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek

  Two steady roses that were five years old;

  Then Michael from a winter coppice cut

  With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped

  With iron, making it throughout in all

  Due requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff,

  And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt

  He as a watchman oftentimes was placed

  At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;

  And, to his office prematurely called,

  There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

  Something between a hindrance and a help;

  And for this cause not always, I believe,

  Receiving from his Father hire of praise;

  Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,

  Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

  But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand

  Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,

  Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,

  He with his Father daily went, and they

  Were as companions, why should I relate

  That objects which the Shepherd loved before

  Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came

  Feelings and emanations—things which were

  Light to the sun and music to the wind;

  And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?

  Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:

  And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,

  He was his comfort and his daily hope.

  While in this sort the simple household lived

  From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came

  Distressful tidings. Long before the time

  Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound

  In surety for his brother’s son, a man

  Of an industrious life, and ample means;

  But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

  Had prest upon him; and old Michael now

  Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,

  A grievous penalty, but little less

  Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,

  At the first hearing, for a moment took

  More hope out of his life than he supposed

  That any old man ever could have lost.

  As soon as he had armed himself with strength

  To look his troubles in the face, it seemed

  The Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once

  A portion of his patrimonial fields.

  Such was his first resolve; he thought again,

  And his heart failed him. ‘Isabel,’ said he,

  Two evenings after he had heard the news,

  ‘I have been toiling more than seventy years,

  And in the open sunshine of God’s love

  Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours

  Should pass into a stranger’s hand, I think

  That I could not lie quiet in my grave.

  Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself

  Has scarcely been more diligent than I;

  And I have lived to be a fool at last

  To my own family. An evil man

  That was, and made an evil choice, if he

  Were false to us; and if he were not false,

  There are ten thousand to whom loss like this

  Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but

  ’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

  When I began, my purpose was to speak

  Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.

  Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land

  Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;

  He shall possess it, free as is the wind

  That passes over it. We have, thou know’st,

  Another kinsman—he will be our friend

  In this distress. He is a prosperous man,

  Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,

  And with his kinsman’s help and his own thrift

  He quickly will repair this loss, and then

  He may return to us. If here he stay,

  What can be done? Where every one is poor,

  What can be gained?

  At this the old Man paused,

  And Isabel sat silent, for her mind

  Was busy, looking back into past times.

  There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,

  He was a parish boy—at the church-door

  They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence

  And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought

  A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;

  And, with this basket on his arm, the lad

  Went up to London, found a master there,

  Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy

  To go and overlook his merchandise

  Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,

  And left estates and monies to the poor,

  And, at his birthplace, built a chapel floored

  With marble which he sent from foreign lands.

  These thoughts, and many others of like sort,

  Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,

  And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,

  And thus resumed:—‘Well, Isabel! this scheme

  These two days, has been meat and drink to me.

  Far more than we have lost is left us yet.

  —We have enough—I wish indeed that I

  Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.

  —Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best

  Buy for him more, and let us send him forth

  To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:

  —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.’

  Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth

  With a light heart. The Housewife for five days

  Was restless morn and night, and all day long

  Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare

  Things needful for the journey of her son.

  But Isabel was glad when Sunday came

  To stop her in her work: for, when she lay

  By Michael’s side, she through the last two nights

  Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:

  And when they rose at morning she could see

  That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon

  She said to Luke, while they two by themselves

  Were sitting at the door, ‘Thou must not go:

  We have no other Child but thee to lose,

  None to remember—do not go away,

  For if thou leave thy Father he will die.’

  The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;

  And Isabel, when she had told her fears,

  Recovered heart. That evening her best fare

  Did she bring forth, and all together sat

  Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

  With daylight Isabel resumed her work;

  And all the ensuing week the house appeared

  As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length

  The expected letter from their kinsman came,

  With kind assurances that he would do

  His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;

  To which, requests were added, that forthwith

  He might be sent to him. Ten times or more

  The letter was read over; Isabel

  Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;

  Nor was there at that time on English land

  A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel

  Had to her house returned, the old Man said,

  ‘He shall depart to-morrow.’ To this word

  The Housewife answered, talking much of things

  Which, if at such short notice he should go,

  Would surely be forgotten. But at length

  She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

  Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,

  In that deep valley, Michael had designed

  To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard

  The tidings of his melancholy loss,

  For this same purpose he had gathered up

  A heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge

  Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

  With Luke that evening thitherward he walked;

  And soon as they had reached the place he stopped.

  And thus the old Man spake to him:—‘My Son,

  To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart

  I look upon thee, for thou art the same

  That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,

  And all thy life hast been my daily joy.

  I will relate to thee some little part

  Of our two histories; ’twill do thee good

  When thou art from me, even if I should touch

  On things thou canst not know of.—After thou

  First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls

  To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away

  Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue

  Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,

  And still I loved thee with increasing love.

  Never to living ear came sweeter sounds

  Than when I heard thee by our own fireside

  First uttering, without words, a natural tune:

  While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy

  Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,

  And in the open fields my life was passed

  And on the mountains; else I think that thou

  Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.

  But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,

  As well thou knowest, in us the old and young

  Have played together, nor with me didst thou

  Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.’

  Luke had a manly heart; but at these words

  He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,

  And said, ‘Nay, do not take it so—I see

  That these are things of which I need not speak.

  —Even to the utmost I have been to thee

  A kind and a good Father: and herein

  I but repay a gift which I myself

  Received at others’ hand; for, though now old

  Beyond the common life of man, I still

  Remember them who loved me in my youth.

  Both of them sleep together; here they lived,

  As all their Forefathers had done; and when

  At length their time was come, they were not loth

  To give their bodies to the family mould.

  I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived:

  But, ’tis a long time to look back, my Son

  And see so little gained from threescore years.

  These fields were burthened when they came to me;

  Till I was forty years of age, not more

  Than half of my inheritance was mine.

  I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,

  And till these three weeks past the land was free.

  —It looks as if it never could endure

  Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,

  If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good

  That thou shouldst go.’

  At this the old Man paused;

  Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,

  Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:

  ‘This was a work for us; and now, my Son,

  It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—

  Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.

  Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live

  To see a better day. At eighty-four

  I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;

  I will do mine.—I will begin again

  With many tasks that were resigned to thee:

  Up to the heights, and in among the storms,

  Will I without thee go again, and do

  All works which I was wont to do alone,

  Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!

  Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

  With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—

  I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

  To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me

  Only by links of love: when thou art gone,

  What will be left to us!—But, I forget

  My purposes: Lay now the corner-stone,

  As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,

  When thou art gone away, should evil men

  Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,

  And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,

  And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear

  And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou

  May’st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,

  Who, being innocent, did for that cause

  Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—

  When thou return’st, thou in this place wilt see

  A work which is not here: a covenant

  ’Twill be between us; but, whatever fate

  Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,

  And bear thy memory with me to the grave.’

  The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,

  And, as his Father had requested, laid

  The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight

  The old Man’s grief broke from him; to his heart

  He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;

  And to the house together they returned.

  —Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,

  Ere the Night fell:—with morrow’s dawn the Boy

  Began his journey, and when he had reached

  The public way, he put on a bold face;

  And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,

  Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,

  That followed him till he was out of sight.

  A good report did from their kinsman come,

  Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy

  Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,

  Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout

  ‘The prettiest letters that were ever seen.’

  Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.

  So, many months passed on: and once again

  The Shepherd went about his daily work

  With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now

  Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour

  He to that valley took his way, and there

  Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began

  To slacken in his duty; and, at length,

  He in the dissolute city gave himself

  To evil courses: ignominy and shame

  Fell on him, so that he was driven at last

  To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

  There is a comfort in the strength of love;

  ’Twill make a thing endurable, which else

  Would overset the brain, or break the heart:

  I have conversed with more than one who well

  Remember the old Man, and what he was

  Years after he had heard this heavy news.

  His bodily frame had been from youth to age

  Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks

  He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,

  And listened to the wind; and, as before,

  Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,

  And for the land, his small inheritance.

  And to that hollow dell from time to time

  Did he repair, to build the Fold of which

  His flock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yet

  The pity which was then in every heart

  For the old Man—and ’tis believed by all

  That many and many a day he thither went,

  And never lifted up a single stone.

  There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen

  Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,

  Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

  The length of full seven years, from time to time,

  He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,

  And left the work unfinished when he died.

  Three years, or little more, did Isabel

  Survive her Husband: at her death the estate

  Was sold, and went into a stranger’s hand.

  The Cottage which was named THE EVENING STAR

  Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground

  On which it stood; great changes have been wrought

  In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left

  That grew beside their door; and the remains

  Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen

  Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.