The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Volume Ii Part 79

MICHAEL

A PASTORAL POEM [A]

Composed 1800.--Published 1800

[Written at the Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as 'The Brothers'. The sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circ.u.mstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern sh.o.r.e of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 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. 5 But, courage! for around [1] 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 [2] 10 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 pa.s.s by, 15 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears [3] 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, [4] 20 Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me [5]

Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;--not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25 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 30 For pa.s.sions 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 35 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 40 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, 45 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men.

Hence had he learned [6] the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, He heard the South 50 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!" 55 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. 60 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 65 The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; [7] which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hards.h.i.+p, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 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 [8]

Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75 A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself.

His days had not been pa.s.sed in singleness.

His Helpmate was a comely matron, old--[9]

Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 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. 85 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, 90 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, 95 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 [10] cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100 Sat round the [11] basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the [12] meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ 105 Their hands by the fire-side; 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, 110 That [13] in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed [14]

Large s.p.a.ce beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed 115 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 120 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke had reached his [15] eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far [16] into the night 125 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. [B]

[17] This [18] light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life 130 That [19] 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; 135 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, 140 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, [20] the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all--[21] 145 Than [22] that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, [23]

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150 [24] 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 [25] and delight, as is the use 155 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. [26]

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160 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 165 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, [27]

Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The CLIPPING TREE, [C] a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 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 175 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 180 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 185 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, 190 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, 200 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 205 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, 210 He was his comfort and his daily hope. [D]

While in this sort the simple household lived [28]

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 215 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, 220 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. 225 As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once [29]

A portion of his patrimonial fields.

Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 230 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 suns.h.i.+ne of G.o.d's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 235 Should pa.s.s 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 [30]

Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last 240 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 245 '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; 250 He shall possess it, free as is the wind That pa.s.ses 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, 255 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. [31] If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" 260 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, [E]

He was a parish-boy--at the church-door 265 They made a gathering for him, s.h.i.+llings, 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, 270 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 birth-place, built a chapel floored 275 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.

These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Pa.s.sed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme 280 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 285 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: --If he _could_ [32] go, the Boy should go to-night."

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. [F] The Housewife for five days 290 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 295 By Michael's side, she through the last two nights [33]

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 300 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 [34] made answer with a jocund voice; 305 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 [35] Isabel resumed her work; 310 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 a.s.surances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 315 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 320 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, 325 Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheep-fold; [G] and, before he heard 330 The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge [36]

Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: 335 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, 340 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 [37] thou canst not know of.--After thou 345 First cam'st into the world--as oft befals [38]

To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day pa.s.sed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. 350 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While [39] thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 355 And in the open fields my life was pa.s.sed And on [40] 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 360 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 365 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' hands; for, though now old 370 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 375 To give their bodies to the family mould.

I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. [41]

These fields were burthened when they came to me; 380 Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine.

I toiled and toiled; G.o.d blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free.

--It looks as if it never could endure 385 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go,"

At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 390 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.

[42] Nay, Boy, be of good hope;--we both may live 395 To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale [43];--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, 400 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--405 I knew that thou could'st 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, 410 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 G.o.d will strengthen thee: amid all fear 415 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, [44]

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 420 A work which is not here: a covenant 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave."