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William Wordsworth - Michael: A Pastoral Poem
Work rating: Medium

.  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.
    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 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,
   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 trouble 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 birth-place, 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 Green-head Ghyll,
  In that deep valley, Michael had designed
  To build a Sheep-fold; 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` hands; 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 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.
  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 should`st 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 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,
  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 temptation, 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 Sheep-fold. 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 Sheep-fold. 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 Sheep-fold, 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 Sheep-fold 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 Sheep-fold may be seen
  Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
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