William Wordsworth
Michael, A Pastoral Poem
from Lyrical Ballads (Volume II, 1800)
If from the public way you turn your steps | ||
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, | ||
You will suppose that with an upright path | ||
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent | ||
5 | The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face. | |
But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook | ||
The mountains have all open'd out themselves, | ||
And made a hidden valley of their own. | ||
No habitation there is seen; but such | ||
10 | As 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 | ||
15 | But for one object which you might pass by, | |
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook | ||
There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones! | ||
And to that place a story appertains, | ||
Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, | ||
20 | Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, | |
Or for the summer shade. It was the first, | ||
The earliest of those tales that spake to me | ||
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men | ||
Whom I already lov'd, not verily | ||
25 | 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 | ||
30 | 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 | ||
35 | 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. | ||
40 | 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 | ||
45 | Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, | |
And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt | ||
And watchful more than ordinary men. | ||
Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, | ||
Of blasts of every tone, and often-times | ||
50 | 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 | ||
55 | The winds are now devising work for me! | |
And truly at all times the storm, that drives | ||
The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him | ||
Up to the mountains: he had been alone | ||
Amid the heart of many thousand mists | ||
60 | That came to him and left him on the heights. | |
So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd. | ||
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. | ||
65 | Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd | |
The common air; the hills, which he so oft | ||
Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd | ||
So many incidents upon his mind | ||
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; | ||
70 | Which like a book preserv'd the memory | |
Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd, | ||
Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, | ||
So grateful in themselves, the certainty | ||
Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills | ||
75 | Which were his living Being, even more | |
Than his own Blood - 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. | ||
80 | He had not passed his days in singleness. | |
He had a Wife, 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 | ||
85 | 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 | ||
90 | 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, | ||
95 | 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, | ||
100 | Their labour did not cease, unless when all | |
Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there | ||
Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, | ||
Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes, | ||
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal | ||
105 | Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd) | |
And his old Father, both betook themselves | ||
To such convenient work, as might employ | ||
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card | ||
Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair | ||
110 | Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, | |
Or other implement of house or field. | ||
Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge, | ||
Which in our ancient uncouth country style | ||
Did with a huge projection overbrow | ||
115 | Large space beneath, as duly as the light | |
Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp; | ||
An aged utensil, which had perform'd | ||
Service beyond all others of its kind. | ||
Early at evening did it burn and late, | ||
120 | Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours | |
Which going by from year to year had found | ||
And left the Couple neither gay perhaps | ||
Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes | ||
Living a life of eager industry. | ||
125 | And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year, | |
There by the light of this old lamp they sate, | ||
Father and Son, while late into the night | ||
The House-wife plied her own peculiar work, | ||
Making the cottage thro' the silent hours | ||
130 | Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. | |
Not with a waste of words, but for the sake | ||
Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give | ||
To many living now, I of this Lamp | ||
Speak thus minutely: for there are no few | ||
135 | Whose memories will bear witness to my tale, | |
The Light was famous in its neighbourhood, | ||
And was a public Symbol of the life, | ||
The thrifty Pair had liv'd. For, as it chanc'd, | ||
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground | ||
140 | Stood single, with large prospect North and South, | |
High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-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 | ||
145 | Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, | |
Both old and young, was nam'd The Evening Star. | ||
Thus living on through such a length of years, | ||
The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs | ||
Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart | ||
150 | This Son of his old age was yet more dear - | |
Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd | ||
By that instinctive tenderness, the same | ||
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all, | ||
Or that a child, more than all other gifts, | ||
155 | Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, | |
And stirrings of inquietude, when they | ||
By tendency of nature needs must fail. | ||
From such, and other causes, to the thoughts | ||
Of the old Man his only Son was now | ||
160 | The dearest object that he knew on earth. | |
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 | ||
165 | For dalliance and delight, as is the use | |
Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd | ||
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd | ||
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. | ||
And in a later time, ere yet the Boy | ||
170 | 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 | ||
Had work by his own door, or when he sate | ||
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, | ||
175 | Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door | |
Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade | ||
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, | ||
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd | ||
The CLIPPING TREE, 1 a name which yet it bears. | ||
180 | 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 bestow'd | ||
Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep | ||
185 | By catching at their legs, or with his shouts | |
Scar'd 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, | ||
190 | Then Michael from a winter coppice cut | |
With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd | ||
With iron, making it throughout in all | ||
Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, | ||
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd | ||
195 | He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd | |
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock, | ||
And to his office prematurely call'd | ||
There stood the urchin, as you will divine, | ||
Something between a hindrance and a help, | ||
200 | 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 Luke, full ten years old, could stand | ||
205 | 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 Shepherd loved before | ||
210 | 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 agai. | ||
Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up: | ||
215 | And nowwhen he had reached his eighteenth year, | |
He was his comfort and his daily hope. | ||
While this good household thus were living on | ||
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came | ||
Distressful tidings. Long before, the time | ||
220 | 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 press'd upon him, and old Michael now | ||
225 | Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, | |
A grievous penalty, but little less | ||
Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim | ||
At the first hearing, for a moment took | ||
More hope out of his life than he supposed | ||
230 | That any old man ever could have lost. | |
As soon as he had gather'd so much strength | ||
That he could look his trouble in the face, | ||
It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell | ||
A portion of his patrimonial fields. | ||
235 | Such was his first resolve; he thought again, | |
And his heart fail'd him. Isabel, said he, | ||
Two evenings after he had heard the news, | ||
I have been toiling more than seventy years, | ||
And in the open sun-shine of God's love | ||
240 | Have we all liv'd, 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 itself | ||
Has scarcely been more diligent than I, | ||
245 | And I have liv'd 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 | ||
250 | 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 chearful hope. | ||
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land | ||
255 | 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 knowest, | ||
Another Kinsman, he will be our friend | ||
In this distress. He is a prosperous man, | ||
260 | 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 | ||
May come again to us. If here he stay, | ||
What can be done? Where every one is poor | ||
265 | What can be gain'd? At this, the old man paus'd, | |
And Isabel sate 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 | ||
270 | They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, | |
And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought | ||
A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares, | ||
And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad | ||
Went up to London, found a Master there, | ||
275 | Who out of many chose the trusty Boy | |
To go and overlook his merchandise | ||
Beyond the seas, where he grew wond'rous rich, | ||
And left estates and monies to the poor, | ||
And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd | ||
280 | With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. | |
These thoughts, and many others of like sort, | ||
Pass'd quickly thro' the mind of Isabel, | ||
And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad. | ||
And thus resum'd. Well I Isabel, this scheme | ||
285 | 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 | ||
290 | 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 ceas'd, and to the fields went forth | ||
With a light heart. The House-wife for five days | ||
295 | 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 | ||
300 | By Michael's side, she for the two last 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 | ||
305 | 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 Lad made answer with a jocund voice, | ||
310 | And Isabel, when she had told her fears, | |
Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare | ||
Did she bring forth, and all together sate | ||
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. | ||
Next morning Isabel resum'd her work, | ||
315 | And all the ensuing week the house appear'd | |
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, | ||
320 | 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 shew it to the neighbours round: | ||
Nor was there at that time on English Land | ||
325 | A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel | |
Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said, | ||
He shall depart to-morrow. To this word | ||
The House - wife answered, talking much of things | ||
Which, if at such, short notice he should go, | ||
330 | Would surely be forgotten. But at length | |
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. | ||
Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, | ||
In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd | ||
To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard | ||
335 | The tidings of his melancholy loss, | |
For this same purpose he had gathered up | ||
A heap of stones, which close to the brook side | ||
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. | ||
With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd; | ||
340 | And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, | |
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, | ||
345 | 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 speak | ||
Of things thou caust not know of. - After thou | ||
350 | First cam'st into the world, as it 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 pass'd on, | ||
And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love. | ||
355 | Never to living ear came sweeter sounds | |
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side | ||
First uttering without words a natural tune, | ||
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy | ||
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month, | ||
360 | And in the open fields my life was pass'd | |
And in 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 know'st, in us the old and young | ||
365 | Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou | |
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know. | ||
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words | ||
He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand, | ||
And said, Nay do not take it so - I see | ||
370 | 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 | ||
Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old | ||
375 | Beyond the common life of man, I still | |
Remember them who lov'd me in my youth. | ||
Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd | ||
As all their Forefathers had done, and when | ||
At length their time was come, they were not loth | ||
380 | To give their bodies to the family mold. | |
I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd. | ||
But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, | ||
And see so little gain from sixty years. | ||
These fields were burthen'd when they came to me; | ||
385 | 'Till I was forty years of age, not more | |
Than half of my inheritance was mine. | ||
I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work, | ||
And 'till these three weeks past the land was free. | ||
- It looks as if it never could endure | ||
390 | 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 paus'd, | ||
Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, | ||
Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd: | ||
395 | 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. | ||
I for the purpose brought thee to this place. | ||
Nay, Boy, be of good hope: - we both may live | ||
400 | To see a better day. At eighty-four | |
I still am strong and stout; - do thou thy part, | ||
I will do mine. - I will begin again | ||
With many tasks that were resign'd to thee; | ||
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, | ||
405 | 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 - | ||
410 | 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, | ||
415 | As I requested, and hereafter, Luke, | |
When thou art gone away, should evil men | ||
Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be | ||
Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear | ||
And all temptation, let it be to thee | ||
420 | An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd, | |
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 | ||
425 | '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 stoop'd down, | ||
And as his Father had requested, laid | ||
430 | The first stone of the Sheep-fold; at the sight | |
The Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heart | ||
He press'd his Son, he kissed him and wept; | ||
And to the House together they return'd. | ||
Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy | ||
435 | Began his journey, and when he had reach'd | |
The public Way, he put on a bold face; | ||
And all the Neighbours as he pass'd their doors | ||
Came forth, with wishes and with farewell pray'rs, | ||
That follow'd him 'till he was out of sight. | ||
440 | A good report did from their Kinsman come, | |
Of Luke and his well-doing; and the Boy | ||
Wrote loving letters, full of wond'rous news, | ||
Which, as the House-wife phrased it, were throughout | ||
The prettiest letters that were ever seen. | ||
445 | Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. | |
So, many months pass'd 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 | ||
450 | 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 | ||
455 | 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 break the heart: - Old Michael found it so. | ||
460 | I have convers'd 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 | ||
465 | He went, and still look'd up upon the sun. | |
And listen'd to the wind; and as before | ||
Perform'd all kinds of labour for his Sheep, | ||
And for the land his small inheritance. | ||
And to that hollow Dell from time to time | ||
470 | 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 - ands 'tis believ'd by all | ||
That many and many a day he thither went, | ||
475 | And never lifted up a single stone. | |
There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen | ||
Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, | ||
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. | ||
The length of full seven years from time to time | ||
480 | 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. | ||
485 | The Cottage which was nam'd 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 | ||
490 | Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen | |
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill. | ||
1 Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. |
First published 1800
Robert Clark