Michael: A Pastoral Poem

.  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.

NOTESForm: unrhymingComposition Date:18001.Concerning the poem Wordsworth says: "Michael was founded on the son of an old couple having become dissolute, and run away from his parents; and on an old shepherd having been seven years in building up a sheepfold in a solitary valley." Again, "I have attempted to give a picture of a man of strong mind and lively sensibility, agitated by two of the most powerful affections of the human heart,--parental affection and the love of property, landed property, including the feelings of inheritance, home, and personal and family independence." To Charles James Fox he wrote: "In the two poems, The Brothers and Michael, I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist among a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent proprietors of land, here called 'states-men,' men of respectable education, who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population; if these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet on which they are written, which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances, when they would otherwise be forgotten.... The two poems that I have mentioned were written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply." In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, Oct. 11, 1800: "After dinner we walked up Greenhead Gill in search of a sheepfold." She described the ruined sheepfold, and on several occasions that autumn mentioned that her brother had gone there to work at his poem.2.Ghyll. In Westmoreland and Cumberland, this word signifies a steep and narrow valley with a stream running through it. Greenhead Ghyll rises eastward from the village of Grasmere.115.utensil. Wordsworth puts the stress on the first syllable.134.Dunmail-Raise: the pass from Grasmere to Keswick.258-270.Richard Bateman was a real person\; a chapel at Ings between Kendal and Ambleside, was rebuilt by him in 1743.