Michael, a Pastoral






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
The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.5
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
As journey thither find themselves alone10
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,15
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,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side,20
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
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills25
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 feel30
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 same35
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 Vale40
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 he had learn’d the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
When others heeded not, He heard the South50
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, summon’d 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 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.
Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath’d65
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;
Which like a book preserv’d the memory70
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,
Which were his living Being, even more75
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.
He had not passed his days in singleness.80
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
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,85
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 began90
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,95
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 100
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
Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam’d)105
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
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,110
Or other implement of house or field.
Down from the cieling by the chimney’s edge,
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light115
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,
Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours120
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.
And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year,125
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
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.130
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
Whose memories will bear witness to my tale.135
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
Stood single, with large prospect, North and South,140
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
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,145
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
This Son of his old age was yet more dear—150
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,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,155
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
The dearest object that he knew on earth.160
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 dalliance and delight, as is the use165
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
Had put on Boy’s attire, did Michael love,170
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,
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door175
Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade
Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was call’d
The CLIPPING TREE*, a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,180
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 disturb’d the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts185
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,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut190
With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop’d

(* Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.)

With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect Shepherd’s Staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp’d
He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac’d195
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,
And for this cause not always, I believe,200
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,205
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 lov’d before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came210
Feelings and emanations, things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the Old Man’s heart seem’d born again.
Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now when he had reach’d his eighteenth year,215
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

WHILE in the fashion which I have described
This simple Household thus were living on
From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time220
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 now225
Was summon’d to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlook’d for claim,
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed230
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had gathered 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 love240
“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 this250
“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 land255
“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 poor265
“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-door270
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’d280
With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Pass’d quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brighten’d. The Old Man was glad,
And thus resum’d. “Well! Isabel, this scheme285
“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 best290
“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 days295
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 lay300
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 themselves305
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 Land325
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 heard335
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gather’d 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 canst not know of.——After thou350
“First cam’st into the world, as it befals
“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 young365
“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 see370
“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 old375
“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 loth380
“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 endure390
“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 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.
“Nay, Boy, be of good hope:—we both may live
“To see a better day. At eighty-four400
“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,
“Will I without thee go again, and do405
“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 wish410
“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,415
“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 thou420
“May’st bear in mind 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 covenant425
“’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.”
The Shepherd ended here: and Luke stoop’d down,
And as his Father had requested, laid430
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 Boy435
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 hour450
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 shame455
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 rocks465
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 time470
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 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 time480
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 remains490
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill.