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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540059" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Michael: A Pastoral Poem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If from the public way you turn your steps <br>Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, <br>You will suppose that with an upright path <br>Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent <br>The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. <br>But, courage! for around that boisterous brook <br>The mountains have all opened out themselves, <br>And made a hidden valley of their own. <br>No habitation can be seen; but they <br>Who journey thither find themselves alone <br>With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites <br>That overhead are sailing in the sky. <br>It is in truth an utter solitude; <br>Nor should I have made mention of this Dell <br>But for one object which you might pass by, <br>Might see and notice not. Beside the brook <br>Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! <br>And to that simple object appertains <br>A story--unenriched with strange events, <br>Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, <br>Or for the summer shade. It was the first <br>Of those domestic tales that spake to me <br>Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men <br>Whom I already loved; not verily <br>For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills <br>Where was their occupation and abode. <br>And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy <br>Careless of books, yet having felt the power <br>Of Nature, by the gentle agency <br>Of natural objects, led me on to feel <br>For passions that were not my own, and think <br>(At random and imperfectly indeed) <br>On man, the heart of man, and human life. <br>Therefore, although it be a history <br>Homely and rude, I will relate the same <br>For the delight of a few natural hearts; <br>And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake <br>Of youthful Poets, who among these hills <br>Will be my second self when I am gone. <br>UPON the forest-side in Grasmere Vale <br>There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; <br>An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. <br>His bodily frame had been from youth to age <br>Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, <br>Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, <br>And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt <br>And watchful more than ordinary men. <br>Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, <br>Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, <br>When others heeded not, He heard the South <br>Make subterraneous music, like the noise <br>Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. <br>The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock <br>Bethought him, and he to himself would say, <br>"The winds are now devising work for me!" <br>And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives <br>The traveller to a shelter, summoned him <br>Up to the mountains: he had been alone <br>Amid the heart of many thousand mists, <br>That came to him, and left him, on the heights. <br>So lived he till his eightieth year was past. <br>And grossly that man errs, who should suppose <br>That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, <br>Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. <br>Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed <br>The common air; hills, which with vigorous step <br>He had so often climbed; which had impressed <br>So many incidents upon his mind <br>Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; <br>Which, like a book, preserved the memory <br>Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, <br>Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts <br>The certainty of honourable gain; <br>Those fields, those hills--what could they less? had laid <br>Strong hold on his affections, were to him <br>A pleasurable feeling of blind love, <br>The pleasure which there is in life itself. <br>His days had not been passed in singleness. <br>His Helpmate was a comely matron, old-- <br>Though younger than himself full twenty years. <br>She was a woman of a stirring life, <br>Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had <br>Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; <br>That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest <br>It was because the other was at work. <br>The Pair had but one inmate in their house, <br>An only Child, who had been born to them <br>When Michael, telling o'er his years, began <br>To deem that he was old,--in shepherd's phrase, <br>With one foot in the grave. This only Son, <br>With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, <br>The one of an inestimable worth, <br>Made all their household. I may truly say, <br>That they were as a proverb in the vale <br>For endless industry. When day was gone <br>And from their occupations out of doors <br>The Son and Father were come home, even then, <br>Their labour did not cease; unless when all <br>Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, <br>Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 0 <br>Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, <br>And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal <br>Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) <br>And his old Father both betook themselves <br>To such convenient work as might employ <br>Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card <br>Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair <br>Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, <br>Or other implement of house or field. <br>Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, <br>That in our ancient uncouth country style <br>With huge and black projection overbrowed <br>Large space beneath, as duly as the light <br>Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; <br>An aged utensil, which had performed <br>Service beyond all others of its kind. <br>Early at evening did it burn--and late, <br>Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, <br>Which, going by from year to year, had found, <br>And left, the couple neither gay perhaps <br>Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, <br>Living a life of eager industry. <br>And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, <br>There by the light of this old lamp they sate, <br>Father and Son, while far into the night <br>The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, <br>Making the cottage through the silent hours <br>Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. <br>This light was famous in its neighbourhood, <br>And was a public symbol of the life <br>That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, <br>Their cottage on a plot of rising ground <br>Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, <br>High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, <br>And westward to the village near the lake; <br>And from this constant light, so regular <br>And so far seen, the House itself, by all <br>Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, <br>Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR. <br>Thus living on through such a length of years, <br>The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs <br>Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart <br>This son of his old age was yet more dear-- <br>Less from instinctive tenderness, the same <br>Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all-- <br>Than that a child, more than all other gifts <br>That earth can offer to declining man, <br>Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, <br>And stirrings of inquietude, when they <br>By tendency of nature needs must fail. <br>Exceeding was the love he bare to him, <br>His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes <br>Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, <br>Had done him female service, not alone <br>For pastime and delight, as is the use <br>Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced <br>To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked <br>His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. <br>And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy <br>Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, <br>Albeit of a stern unbending mind, <br>To have the Young-one in his sight, when he <br>Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool <br>Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched <br>Under the large old oak, that near his door <br>Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, <br>Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, <br>Thence in our rustic dialect was called <br>The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears. <br>There, while they two were sitting in the shade, <br>With others round them, earnest all and blithe, <br>Would Michael exercise his heart with looks <br>Of fond correction and reproof bestowed <br>Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep <br>By catching at their legs, or with his shouts <br>Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. <br>And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up <br>A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek <br>Two steady roses that were five years old; <br>Then Michael from a winter coppice cut <br>With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped <br>With iron, making it throughout in all <br>Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, <br>And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt <br>He as a watchman oftentimes was placed <br>At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; <br>And, to his office prematurely called, <br>There stood the urchin, as you will divine, <br>Something between a hindrance and a help; <br>And for this cause not always, I believe, <br>Receiving from his Father hire of praise; <br>Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, <br>Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. <br>But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand <br>Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, <br>Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, <br>He with his Father daily went, and they <br>Were as companions, why should I relate <br>That objects which the Shepherd loved before <br>Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 0 <br>Feelings and emanations--things which were <br>Light to the sun and music to the wind; <br>And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? <br>Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up: <br>And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, <br>He was his comfort and his daily hope. <br>While in this sort the simple household lived <br>From day to day, to Michael's ear there came <br>Distressful tidings. Long before the time <br>Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound <br>In surety for his brother's son, a man <br>Of an industrious life, and ample means; <br>But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly <br>Had prest upon him; and old Michael now <br>Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, <br>A grievous penalty, but little less <br>Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, <br>At the first hearing, for a moment took <br>More hope out of his life than he supposed <br>That any old man ever could have lost. <br>As soon as he had armed himself with strength <br>To look his trouble in the face, it seemed <br>The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once <br>A portion of his patrimonial fields. <br>Such was his first resolve; he thought again, <br>And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, <br>Two evenings after he had heard the news, <br>"I have been toiling more than seventy years, <br>And in the open sunshine of God's love <br>Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours <br>Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think <br>That I could not lie quiet in my grave. <br>Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself <br>Has scarcely been more diligent than I; <br>And I have lived to be a fool at last <br>To my own family. An evil man <br>That was, and made an evil choice, if he <br>Were false to us; and if he were not false, <br>There are ten thousand to whom loss like this <br>Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;--but <br>'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. <br>When I began, my purpose was to speak <br>Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. <br>Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land <br>Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; <br>He shall possess it, free as is the wind <br>That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, <br>Another kinsman--he will be our friend <br>In this distress. He is a prosperous man, <br>Thriving in trade--and Luke to him shall go, <br>And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift <br>He quickly will repair this loss, and then <br>He may return to us. If here he stay, <br>What can be done? Where every one is poor, <br>What can be gained?" <br>At this the old Man paused, <br>And Isabel sat silent, for her mind <br>Was busy, looking back into past times. <br>There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, <br>He was a parish-boy--at the church-door <br>They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence <br>And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought <br>A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; <br>And, with this basket on his arm, the lad <br>Went up to London, found a master there, <br>Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy <br>To go and overlook his merchandise <br>Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, <br>And left estates and monies to the poor, <br>And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored <br>With marble which he sent from foreign lands. <br>These thoughts, and many others of like sort, <br>Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, <br>And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, <br>And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme <br>These two days, has been meat and drink to me. <br>Far more than we have lost is left us yet. <br>--We have enough--I wish indeed that I <br>Were younger;--but this hope is a good hope. <br>--Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best <br>Buy for him more, and let us send him forth <br>To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: <br>--If he 'could' go, the Boy should go tonight." <br>Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth <br>With a light heart. The Housewife for five days <br>Was restless morn and night, and all day long <br>Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare <br>Things needful for the journey of her son. <br>But Isabel was glad when Sunday came <br>To stop her in her work: for, when she lay <br>By Michael's side, she through the last two nights <br>Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: <br>And when they rose at morning she could see <br>That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon <br>She said to Luke, while they two by themselves <br>Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: <br>We have no other Child but thee to lose <br>None to remember--do not go away, <br>For if thou leave thy Father he will die." <br>The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; <br>And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 0 <br>Recovered heart. That evening her best fare <br>Did she bring forth, and all together sat <br>Like happy people round a Christmas fire. <br>With daylight Isabel resumed her work; <br>And all the ensuing week the house appeared <br>As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length <br>The expected letter from their kinsman came, <br>With kind assurances that he would do <br>His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; <br>To which, requests were added, that forthwith <br>He might be sent to him. Ten times or more <br>The letter was read over; Isabel <br>Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; <br>Nor was there at that time on English land <br>A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel <br>Had to her house returned, the old Man said, <br>"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word <br>The Housewife answered, talking much of things <br>Which, if at such short notice he should go, <br>Would surely be forgotten. But at length <br>She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. <br>Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, <br>In that deep valley, Michael had designed <br>To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard <br>The tidings of his melancholy loss, <br>For this same purpose he had gathered up <br>A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge <br>Lay thrown together, ready for the work. <br>With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: <br>And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, <br>And thus the old Man spake to him:--"My Son, <br>To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart <br>I look upon thee, for thou art the same <br>That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, <br>And all thy life hast been my daily joy. <br>I will relate to thee some little part <br>Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good <br>When thou art from me, even if I should touch <br>On things thou canst not know of.----After thou <br>First cam'st into the world--as oft befalls <br>To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away <br>Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue <br>Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, <br>And still I loved thee with increasing love. <br>Never to living ear came sweeter sounds <br>Than when I heard thee by our own fireside <br>First uttering, without words, a natural tune; <br>While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy <br>Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, <br>And in the open fields my life was passed <br>And on the mountains; else I think that thou <br>Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. <br>But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, <br>As well thou knowest, in us the old and young <br>Have played together, nor with me didst thou <br>Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." <br>Luke had a manly heart; but at these words <br>He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, <br>And said, "Nay, do not take it so--I see <br>That these are things of which I need not speak. <br>--Even to the utmost I have been to thee <br>A kind and a good Father: and herein <br>I but repay a gift which I myself <br>Received at others' hands; for, though now old <br>Beyond the common life of man, I still <br>Remember them who loved me in my youth. <br>Both of them sleep together: here they lived, <br>As all their Forefathers had done; and when <br>At length their time was come, they were not loth <br>To give their bodies to the family mould. <br>I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: <br>But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, <br>And see so little gain from threescore years. <br>These fields were burthened when they came to me; <br>Till I was forty years of age, not more <br>Than half of my inheritance was mine. <br>I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, <br>And till these three weeks past the land was free. <br>--It looks as if it never could endure <br>Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, <br>If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good <br>That thou should'st go." <br>At this the old Man paused; <br>Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, <br>Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: <br>"This was a work for us; and now, my Son, <br>It is a work for me. But, lay one stone-- <br>Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. <br>Nay, Boy, be of good hope;--we both may live <br>To see a better day. At eighty-four <br>I still am strong and hale;--do thou thy part; <br>I will do mine.--I will begin again <br>With many tasks that were resigned to thee: <br>Up to the heights, and in among the storms, <br>Will I without thee go again, and do <br>All works which I was wont to do alone, <br>Before I knew thy face.--Heaven bless thee, Boy! <br>Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast <br>With many hopes; it should be so--yes--yes-- <br>I knew that thou could'st never have a wish <br>To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 0 <br>Only by links of love: when thou art gone, <br>What will be left to us!--But, I forget <br>My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, <br>As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, <br>When thou art gone away, should evil men <br>Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, <br>And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, <br>And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear <br>And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou <br>May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, <br>Who, being innocent, did for that cause <br>Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-- <br>When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see <br>A work which is not here: a covenant <br>'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate <br>Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, <br>And bear thy memory with me to the grave." <br>The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, <br>And, as his Father had requested, laid <br>The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight <br>The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart <br>He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; <br>And to the house together they returned. <br>--Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, <br>Ere the night fell:--with morrow's dawn the Boy <br>Began his journey, and when he had reached <br>The public way, he put on a bold face; <br>And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, <br>Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, <br>That followed him till he was out of sight. <br>A good report did from their Kinsman come, <br>Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy <br>Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, <br>Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout <br>"The prettiest letters that were ever seen." <br>Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. <br>So, many months passed on: and once again <br>The Shepherd went about his daily work <br>With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now <br>Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour <br>He to that valley took his way, and there <br>Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began <br>To slacken in his duty; and, at length, <br>He in the dissolute city gave himself <br>To evil courses: ignominy and shame <br>Fell on him, so that he was driven at last <br>To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. <br>There is a comfort in the strength of love; <br>'Twill make a thing endurable, which else <br>Would overset the brain, or break the heart: <br>I have conversed with more than one who well <br>Remember the old Man, and what he was <br>Years after he had heard this heavy news. <br>His bodily frame had been from youth to age <br>Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks <br>He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, <br>And listened to the wind; and, as before, <br>Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, <br>And for the land, his small inheritance. <br>And to that hollow dell from time to time <br>Did he repair, to build the Fold of which <br>His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet <br>The pity which was then in every heart <br>For the old Man--and 'tis believed by all <br>That many and many a day he thither went, <br>And never lifted up a single stone. <br>There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen <br>Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, <br>Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. <br>The length of full seven years, from time to time, <br>He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, <br>And left the work unfinished when he died. <br>Three years, or little more, did Isabel <br>Survive her Husband: at her death the estate <br>Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. <br>The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR <br>Is gone--the ploughshare has been through the ground <br>On which it stood; great changes have been wrought <br>In all the neighbourhood:--yet the oak is left <br>That grew beside their door; and the remains <br>Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen <br>Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540059" data-title="Michael: A Pastoral Poem de William Wordsworth" data-description="If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 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 a..."></div> </div> </div>
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