William Wordsworth - Michael lyrics

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. 5 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 10 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 pa** by, 15 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a struggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story—unenriched with strange events Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 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 25 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 30 For pa**ions 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 35 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 40 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 had he learned the meaning of all winds Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes When others heeded not, he heard the South 50 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, 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. 60 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 65 The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, sk** or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 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 75 A pleasurable feeling of blind love The pleasure which there is in life itself His days had not been pa**ed in singleness His Helpmate was a comely matron, old— Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 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. 85 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, 90 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, 95 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, 100 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 105 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, 110 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 115 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 120 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 125 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 130 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; 135 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, 140 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— 145 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. 150 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 155 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, 160 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 165 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, 170 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 175 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 180 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 185 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, 190 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, 195 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 200 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, 205 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 210 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, 215 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. 220 As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his troubles 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, 225 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 230 Should pa** 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 235 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 240 '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; 245 He shall possess it, free as is the wind That pa**es 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, 250 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? 255 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 260 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, 265 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 birthplace, built a chapel floored 270 With marble which he sent from foreign lands These thoughts, and many others of like sort Pa**ed quickly through the mind of Isabel And her face brightened. The old Man was glad And thus resumed:—‘Well, Isabel! this scheme 275 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 280 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 285 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 290 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 295 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; 300 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; 305 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 a**urances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 310 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 315 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, 320 Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard 325 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; 330 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, 335 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 340 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 pa**ed on And still I loved thee with increasing love. 345 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, 350 And in the open fields my life was pa**ed 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 355 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 360 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' hand; for, though now old 365 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 370 To give their bodies to the family mould I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son And see so little gained from threescore years These fields were burthened when they came to me; 375 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 380 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 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 390 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, 395 Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was won't 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— 400 I knew that thou couldst 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, 405 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 410 And all temptations, 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 415 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, 420 And, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheepfold. 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. 425 —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 pa**ed their doors, 430 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, 435 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 pa**ed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work 440 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 Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and, at length, 445 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; 450 '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. 455 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, 460 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 465 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 Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 470 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet The length of full seven years, from time to time He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought And left the work unfinished when he died Three years, or little more, did Isabel 475 Survive her Husband: at her d**h 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 480 In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll