Избранная лирика - Вордсворт Уильям - Страница 32

32

MICHAEL

A Pastoral Poem

                 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 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 ths 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 bum-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 be 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 Greenhead Ghyll,                  In that deep valley, Michael had designed                  To build a Sheepfold; 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 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.                  — 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 Sheepfold. 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 Sheepfold, 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 Sheepfold 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 Sheepfold may be seen                  Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.