Избранная лирика - Уильям Вордсворт

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;      &