Wordsworth (12 page)

    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 often-times

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 naught 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 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

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

Tomorrow, or the next day, or tonight:

– If he
could
go, the Boy should go tonight.’

    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 tomorrow.’ 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 Green-head Ghyll,

In that deep valley, Michael had designed

To build a Sheep-fold; 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,

Tomorrow 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 fire-side

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 burdened 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 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

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 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,

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.’