Michael

If from the public way you turn your steps

Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head 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 beside 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 dwell within it, even while they breathe,

Move with a motion of their own, like clouds

That rack across the wind yet keep their place;

So in that valley, by the mountain’s side,

Dwelt Michael, such a man as it might be

Of men the eldest.

It is said he wore

A garment of coarse frieze, which was the shape

Of that which he was born in; and that he,

As years advanced, had gradually put

Off the old man, and, in his place, assumed

A character more stately; of the world

And of the life he lived, he was content;

A Shepherd who lived solitary, sole,

In the dale, his age was full of peace,

And yet his heart was stirred.

He had not passed

His threescore years and ten, but he was strong

And hale; and in his heart there was a kind

Of resolution which can never die.

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 the 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, even till his eightieth year;

He was a man whom no one could have passed

Without a wish to know him better; for

His heart and face were full of charity.

And when he spake, though very slow and grave,

His words had weight, and every gesture made

His words more audible; his very silence

Was like a language that could tell you all

The meaning of a thoughtful mind and soul.

Of few delights, yet a few simple ones,

His daily life was full: in him was mildness

And patience, and the love of ancient things.

The pleasure which there is in life itself

He had not learned to know; and peace was his.

They had one son, the only child of many,

And the last of all their generation.

He was named Luke, full of promise, as a tree

Whose sapling buds have never been destroyed

By blight or storm. The old man loved him well,

And the old woman loved him not less well.

For they had but one lamb between them both,

And that was their son Luke.

And now, when he

Was in the height of manhood, daily labours

Were fewer, for his thriving industry

Supplied his need, and so their days went on

In comfort; and so, little by little, he

And his good dame had built the perfect nest

Of comfort for their age.

It chanced one morning,

That Michael, from the field returning, sat

Beside the door; and, while he rested thus,

The sun shone on his grey head; his staff lay

Upon his knees; and in his hand he held

A book, the Bible of the old family.

And thus his melancholy tale began.

“There was a parcel of land,

The field beyond the orchard, which we kept

By a long lease, and which has always been

In that same name. But now the owner’s dead,

And for the first time we, the tenants, hear

That it is to be sold. The land is dear

To me, for that same field was dearer far

Than life itself; I will not lose the ground

That fed my sheep and gave my children bread.”

Thus, for the first time, Michael in his grief

Began to think of means: to gather gold;

And he said, “My son, to-morrow we will go

Together to the fair; you shall not need

To tell your mother of it till we come

Back from the fair; for she must learn by sight

That which will please her heart.”

But soon the man

Became aware that all his savings were

Too little; and he saw that he must part

With something dear to him: he thought of the field,

The small enclosed ground by the brook.

And yet, while thus he mused, his heart misgave him,

For he loved that piece of ground. “The poor man’s lot

Is hard!” he said; “to him no fields belong;

He has no title-deed; he owns no house

But what he builds, no bread but what he earns;

And now he must lose this too!”

Thus, with these thoughts,

The old man toiled, and little by little saved,

And every year his hoard increased, till now

He had enough to make his purchase good.

When suddenly a letter came,

Bidding the son repair to a great city,

And there to enter into service with

A kinsman.

Michael’s heart was torn in twain.

To part with Luke was pain, but still he saw

That it was needful.

So he said, “My son,

This is a sorrow to me, but we must

Obey necessity; and you must go.

And should you prosper, then remember me.”

The morning came,

The morning of his parting, and the son

Looked up, and saw the old man’s tears; he tried

To cheer him, and to say farewell, but words

Failed him; and down he sunk upon his knees,

And in that posture, clasping his old father’s knees,

He bade him bless him.

They walked together

To the sheepfold, where for many years

Their love had been expressed by mutual care.

And there the father said, “My son, to-night,

When I shall think of thee, I shall remember

That I have set my hand to this same work.”

Then, laying down his tools, he took a stone

And set it up by Luke.

And Luke said, “Father,

I will remember this.”

And they embraced;

The son departed; and the old man turned

Homeward.

And never lifted up his eyes again

To the blue hills; for he was left alone.

And though the old man lived another year,

He never more was seen among the rocks,

Nor in the fields, nor by the fireside.

He died alone, and his estate remains

Unsold, the field unplanted. But the sheepfold stands:

For, though the stones were loose, the work was framed

So well, that it was perfect when he died.

And if you go to Green-head Ghyll, you’ll find

The ruin of that sheepfold, still half-built,

A monument of faithful love and grief.