The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 37

And he was never sure if from her heart Or from the rosy sunset came the flush.

Again she thanked him, while again he stood Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones Round which dissolving lambent music played, Like dropping water in a silver cup; Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, And called himself hard names, and turned and went After his horses, bending like them his head.

Ah G.o.d! when Beauty pa.s.ses from the door, Although she came not in, the house is bare: Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house!

Why seems it always that she should be ours?

A secret lies behind which thou dost know, And I can partly guess.

But think not then, The holder of the plough sighed many sighs Upon his bed that night; or other dreams Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep; Nor think the airy castles of his brain Had less foundation than the air admits.

But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name, And answer, if he had not from the fair Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth, An angel vision from a higher world.

Not much of her I tell. Her glittering life, Where part the waters on the mountain-ridge, Ran down the southern side, away from his.

It was not over-blessed; for, I know, Its tale wiled many sighs, one summer eve, From her who told, and him who, in the pines Walking, received it from her loving lips; But now she was as G.o.d had made her, ere The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say, And half succeeded, failing utterly.

Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child That looks in every eye; fearless of ill, Because she knew it not; and brave withal, Because she led a simple country life, And loved the animals. Her father's house-- A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- Was distant but two miles among the hills; Yet oft as she had pa.s.sed his father's farm, The youth had never seen her face before, And should not twice. Yet was it not enough?

The vision tarried. She, as the harvest moon That goeth on her way, and knoweth not The fields of corn whose ripening grain she fills With strength of life, and hope, and joy for men, Went on her way, and knew not of the virtue Gone out of her; yea, never thought of him, Save at such times when, all at once, old scenes Return uncalled, with wonder that they come.

Soon was she orphaned of her sheltering hills, And rounded with dead glitter, not the s.h.i.+ne Of leaves and waters dancing in the sun; While he abode in ever breaking dawns, Breathed ever new-born winds into his soul; And saw the aurora of the heavenly day Still climb the hill-sides of the heapy world.

Again I say, no fond romance of love, No argument of possibilities, If he were some one, and she sought his help, Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams.

As soon he had sat down and twisted cords To snare, and carry home for household help, Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields.

But when he rose next morn, and went abroad, (The exultation of his new-found rank Already settling into dignity,) Behold, the earth was beautiful! The sky Shone with the expectation of the sun.

Only the daisies grieved him, for they fell Caught in the furrow, with their innocent heads Just out, imploring. A gray hedgehog ran, With tangled mesh of rough-laid spikes, and face Helplessly innocent, across the field: He let it run, and blessed it as it ran.

Returned at noon-tide, something drew his feet Into the barn: entering, he gazed and stood.

For, through the rent roof lighting, one sunbeam Blazed on the yellow straw one golden spot, Dulled all the amber heap, and sinking far, Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound, Crossed the keen splendour with dark shadow-straws, In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, His eye was cheated with a spectral smoke That rose as from a fire. He had not known How beautiful the sunlight was, not even Upon the windy fields of morning gra.s.s, Nor on the river, nor the ripening corn!

As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap, And gazing down into the glory-gulf, Dreamed as a boy half sleeping by the fire-- Half dreaming rose, and got his horses out.

G.o.d, and not woman, is the heart of all.

But she, as priestess of the visible earth, Holding the key, herself most beautiful, Had come to him, and flung the portals wide.

He entered: every beauty was a gla.s.s That gleamed the woman back upon his view.

Shall I not rather say: each beauty gave Its own soul up to him who wors.h.i.+pped her, For that his eyes were opened now to see?

Already in these hours his quickened soul Put forth the white tip of a floral bud, Ere long to be a crown-like, aureole flower.

His songs unbidden, his joy in ancient tales, Had hitherto alone betrayed the seed That lay in his heart, close hidden even from him, Yet not the less mellowing all his spring: Like summer suns.h.i.+ne came the maiden's face, And in the youth's glad heart the seed awoke.

It grew and spread, and put forth many flowers, Its every flower a living open eye, Until his soul was full of eyes within.

Each morning now was a fresh boon to him; Each wind a spiritual power upon his life; Each individual animal did share A common being with him; every kind Of flower from every other was distinct, Uttering that for which alone it was-- Its something human, wrapt in other veil.

And when the winter came, when thick the snow Armed the sad fields from gnawing of the frost, When the low sun but skirted his far realms, And sank in early night, he drew his chair Beside the fire; and by the feeble lamp Read book on book; and wandered other climes, And lived in other lives and other needs, And grew a larger self by other selves.

Ere long, the love of knowledge had become A hungry pa.s.sion and a conscious power, And craved for more than reading could supply.

Then, through the night (all dark, except the moon Shone frosty o'er the heath, or the white snow Gave back such motes of light as else had sunk In the dark earth) he bent his plodding way Over the moors to where the little town Lay gathered in the hollow. There the student Who taught from lingering dawn to early dark, Had older scholars in the long fore-night; For youths who in the shop, or in the barn, Or at the loom, had done their needful work, Came gathering there through starlight, fog, or snow, And found the fire ablaze, the candles lit, And him who knew waiting for who would know.

Here mathematics wiled him to their heights; And strange consent of lines to form and law Made Euclid a profound romance of truth.

The master saw with wonder how he seized, How eagerly devoured the offered food, And longed to give him further kinds. For Knowledge Would multiply like Life; and two clear souls That see a truth, and, turning, see at once Each the other's face glow in that truth's delight, Are drawn like lovers. So the master offered To guide the ploughman through the narrow ways To heights of Roman speech. The youth, alert, Caught at the offer; and for years of nights, The house asleep, he groped his twilight way With lexicon and rule, through ancient story, Or fable fine, embalmed in Latin old; Wherein his knowledge of the English tongue, Through reading many books, much aided him-- For best is like in all the hearts and tongues.

At length his progress, through the master's pride In such a pupil, reached the father's ears.

Great gladness woke within him, and he vowed, If caring, sparing might accomplish it, He should to college, and there have his fill Of that same learning.

To the plough no more, All day to school he went; and ere a year, He wore the scarlet gown with the closed sleeves.

Awkward at first, but with a dignity Soon finding fit embodiment in speech And gesture and address, he made his way, Unconscious all, to the full-orbed respect Of students and professors; for whose praise More than his worth, society, so called, To its rooms in that great city of the North, Invited him. He entered. Dazzled at first By brilliance of the s.h.i.+ning show, the lights, The mirrors, gems, white necks, and radiant eyes, He stole into a corner, and was quiet Until the vision too had quieter grown.

Bewildered next by many a sparkling word, Nor knowing the light-play of polished minds, Which, like rose-diamonds cut in many facets, Catch and reflect the wandering rays of truth As if they were home-born and issuing new, He held his peace, and silent soon began To see how little fire it needs to s.h.i.+mmer.

Hence, in the midst of talk, his thoughts would wander Back to the calm divine of homely toil; While round him still and ever hung an air Of breezy fields, and plough, and cart, and scythe-- A kind of clumsy grace, in which gay girls Saw but the clumsiness--another sort Saw the grace too, yea, sometimes, when he spoke, Saw the grace only; and began at last, For he sought none, to seek him in the crowd, And find him unexpected, maiden-wise.

But oftener far they sought him than they found, For seldom was he drawn away from toil; Seldomer stinted time held due to toil; For if one night his panes were dark, the next They gleamed far into morning. And he won Honours among the first, each session's close.

Nor think that new familiarity With open forms of ill, not to be shunned Where many youths are met, endangered much A mind that had begun to will the pure.

Oft when the broad rich humour of a jest With breezy force drew in its skirts a troop Of pestilential vapours following-- Arose within his sudden silent mind The maiden face that once blushed down on him-- That lady face, insphered beyond his earth, Yet visible as bright, particular star.

A flush of tenderness then glowed across His bosom--shone it clean from pa.s.sing harm: Should that sweet face be banished by rude words?

It could not stay what maidens might not hear!

He almost wept for shame, that face, such jest, Should meet in _his_ house. To his love he made Love's only worthy offering--purity.

And if the homage that he sometimes met, New to the country lad, conveyed in smiles, a.s.sents, and silent listenings when he spoke, Threatened yet more his life's simplicity; An antidote of nature ever came, Even Nature's self. For, in the summer months, His former haunts and boyhood's circ.u.mstance Received him to the bosom of their grace.

And he, too n.o.ble to despise the past, Too proud to be ashamed of manly toil, Too wise to fancy that a gulf gaped wide Betwixt the labouring hand and thinking brain, Or that a workman was no gentleman Because a workman, clothed himself again In his old garments, took the hoe, the spade, The sowing sheet, or covered in the grain, Smoothing with harrows what the plough had ridged.

With ever fresher joy he hailed the fields, Returning still with larger powers of sight: Each time he knew them better than before, And yet their sweetest aspect was the old.

His labour kept him true to life and fact, Casting out worldly judgments, false desires, And vain distinctions. Ever, at his toil, New thoughts would rise, which, when G.o.d's night awoke, He still would seek, like stars, with instruments-- By science, or by truth's philosophy, Bridging the gulf betwixt the new and old.

Thus laboured he with hand and brain at once, Nor missed due readiness when Scotland's sons Met to reap wisdom, and the fields were white.

His sire was proud of him; and, most of all, Because his learning did not make him proud: He was too wise to build upon his lore.

The neighbours asked what he would make his son: "I'll make a man of him," the old man said; "And for the rest, just what he likes himself.

He is my only son--I think he'll keep The old farm on; and I shall go content, Leaving a man behind me, as I say."

So four years long his life swung to and fro, Alternating the red gown and blue coat, The garret study and the wide-floored barn, The wintry city and the sunny fields: In every change his mind was well content, For in himself he was the growing same.

In no one channel flowed his seeking thoughts; To no profession did he ardent turn: He knew his father's wish--it was his own.

"Why should a man," he said, "when knowledge grows, Leave therefore the old patriarchal life, And seek distinction in the noise of men?"

He turned his asking face on every side; Went reverent with the anatomist, and saw The inner form of man laid skilful bare; Went with the chymist, whose wise-questioning hand Made Nature do in little, before his eyes, And momently, what, huge, for centuries, And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps, She labours at; bent his inquiring eye On every source whence knowledge flows for men: At some he only sipped, at others drank.

At length, when he had gained the master's right-- By custom sacred from of old--to sit With covered head before the awful rank Of black-gowned senators; and each of those, Proud of the scholar, was ready at a word To speed him onward to what goal he would, He took his books, his well-worn cap and gown, And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls, Crowned with their crown of stone, unchanging gray In all the blandishments of youthful spring, Chose for his world the lone ancestral farm.

With simple gladness met him on the road His gray-haired father--elder brother now.

Few words were spoken, little welcome said, But, as they walked, the more was understood.

If with a less delight he brought him home Than he who met the prodigal returned, It was with more reliance, with more peace; For with the leaning pride that old men feel In young strong arms that draw their might from them, He led him to the house. His sister there, Whose kisses were not many, but whose eyes Were full of watchfulness and hovering love, Set him beside the fire in the old place, And heaped the table with best country-fare.

When the swift night grew deep, the father rose, And led him, wondering why and where they went, Thorough the limpid dark, by tortuous path Between the corn-ricks, to a loft above The stable, where the same old horses slept Which he had guided that eventful morn.

Entering, he saw a change-pursuing hand Had been at work. The father, leading on Across the floor, heaped high with store of grain Opened a door. An unexpected light Flashed on him cheerful from a fire and lamp, That burned alone, as in a fairy-tale: Behold! a little room, a curtained bed, An easy chair, bookshelves, and writing-desk; An old print of a deep Virgilian wood, And one of choosing Hercules! The youth Gazed and spoke not. The old paternal love Had sought and found an incarnation new!

For, honouring in his son the simple needs Which his own bounty had begot in him, He gave him thus a lonely thinking s.p.a.ce, A silent refuge. With a quiet good night, He left him dumb with love. Faintly beneath, The horses stamped, and drew the lengthening chain.

Three sliding years, with slowly blended change, Drew round their winter, summer, autumn, spring, Fulfilled of work by hands, and brain, and heart.

He laboured as before; though when he would, And Nature urged not, he, with privilege, Would spare from hours of toil--read in his room, Or wander through the moorland to the hills; There on the apex of the world would stand, As on an altar, burning, soul and heart-- Himself the sacrifice of faith and prayer; Gaze in the face of the inviting blue That domed him round; ask why it should be blue; Pray yet again; and with love-strengthened heart Go down to lower things with lofty cares.

When Sundays came, the father, daughter, son Walked to the church across their own loved fields.

It was an ugly church, with scarce a sign Of what makes English churches venerable.

Likest a crowing c.o.c.k upon a heap It stood--but let us say--St. Peter's c.o.c.k, Lacking not many a holy, rousing charm For one with whose known self it was coeval, Dawning with it from darkness of the unseen!

And its low mounds of monumental gra.s.s Were far more solemn than great marble tombs; For flesh is gra.s.s, its goodliness the flower.

Oh, lovely is the face of green churchyard On sunny afternoons! The light itself Nestles amid the gra.s.s; and the sweet wind Says, _I am here_,--no more. With sun and wind And crowing c.o.c.ks, who can believe in death?

He, on such days, when from the church they Came, And through G.o.d's ridges took their thoughtful way, The last psalm lingering faintly in their hearts, Would look, inquiring where his ridge would rise; But when it gloomed or rained, he turned aside: What mattered it to him?

And as they walked Homeward, right well the father loved to hear The fresh rills pouring from his son's clear well.

For the old man clung not to the old alone, Nor leaned the young man only to the new; They would the best, they sought, and followed it.

"The Pastor fills his office well," he said, In homely jest; "--the Past alone he heeds!

Honours those Jewish times as he were a Jew, And Christ were neither Jew nor northern man!

He has no ear for this poor Present Hour, Which wanders up and down the centuries, Like beggar-boy roaming the wintry streets, With witless hand held out to pa.s.sers-by; And yet G.o.d made the voice of its many cries.

Mine be the work that comes first to my hand!

The lever set, I grasp and heave withal.

I love where I live, and let my labour flow Into the hollows of the neighbour-needs.