A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 2

all had followed them, Save
one old man, his daughter, and the youth Who ploughs in pride, nor
ever doubts his toil; And death is far from him this sunny morn. Why
should we think of death when life is high? The earth laughs all the day,
and sleeps all night. Earth, give us food, and, after that, a grave; For
both are good, each better in its time.
The youth knew little; but he read old tales Of Scotland's warriors, till
his blood ran swift As charging knights upon their death career. And
then he chanted old tunes, till the blood Was charmed back into its
fountain-well, And tears arose instead. And Robert's songs, Which ever
flow in noises like his name, Rose from him in the fields beside the
kine, And met the sky-lark's rain from out the clouds. As yet he sang
only as sing the birds, From gladness simply, or, he knew not why. The
earth was fair--he knew not it was fair; And he so glad--he knew not he
was glad: He walked as in a twilight of the sense, Which this one day
shall turn to tender light.
For, ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops Of the fir-thicket on the
eastward hill, His horses leaned and laboured. His great hands Held
both the reins and plough-stilts: he was proud; Proud with a
ploughman's pride; nobler, may be, Than statesman's, ay, or poet's
pride sometimes, For little praise would come that he ploughed well,
And yet he did it well; proud of his work, And not of what would
follow. With sure eye, He saw the horses keep the arrow-track; He saw
the swift share cut the measured sod; He saw the furrow folding to the
right, Ready with nimble foot to aid at need. And there the slain sod lay,
patient for grain, Turning its secrets upward to the sun, And hiding in a
grave green sun-born grass, And daisies clipped in carmine: all must
die, That others live, and they arise again.
Then when the sun had clomb to his decline, And seemed to rest,
before his slow descent, Upon the keystone of his airy bridge, They
rested likewise, half-tired man and horse, And homeward went for food
and courage new; Whereby refreshed, they turned again to toil, And
lived in labour all the afternoon. Till, in the gloaming, once again the
plough Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea; And home with hanging
neck the horses went, Walking beside their master, force by will. Then

through the deepening shades a vision came.
It was a lady mounted on a horse, A slender girl upon a mighty steed,
That bore her with the pride horses must feel When they submit to
women. Home she went, Alone, or else the groom lagged far behind.
But, as she passed, some faithless belt gave way; The saddle slipped,
the horse stopped, and the girl Stood on her feet, still holding fast the
reins.
Three paces bore him bounding to her side; Her radiant beauty almost
fixed him there; But with main force, as one that gripes with fear, He
threw the fascination off, and saw The work before him. Soon his hand
and knife Replaced the saddle firmer than before Upon the gentle horse;
and then he turned To mount the maiden. But bewilderment A moment
lasted; for he knew not how, With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to
throne, Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid: A moment only; for
while yet she thanked, Nor yet had time to teach her further will,
Around her waist he put his brawny hands, That almost zoned her
round; and like a child Lifting her high, he set her on the horse;
Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him, Nor turned away,
although a radiant blush Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes.
But 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 too his head.
Ah God! when Beauty passes by the door, Although she ne'er came in,
the house grows bare. Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house.
Why seems it always that it 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 had many sighs Upon his
bed that night; or other