A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 3

dreams Than pleasant rose upon his view in
sleep, Within the magic crystal of the soul; Nor that 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 gained 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 changeful life Where part the waters on the
mountain ridge, Flowed down the other side apart from his. Her tale
hath wiled deep sighs on summer eves, Where in the ancient mysteries
of woods Walketh a man who worships womanhood. Soon was she
orphaned of such parent-haunts; Surrounded with dead glitter, not the
shine Of leaves in wind and sunlight; while the youth Breathed on, as if
a constant breaking dawn Sent forth the new-born wind upon his brow;
And knew the morning light was climbing up The further
hill-side--morning light, which most, They say, reveals the inner hues
of earth. Now she was such as God 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 stares you in the eyes;
fearless of ill, Because she knew it not; and brave withal, Because she
drank the draught that maketh strong, The charmed country air. Her
father's house-- A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- Stood only
two miles off amid the hills; But though she often passed alone as now,
The youth had never seen her face before, And might not twice. Yet
was not once enough? It left him not. She, as the harvest moon That
goeth on her way, and knoweth not The fields of grain whose ripening
ears she fills With wealth of life and human joyfulness, Went on, and
knew not of the influence She left behind; yea, never thought of him;
Save at those times when, all at once, old scenes Return uncalled, with
wonder that they come, Amidst far other thoughts and other cares;
Sinking again into their ancient graves, Till some far-whispered
necromantic spell Loose them once more to wander for a space.
Again I say, no fond romance of love, No argument of possibilities, If
he were some one, and she claimed his aid, Turned his clear brain into
a nest of dreams. As soon he had sat down and twisted cords To snare,
and carry home for daylight use, 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,) He found the earth was beautiful.
The sky, Which shone with expectation of the sun, Somehow, he knew
not how, was like her face. He grieved almost to plough the daisies
down; Something they shared in common with that smile Wherewith
she crowned his manhood; and they fell Bent in the furrow, sometimes,
with their heads Just out imploringly. A hedgehog ran With tangled

mesh of bristling spikes, and face Helplessly innocent, across the field:
He let it run, and blessed it as it ran. At noon returning, something drew
his feet Into the barn. Entering, he gazed and stood. Through the rent
roof alighting, one sunbeam, Blazing upon the straw one golden spot,
Dulled all the yellow heap, and sank far down, Like flame inverted,
through the loose-piled mound, Crossing the splendour with the
shadow-straws, In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, The eye was
cheated with a spectral smoke That rose as from a fire. He never knew,
Before, how beautiful the sunlight was; Though he had seen it in the
grassy fields, And on the river, and the ripening corn, A thousand times.
He threw him on the heap, And gazing down into the glory-gulf,
Dreamed as a boy half-sleeping by the fire; And dreaming rose, and got
his horses out.
God, 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 in: each beauty was a glass That
gleamed the woman back upon his view.
Already in these hours his growing soul Put forth the white tip of a
floral bud, Ere long to be a crown-like, shadowy flower. For, by his
songs, and joy in ancient tales, He showed the seed lay hidden in his
heart, A safe sure treasure, hidden even from him, And notwithstanding
mellowing all his spring; Until, like sunshine with its genial power,
Came the fair maiden's face: the seed awoke. I need not follow him
through many days; Nor tell the joys that rose around his path,
Ministering pleasure for