A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 5

sudden silent mind, The maiden face that
smiled and blushed on him; That lady face, insphered beyond his earth,
Yet visible to him as any star That shines unwavering. I cannot tell In
words the tenderness that glowed across His bosom--burned it clean in
will and thought; "Shall that sweet face be blown by laughter rude Out
of the soul where it has deigned to come, But will not stay what
maidens may not hear?" He almost wept for shame, that those two
thoughts Should ever look each other in the face, Meeting in his house.
Thus he made to her, For love, an offering of purity.
And if the homage that he sometimes found, New to the country lad,
conveyed in smiles, Assents, 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 circumstance Received him back within old influences.
And he, too noble to despise the past, Too proud to be ashamed of
manhood's toil, Too wise to fancy that a gulf lay 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 or spade, Or 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 arose; which, when still night awoke, He
ever sought, like stars, with instruments; By science, or by wise
philosophy, Bridging the gulf between them and the known; And thus
preparing for the coming months, When in the time of snow, old
Scotland's sons Reap wisdom in the silence of the year.
His sire was proud of him; and, most of all, Because his learning did
not make him proud. A wise man builds not much 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.
But as he is my only son, I think He'll keep the old farm joined to the
old name; And I shall go to the churchyard content, Leaving my name
amongst my fellow men, As safe, thank God, as if I bore it still." But
sons are older than their sires full oft In the new world that cometh after
this.
So four years long his life went to and fro Betwixt the scarlet gown and
rough blue coat; The garret study and the wide-floored barn; The
wintry city, and the sunny fields. In each his quiet mind was well
content, Because he was himself, where'er he was.
Not in 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?" And yet he
turned his face on every side; Went with the doctors to the lecture-room,
And saw the inner form of man laid bare; Went with the chymists,
where the skilful hand, Revering laws higher than Nature's self, Makes
Nature do again, before our eyes, And in a moment, what, in many
years, And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps, She laboureth at
alway, then best content When man inquires into her secret ways; Yea,
turned his asking eye on every source Whence knowledge floweth for
the hearts of men, Kneeling at some, and drinking freely there. And at
the end, when he had gained the right To sit with covered head before
the rank Of black-gowned senators; and all these men Were ready at a
word to speed him on, Proud of their pupil, towards any goal Where he
might fix his eye; he took his books, What little of his gown and cap
remained, And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls, With the old
stony crown, unchanging, grey, Amidst the blandishments of airy

Spring, He sought for life the lone ancestral farm.
With simple gladness met him on the road His grey-haired father, elder
brother now. Few words were spoken, little welcome said, But much
was understood on either side. If with a less delight he brought him
home Than he that met the prodigal returned, Yet with more confidence,
more certain joy; And with the leaning pride that old men feel In young
strong arms that draw their