A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 7

need no other fiery hell, Than that the ghosts of the sad
beasts should come, And crowding, silent, all their heads one way,
Stare the ill man to madness.
By degrees, They knew not how, men trusted in him. When He spoke,

his word had all the force of deeds That lay unsaid within him. To be
good Is more than holy words or definite acts; Embodying itself
unconsciously In simple forms of human helpfulness, And
understanding of the need that prays. And when he read the weary tales
of crime, And wretchedness, and white-faced children, sad With hunger,
and neglect, and cruel words, He would walk sadly for an afternoon,
With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow; And to himself
conclude: "The best I can For the great world, is, just the best I can For
this my world. The influence will go In widening circles to the
darksome lanes In London's self." When a philanthropist Said
pompously: "With your great gifts you ought To work for the great
world, not spend yourself On common labours like a common man;"
He answered him: "The world is in God's hands. This part he gives to
me; for which my past, Built up on loves inherited, hath made Me
fittest. Neither will He let me think Primeval, godlike work too low to
need, For its perfection, manhood's noblest powers And deepest
knowledge, far beyond my gifts. And for the crowds of men, in whom a
soul Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes For bare humanity,
and leave to grow,-- Would I could help them! But all crowds are made
Of individuals; and their grief, and pain, And thirst, and hunger, all are
of the one, Not of the many. And the power that helps Enters the
individual, and extends Thence in a thousand gentle influences To
other hearts. It is not made one's own By laying hold of an allotted
share Of general good divided faithfully. Now here I labour whole
upon the place Where they have known me from my childhood up. I
know the individual man; and he Knows me. If there is power in me to
help, It goeth forth beyond the present will, Clothing itself in very
common deeds Of any humble day's necessity: --I would not always
consciously do good; Not always feel a helper of the men, Who make
me full return for my poor deeds (Which I must do for my own highest
sake, If I forgot my brethren for themselves) By human trust, and
confidence of eyes That look me in the face, and hands that do My
work at will--'tis more than I deserve. But in the city, with a few lame
words, And a few scanty handfuls of weak coin, Misunderstood, or, at
the best, unknown, I should toil on, and seldom reach the mail. And if I
leave the thing that lieth next, To go and do the thing that is afar, I take
the very strength out of my deed, Seeking the needy not for pure need's

sake." Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good Held his poor
peace, and left him to his way.
What of the vision now? the vision fair Sent forth to meet him, when at
eve he went Home from his first day's ploughing? Oft she passed
Slowly on horseback, in all kinds of dreams; For much he dreamed, and
loved his dreaming well. Nor woke he from such dreams with vain
regret; But, saying, "I have seen that face once more," He smiled with
his eyes, and rose to work. Nor did he turn aside from other maids, But
loved the woman-faces and dear eyes; And sometimes thought, "One
day I wed a maid, And make her mine;" but never came the maid, Or
never came the hour, that he might say, "I wed this maid." And ever
when he read A tale of lofty aim, or when the page Of history spoke of
woman very fair, Or wondrous good, her face arose, and stayed, The
face for ever of that storied page.
Meantime how fared the lady? She had wed One of those common men,
who serve as ore For the gold grains to lie in. Virgin gold Lay hidden
there--no richer was the dross. She went to gay assemblies, not content;
For she had found no hearts, that, struck with hers, Sounded one chord.
She went, and danced, or sat And listlessly conversed; or, if at home,
Read the new novel, wishing all the time For something better; though
she knew not what, Or how to search for it.
What had she felt, If, through the rhythmic motion of light forms, A
vision, had arisen; as when, of old, The minstrel's art laid bare the seer's
eye, And showed him