A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 3

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 his labour's meed; Nor how each morning was a boon to him; Nor how the wind, with nature's kisses fraught, Flowed inward to his soul; nor how the flowers Asserted each an individual life, A separate being, for and in his thought; Nor how the