A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

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 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,