A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

had no ears for this poor needy hour,

       That up and down the centuries doth go,

       Like beggar boy that wanders through the streets,

       With hand held out to any passer by;

       And yet God made it, and its many cries.

      He used to say: "I take the work that comes

       All ready to my hand. The lever set,

       I grasp and heave withal. Or rather, I

       Love where I live, and yield me to the will

       That made the needs about me. It may be

       I find them nearer to my need of work

       Than any other choice. I would not choose

       To lack a relish for the thing that God

       Thinks worth. Among my own I will be good;

       A helper to all those that look to me.

       This farm is God's, as much as yonder town;

       These men and maidens, kine and horses, his;

       And need his laws of truth made rules of fact;

       Or else the earth is not redeemed from ill."

       He spoke not often; but he ruled and did.

       No ill was suffered there by man or beast

       That he could help; no creature fled from him;

       And when he slew, 'twas with a sudden death,

       Like God's benignant lightning. For he knew

       That God doth make the beasts, and loves them well,

       And they are sacred. Sprung from God as we,

       They are our brethren in a lower kind;

       And in their face he saw the human look.

       They said: "Men look like different animals;"

       But he: "The animals are like to men,

       Some one, and some another." Cruelty,

       He said, would 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