A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 2

when life is high? The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night. Earth, give us food, and, after that, a grave; For both are good, each better in its time.
The youth knew little; but he read old tales Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift As charging knights upon their death career. And then he chanted 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