A Hidden Life and Other Poems - George MacDonald

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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 plenteous waters in the waste?

      If she had seen her ploughman-lover go

      With his great stride across some lonely field,

      Beneath the dark blue vault, ablaze with stars,

      And lift his full eyes to earth's radiant roof

      In gladness that the roof was yet a floor

      For other feet to tread, for his, one day?

      Or the emerging vision might reveal

      Him, in his room, with space-compelling mind,

      Pursue, upon his slate, some planet's course;

      Or read, and justify the poet's wrath,

      Or wise man's slow conclusion; or, in dreams,

      All gently bless her with a trembling voice

      For that old smile, that withered nevermore,

      That woke him, smiled him into what he is;

      Or, kneeling, cry to God for better still.

      Would those dark eyes have beamed with darker light?

      Would that fair soul, all tired of emptiness,

      Have risen from the couch of its unrest,

      And looked to heaven again, again believed

      In God's realities of life and fact?

      Would not her soul have sung unto itself,

      In secret joy too good for that vain throng:

      "I have a friend, a ploughman, who is wise,

      And knoweth God, and goodness, and fair faith;

      Who needeth not the outward shows of things,

      But worships the unconquerable truth:

      And this man loveth me; I will be proud

      And humble—would he love me if he knew?"

      In the third year, a heavy harvest fell,

      Full filled, beneath the reaping-hook and scythe.

      The

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