LITMIR.BIZ

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Here mathematics wiled him to their heights;

       And strange consent of lines to form and law

       Made Euclid a profound romance of truth.

       The master saw with wonder how he seized,

       How eagerly devoured the offered food,

       And longed to give him further kinds. For Knowledge

       Would multiply like Life; and two clear souls

       That see a truth, and, turning, see at once

       Each the other's face glow in that truth's delight,

       Are drawn like lovers. So the master offered

       To guide the ploughman through the narrow ways

       To heights of Roman speech. The youth, alert,

       Caught at the offer; and for years of nights,

       The house asleep, he groped his twilight way

       With lexicon and rule, through ancient story,

       Or fable fine, embalmed in Latin old;

       Wherein his knowledge of the English tongue,

       Through reading many books, much aided him—

       For best is like in all the hearts and tongues.

      At length his progress, through the master's pride

       In such a pupil, reached the father's ears.

       Great gladness woke within him, and he vowed,

       If caring, sparing might accomplish it,

       He should to college, and there have his fill

       Of that same learning.

      To the plough no more,

       All day to school he went; and ere a year,

       He wore the scarlet gown with the closed sleeves.

      Awkward at first, but with a dignity

       Soon finding fit embodiment in speech

       And gesture and address, he made his way,

       Unconscious all, to the full-orbed respect

       Of students and professors; for whose praise

       More than his worth, society, so called,

       To its rooms in that great city of the North,

       Invited him. He entered. Dazzled at first

       By brilliance of the shining show, the lights,

       The mirrors, gems, white necks, and radiant eyes,

       He stole into a corner, and was quiet

       Until the vision too had quieter grown.

       Bewildered next by many a sparkling word,

       Nor knowing the light-play of polished minds,

       Which, like rose-diamonds cut in many facets,

       Catch and reflect the wandering rays of truth

       As if they were home-born and issuing new,

       He held his peace, and silent soon began

       To see how little fire it needs to shimmer.

       Hence, in the midst of talk, his thoughts would wander

       Back to the calm divine of homely toil;

       While round him still and ever hung an air

       Of breezy fields, and plough, and cart, and scythe—

       A kind of clumsy grace, in which gay girls

       Saw but the clumsiness—another sort

       Saw the grace too, yea, sometimes, when he spoke,

       Saw the grace only; and began at last,

       For he sought none, to seek him in the crowd,

       And find him unexpected, maiden-wise.

       But oftener far they sought him than they found,

       For seldom was he drawn away from toil;

       Seldomer stinted time held due to toil;

       For if one night his panes were dark, the next

       They gleamed far into morning. And he won

       Honours among the first, each session's close.

      Nor think that new familiarity

       With open forms of ill, not to be shunned

       Where many youths are met, endangered much

       A mind that had begun to will the pure.

       Oft when the broad rich humour of a jest

       With breezy force drew in its skirts a troop

       Of pestilential vapours following—

       Arose within his sudden silent mind

       The maiden face that once blushed down on him—

       That lady face, insphered beyond his earth,

       Yet visible as bright, particular star.

       A flush of tenderness then glowed across

       His bosom—shone it clean from passing harm:

       Should that sweet face be banished by rude words?

       It could not stay what maidens might not hear!

       He almost wept for shame, that face, such jest,

       Should meet in his house. To his love he made Love's only worthy offering—purity.

      And if the homage that he sometimes met,

       New to the country lad, conveyed in smiles,

       Assents, and silent listenings when he spoke,

       Threatened yet more his life's simplicity;

       An antidote of nature ever came,

       Even Nature's self. For, in the summer months,

       His former haunts and boyhood's circumstance

       Received him to the bosom of their grace.

       And he, too noble to despise the past,

       Too proud to be ashamed of manly toil,

       Too wise to fancy that a gulf gaped wide

       Betwixt the labouring hand and thinking brain,

       Or that a workman was no gentleman

       Because a workman, clothed himself again

       In his old garments, took the hoe, the spade,

       The sowing sheet, or covered in the grain,

       Smoothing with harrows what the plough had ridged.

       With ever fresher joy he hailed the fields,

       Returning still with larger powers of sight:

       Each time he knew them better than before,

       And yet their sweetest aspect was the old.

       His labour kept him true to life and fact,

       Casting out worldly judgments, false desires,

       And vain distinctions. Ever, at his toil,

       New thoughts would rise, which, when God's night awoke,

       He still would seek, like stars, with instruments—

       By science, or by truth's philosophy,

       Bridging the gulf betwixt the new and old.

       Thus laboured he with hand and brain at once,

       Nor missed due readiness when Scotland's sons

       Met to reap wisdom, and the fields were white.

      His sire was proud of him; and, most of all,

       Because his learning did not make him proud:

       He was too wise to build upon his lore.

       The neighbours asked what he would

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