LITMIR.BIZ

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"I'll make a man of him," the old man said;

       "And for the rest, just what he likes himself.

       He is my only son—I think he'll keep

       The old farm on; and I shall go content,

       Leaving a man behind me, as I say."

      So four years long his life swung to and fro,

       Alternating the red gown and blue coat,

       The garret study and the wide-floored barn,

       The wintry city and the sunny fields:

       In every change his mind was well content,

       For in himself he was the growing same.

      In no one channel flowed his seeking thoughts;

       To no profession did he ardent turn:

       He knew his father's wish—it was his own.

       "Why should a man," he said, "when knowledge grows,

       Leave therefore the old patriarchal life,

       And seek distinction in the noise of men?"

       He turned his asking face on every side;

       Went reverent with the anatomist, and saw

       The inner form of man laid skilful bare;

       Went with the chymist, whose wise-questioning hand

       Made Nature do in little, before his eyes,

       And momently, what, huge, for centuries,

       And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps,

       She labours at; bent his inquiring eye

       On every source whence knowledge flows for men:

       At some he only sipped, at others drank.

      At length, when he had gained the master's right—

       By custom sacred from of old—to sit

       With covered head before the awful rank

       Of black-gowned senators; and each of those,

       Proud of the scholar, was ready at a word

       To speed him onward to what goal he would,

       He took his books, his well-worn cap and gown,

       And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls,

       Crowned with their crown of stone, unchanging gray

       In all the blandishments of youthful spring,

       Chose for his world the lone ancestral farm.

      With simple gladness met him on the road

       His gray-haired father—elder brother now.

       Few words were spoken, little welcome said,

       But, as they walked, the more was understood.

       If with a less delight he brought him home

       Than he who met the prodigal returned,

       It was with more reliance, with more peace;

       For with the leaning pride that old men feel

       In young strong arms that draw their might from them,

       He led him to the house. His sister there,

       Whose kisses were not many, but whose eyes

       Were full of watchfulness and hovering love,

       Set him beside the fire in the old place,

       And heaped the table with best country-fare.

      When the swift night grew deep, the father rose,

       And led him, wondering why and where they went,

       Thorough the limpid dark, by tortuous path

       Between the corn-ricks, to a loft above

       The stable, where the same old horses slept

       Which he had guided that eventful morn.

       Entering, he saw a change-pursuing hand

       Had been at work. The father, leading on

       Across the floor, heaped high with store of grain

       Opened a door. An unexpected light

       Flashed on him cheerful from a fire and lamp,

       That burned alone, as in a fairy-tale:

       Behold! a little room, a curtained bed,

       An easy chair, bookshelves, and writing-desk;

       An old print of a deep Virgilian wood,

       And one of choosing Hercules! The youth

       Gazed and spoke not. The old paternal love

       Had sought and found an incarnation new!

       For, honouring in his son the simple needs

       Which his own bounty had begot in him,

       He gave him thus a lonely thinking space,

       A silent refuge. With a quiet good night,

       He left him dumb with love. Faintly beneath,

       The horses stamped, and drew the lengthening chain.

      Three sliding years, with slowly blended change,

       Drew round their winter, summer, autumn, spring,

       Fulfilled of work by hands, and brain, and heart.

       He laboured as before; though when he would,

       And Nature urged not, he, with privilege,

       Would spare from hours of toil—read in his room,

       Or wander through the moorland to the hills;

       There on the apex of the world would stand,

       As on an altar, burning, soul and heart—

       Himself the sacrifice of faith and prayer;

       Gaze in the face of the inviting blue

       That domed him round; ask why it should be blue;

       Pray yet again; and with love-strengthened heart

       Go down to lower things with lofty cares.

      When Sundays came, the father, daughter, son

       Walked to the church across their own loved fields.

       It was an ugly church, with scarce a sign

       Of what makes English churches venerable.

       Likest a crowing cock upon a heap

       It stood—but let us say—St. Peter's cock,

       Lacking not many a holy, rousing charm

       For one with whose known self it was coeval,

       Dawning with it from darkness of the unseen!

       And its low mounds of monumental grass

       Were far more solemn than great marble tombs;

       For flesh is grass, its goodliness the flower.

       Oh, lovely is the face of green churchyard

       On sunny afternoons! The light itself

       Nestles amid the grass; and the sweet wind

       Says, I am here,—no more. With sun and wind And crowing cocks, who can believe in death? He, on such days, when from the church they Came, And through God's ridges took their thoughtful way, The last psalm lingering faintly in their hearts, Would look, inquiring where his ridge would rise; But when it gloomed or rained, he turned aside: What mattered it to him?

      And as they walked

       Homeward, right well the father loved to hear

       The fresh rills pouring from his son's clear well.

       For the old man clung not to the old alone,

       Nor leaned the young man only to the new;

      

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