The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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       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 make his son:

       "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

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