Poems (Hardy)/A shepherd of men
A SHEPHERD OF MEN
"N OW thank the Lord for this," said Barasan,
"Though I must dwell among the hills and fields
And feed my sheep, while other men in tents
May take their ease; though I must wear coarse wool
Nor eat except that I may live and serve,
I am not, therefore, pent in mind, nor scant
Of soul, in want of visions. You forget
I have the stars; they speak to me by night
And march in white processions up the sky,
While I look on and name my joys by them.
"Though I must dwell among the hills and fields
And feed my sheep, while other men in tents
May take their ease; though I must wear coarse wool
Nor eat except that I may live and serve,
I am not, therefore, pent in mind, nor scant
Of soul, in want of visions. You forget
I have the stars; they speak to me by night
And march in white processions up the sky,
While I look on and name my joys by them.
"And you forget: I have a friend I saw
And heard—but never spoke to,—once: that priest
Who dwells above among the rocks, away
Far off, half up that mountain blue; his light
Gleams down of nights until I think it seems
One more upon my strand of mercy-gifts,
The stars he dwells companioned of no less
By day than by imperial summer nights.
And heard—but never spoke to,—once: that priest
Who dwells above among the rocks, away
Far off, half up that mountain blue; his light
Gleams down of nights until I think it seems
One more upon my strand of mercy-gifts,
The stars he dwells companioned of no less
By day than by imperial summer nights.
"I do not know him, but what then? I know
What I should hope to be if I were he.
I saw him once and marked what kind he seemed:
A dark-browed man, and large of frame and will;
Steady of eye and thought; he might have led
'The battle-lines of kings; he might have held
The reins of nations; yet he chose just this,—
To lead men's souls until they learn to go
In white through all the dust and moil of life,
Then on to larger living, better ways.
'How hath he done it?' I have wrought this out
Upon my hills, among the brooks and fields,
At those still times the flocks would choose to rest;
The sky, the soft white clouds companioned me;
Yea, Maracandan solitudes are mine,
And no man hinders that I think my thoughts.
What I should hope to be if I were he.
I saw him once and marked what kind he seemed:
A dark-browed man, and large of frame and will;
Steady of eye and thought; he might have led
'The battle-lines of kings; he might have held
The reins of nations; yet he chose just this,—
To lead men's souls until they learn to go
In white through all the dust and moil of life,
Then on to larger living, better ways.
'How hath he done it?' I have wrought this out
Upon my hills, among the brooks and fields,
At those still times the flocks would choose to rest;
The sky, the soft white clouds companioned me;
Yea, Maracandan solitudes are mine,
And no man hinders that I think my thoughts.
"Thus I conceive my priest—though only once
I saw his face, and heard his compelling voice—
Did choose his lot and make it holier still
As he himself grew on to larger life:
First, there was struggle in his soul; for that
Some touch he would not own had made him see
His will were evil were it all his will.
I saw his face, and heard his compelling voice—
Did choose his lot and make it holier still
As he himself grew on to larger life:
First, there was struggle in his soul; for that
Some touch he would not own had made him see
His will were evil were it all his will.
"Long, long he would not yield; and long he strove
Beneath the stars, beneath the blue of noon,
To prove himself his own. A gentle hand
He dared not thrust away lay strong on his;
And in his heart he heard a voice that said,
'Thy will is not thine own; but make it mine,
And then it shall be.' Still did Pharimond,—
Thus is he named,—resist and look away,
And strive to hide the tumult in his soul
From his own soul.
Then on a day there came
A message from the king: 'Come, lead my chiefs
And all their hosts.' At thought of conflict flashed
His face, his eyes, with splendid wrath and fire.
The Hand withheld. Yet would he not so yield,
But fled away among the rocks of barren hills
And took no food nor rested many days.
Beneath the stars, beneath the blue of noon,
To prove himself his own. A gentle hand
He dared not thrust away lay strong on his;
And in his heart he heard a voice that said,
'Thy will is not thine own; but make it mine,
And then it shall be.' Still did Pharimond,—
Thus is he named,—resist and look away,
And strive to hide the tumult in his soul
From his own soul.
Then on a day there came
A message from the king: 'Come, lead my chiefs
And all their hosts.' At thought of conflict flashed
His face, his eyes, with splendid wrath and fire.
The Hand withheld. Yet would he not so yield,
But fled away among the rocks of barren hills
And took no food nor rested many days.
"At last, beneath a lonely platan-tree,
O'erweighed by his sad heart, he slept in peace.
As in a dream, he saw approaching far
Along the stony vale a shining troop,
That seemed on errands faring through the world;
And all the throng passed on, while one came near,
Who bore a golden scroll, a pilgrim staff;
The silver mist of his white robe swept round
Him like a cloud, enfolded Pharimond
Like some great hour of peace; the Face shone down
Upon him where he lay, shone through him,—soul,
And self, and body,—melted his hard will
And clarified the cloud of self, till cloud
It was no more.
Then he was left alone;
And in his dream the staff lav by his side,
The scroll lay in the hand of Pharimond;
And in the dream he rose and read the scroll;
But what he read I cannot tell, nor would,—
Although I know,—for he, as now I think,
Would tell no man.
When Pharimond awoke—
You must believe!—there lay in his left hand
A yellow platan-leaf, and near his right
A stout dry branch with curling bark half-shed,
That fell away and made a perfect staff.
He stood one moment there, adjusted thought
And life to some new impulse, then with leaf
And staff he followed through the vale the way
His dream had made the angels go.
Near by
He found a trickling spring and drank new strength
From out his platan-leaf, that folded deep
Into a cup. Ripe berries to his hand
Thrust out on branches full. Why, once, myself,
I found them, when too faint to think 't was strange!
O'erweighed by his sad heart, he slept in peace.
As in a dream, he saw approaching far
Along the stony vale a shining troop,
That seemed on errands faring through the world;
And all the throng passed on, while one came near,
Who bore a golden scroll, a pilgrim staff;
The silver mist of his white robe swept round
Him like a cloud, enfolded Pharimond
Like some great hour of peace; the Face shone down
Upon him where he lay, shone through him,—soul,
And self, and body,—melted his hard will
And clarified the cloud of self, till cloud
It was no more.
Then he was left alone;
And in his dream the staff lav by his side,
The scroll lay in the hand of Pharimond;
And in the dream he rose and read the scroll;
But what he read I cannot tell, nor would,—
Although I know,—for he, as now I think,
Would tell no man.
When Pharimond awoke—
You must believe!—there lay in his left hand
A yellow platan-leaf, and near his right
A stout dry branch with curling bark half-shed,
That fell away and made a perfect staff.
He stood one moment there, adjusted thought
And life to some new impulse, then with leaf
And staff he followed through the vale the way
His dream had made the angels go.
Near by
He found a trickling spring and drank new strength
From out his platan-leaf, that folded deep
Into a cup. Ripe berries to his hand
Thrust out on branches full. Why, once, myself,
I found them, when too faint to think 't was strange!
"Haply you think my friend mistakes his call
That lives a mountain hermit, far remote?
So I, if to himself he lived. But take
That path which leads by yonder platan-tree,
And follow by, until you meet him there
Upon the mountain side. Sit one hour still
And hear him speak of other worlds than this,—
But O, of this, and life forever, life
Here and now, and of duty, heaven-decreed
And beautiful. Hear him speak; then
Go mark what you must be to other men
All your days after. Thus he lives in lives
All through these vales and hills; in barren wastes,
In palaces and huts, and tented fields,
In potency of life and thought, infused
In soul of peasant, soul of king.
See, now,
My flock will feed along the evening's edge
Until the moon looks over yonder hill,
And I must follow on this other way.
But you must find him. Yonder is his light."
That lives a mountain hermit, far remote?
So I, if to himself he lived. But take
That path which leads by yonder platan-tree,
And follow by, until you meet him there
Upon the mountain side. Sit one hour still
And hear him speak of other worlds than this,—
But O, of this, and life forever, life
Here and now, and of duty, heaven-decreed
And beautiful. Hear him speak; then
Go mark what you must be to other men
All your days after. Thus he lives in lives
All through these vales and hills; in barren wastes,
In palaces and huts, and tented fields,
In potency of life and thought, infused
In soul of peasant, soul of king.
See, now,
My flock will feed along the evening's edge
Until the moon looks over yonder hill,
And I must follow on this other way.
But you must find him. Yonder is his light."