XXI
Pained and disgusted with the sight, he passed
Out of the city—’twas not very far
Before he struck the open country-road—
Which led to Shoreditch church, and meadows broad,
And fields of golden grain, where nought did mar
The peace of all that was with nature classed.
Amid a field, below a hillock’s slope,
He saw a man at work, also a lad,
With sickles in their hands, a-cutting grain,
He stopped and looked at them, the boy with pain
Seemed, raise himself, when he a bundle had
Completed, trying with his sire to cope.
And while he stretched his aching, weary back,
He gazed across the field with longing look,
A-measuring how many days ’twould take
To reach the end—the field’s dividing stake,
Then spit into his hands and firmly took
His place behind his father’s cleancut track.
This incident Sordino much impressed,
He read at once the feelings of the boy,
That not alone in body, but in mind
He suffered, sought deliverance to find,
And so he said: “I will the lad employ,
I need a guide whom heav’n with dreams hath blessed.”
The father would not listen to Sordino,
Whose English he but scarcely understood,
And half afraid of this so swarthy stranger,
In times, like those, so full of lurking danger,
But when he saw his gold, it seemed quite good,
And gave consent to let his helper go.
But not before his mother had been seen,
Her sanction gained, for what he felt some fears,
And so they left the sheaves of ripened wheat,
And sought their humble dwelling’s blithe retreat,—
A little cottage, thatched, and gray with years,
Amid the trees and garden-beds still green.
And here they tarried till the close of day,
Till Vesper-bells proclaimed its toil should cease,
Yea, tarried over night, for mother’s heart
Is more reluctant with the child to part,
But in the morn she said: “Do as ye please,”
And gave her blessing, and they went away.
And as they left, the peals from Shoreditch tow’r
Came on the crispéd morning air like streams
Of living water from the Holy Mount,—
Where priests with silver basins at its fount
Oblation brought to golden Cherubims,
Amid rejoicing of the festive hour.
Their cleansing tones, refreshing to the mind,
And nature, smiling, drank their harmony,
The crystal dew vibrating with delight,
A veil of mist, the garment of the night,
Hung o’er the deepest valley, seemed to flee
Before their dancing with a timid wind.
Sordino felt their rapture like a flow
Of scented warmth, which crept through limbs and brain,
And to his heart, where lotus-like it stayed,
Until each chilling sorrow was allayed,
And joy of other years returned again,
Enkindling in his face a new life’s glow.
The silent, wond’ring lad, who followed him,
Had often heard this gladsome melody,
It was a part of him from infancy,
It cast upon his soul a witchery,
From which no mood or attitude was free,
And claimed him for a realm remote and dim.
It was the springtime of the golden age
Of England’s minstrelsy, and here and there
A youth did feel its heart-throb ’mid the flowers,
And saw sweet, flitting forms amongst the bowers,
And heard transporting voices in the air,
Which captured him and did his life engage.
And though, perhaps, he never won a name,
And though it spoiled his life for “useful things,”
And Fate endowed him, as she did a Greene,
With wretched penury and squalor mean,—
Still he who sees and hears and gladly sings
Hath recompense, transcending gold and fame.
Woe, unto him around whose cradle danced
The fairies on the golden morning ray,
Anointing him with essence of the rose,
Into whose soul the magic music flows,
To shape itself into a deathless lay,
Who all denies, by earthliness entranced.
To him no smiling faces shall appear,
When comes the eve of life with lowering sky,
But voices chiding him with cowardice,
Because he chose the lucre and the ease,
And did his calling wilfully deny,—
To him no light shall be,—but darkness drear.