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 fieldsAnd feed my sheep, while other men in tentsMay take their ease; though I must wear coarse woolNor eat except that I may live and serve,I am not, therefore, pent in mind, nor scantOf soul, in want of visions. You forgetI have the stars; they speak to me by nightAnd 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 sawAnd heard—but never spoke to,—once: that priestWho dwells above among the rocks, awayFar off, half up that mountain blue; his lightGleams down of nights until I think it seemsOne more upon my strand of mercy-gifts,The stars he dwells companioned of no lessBy day than by imperial summer nights.
"I do not know him, but what then? I knowWhat 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 heldThe reins of nations; yet he chose just this,—To lead men's souls until they learn to goIn 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 outUpon 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 onceI saw his face, and heard his compelling voice—Did choose his lot and make it holier stillAs he himself grew on to larger life:First, there was struggle in his soul; for thatSome touch he would not own had made him seeHis will were evil were it all his will.
"Long, long he would not yield; and long he stroveBeneath the stars, beneath the blue of noon,To prove himself his own. A gentle handHe 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 soulFrom his own soul.From his own soul.Then on a day there cameA message from the king: 'Come, lead my chiefsAnd all their hosts.' At thought of conflict flashedHis 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 hillsAnd 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 farAlong 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 roundHim like a cloud, enfolded PharimondLike some great hour of peace; the Face shone downUpon him where he lay, shone through him,—soul,And self, and body,—melted his hard willAnd clarified the cloud of self, till cloudIt was no more.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.Would tell no man.When Pharimond awoke—You must believe!—there lay in his left handA yellow platan-leaf, and near his rightA stout dry branch with curling bark half-shed,That fell away and made a perfect staff.He stood one moment there, adjusted thoughtAnd life to some new impulse, then with leafAnd staff he followed through the vale the wayHis dream had made the angels go. Near byHe found a trickling spring and drank new strengthFrom out his platan-leaf, that folded deepInto a cup. Ripe berries to his handThrust 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 callThat lives a mountain hermit, far remote?So I, if to himself he lived. But takeThat path which leads by yonder platan-tree,And follow by, until you meet him thereUpon the mountain side. Sit one hour stillAnd hear him speak of other worlds than this,—But O, of this, and life forever, lifeHere and now, and of duty, heaven-decreedAnd beautiful. Hear him speak; thenGo mark what you must be to other menAll your days after. Thus he lives in livesAll through these vales and hills; in barren wastes,In palaces and huts, and tented fields,In potency of life and thought, infusedIn soul of peasant, soul of king.In soul of peasant, soul of king.See, now,My flock will feed along the evening's edgeUntil the moon looks over yonder hill,And I must follow on this other way.But you must find him. Yonder is his light."