Book 10 — THE MYSTIC

"TROUBADOUR"

An early memory of my earliest youth.

There came into the village I called home A traveller, worn and faint. His garments held The alien dust of many a weary march; None but a child would e'er have thought the man A thing to look at twice, much less adore. But unto me, child that I was, the look In his large pleading eyes seemed so divine, The massive brow so free from thought of earth, The curves of his sad mouth so tremulous With more than woman's love and tenderness, And in each word and act such gentleness, That the quaint thought possessed and held my mind, That by some strange hap an angel soul, As penance for some small offense in heaven Had been compelled to traverse in this wise Our darkened world. And not alone his look Which made his rusty vesture fine, nor yet Alone the birds which fluttered round him as He were a friend, led to the same belief— But he with other men had naught in common. They called him fool and idiot, jibed at him And at his rags, and mocked his lofty air So far above his low condition. And yet unto their jeers he never word Replied, nor ever seemed to know that they About him crawled; but fixing his great eyes Upon the sunset slopes, while mirrored in His face was seen the battle in his heart Of hopes and fears, he rather breathed than spoke Such words as these, except that his had soul: "At length, O weary heart, it seemeth me The rest is near. The air seems full of promise; My eyes are fixed on what they cannot see; My ears are filled with whispers not quite heard. All things seem waiting as to hear good news. The western breeze hath messages for me; The western hills lean down and beckon me. It must be, sure, because, it must be so, That just beyond those hills, O heart, there doth Await us both the rest we long have sought." They told him that the world was round, and so It could not be that all this journeying Should e'er do more than bring him back to us, If he through weary years should persevere. "I know," he quick replied, "the world is round To railroads and canals, and yet I do Believe," and, voicing o'er his hopeful creed, And striding on, he soon was lost to view.

We heard of him as passing through the towns To west of us; but soon he was forgot By all except myself and one poor maid Whom much love led astray. And soon she paid The debt of Nature, not as doth befit Such payment dread, but, maddened by cold looks, She, sporting with dank grasses in a pool, Gave back to God the life His creatures scorned, And breathed in death moist prayers to heaven.

Never Since then hath any mention of the man Reached me. Nor have I ought on which to rely Except a dim remembrance. Yet in me A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows With growing years,—that, far beyond those hills I' the west, upon high plains, among his peers, The fool hath long been deemed philosopher.

Athenoeum, 1876.