Page:Reuben and other poems.pdf/14

 He said, and Mercy then must plead in vain. But when, the birching done, with honest ruth Gruff father, plaintive mother, brought their pack Of down-faced culprits to beg pardon, lads And parents gaped alike to see him rise Awkward and grave, the unready pilfering hands Pile up with apples, then, without a word, Go out, ’mid silence puzzled more than pleased. Few were his friends, but three he found enough: His wife, his dog, and (Who Himself adjoins Great things to small, and neighbours the high hills With the low valleys), God. And people spoke With distance and respect of him, as one Whose right to privacy and his own path Was amply earn’d and proven. Not before It wore him out, he left his calling, then, Following a long dream, came to end his days In the remember’d cottage, where of old His mother rear’d him, and the white road ran To school and Mercy. Many a fairer scene, A richer scope, a fuller way of life, His wandering years had shown him, but no way So sweet as the old simple way, no home Like the old home. The cottage he had found A ruin, and the garden, russet sward, And with his own hands so rebuilt the one, The other re-created, that the place Was truly all his own except in law; Was so in that, perhaps, or soon would be, Argued the knowing—witness how he work’d!