The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

A little cottage, trim and neat,
The simple home of simple folk,
Stood by itself, well off the street,
Not far from where the two roads meet
Beneath the dingy Town-house clock:
The Howff, or haunt of favoured youth,
The envy of the lads who yet
Had to make good their love of truth,
Whether the way were rough or smooth,
By fearless thought or searching wit.
It was an University
For all the spirits bright and free.

Weekly they met, and held discourse
Of science, and its march sublime,
And what is Matter, what is Force,
And what Creation, and the course
Of its development in time;
Nor was the policy forgot
Of nations, though the man was more,
The nation less than in the thought
Of many, and they counted not
To remedy the ills he bore,
And fill his cup unto the brim,
Yet have no remedy for him.

And still their converse verged on things,
More sacred, where the reason passed
From common earth, and needed wings
To soar up to those higher springs
That lie amid the shadows vast
Where God dwells, making darkness light
Unto the faith that can attain:
And some of them beheld the light,
And some were in a chill dark night,
And some were hesitating, fain
To give old words a novel sense;
But all were full of reverence.

A sister and a brother there
Kept house together, rich in love,
And in the thoughts that filled the air,
And sympathies that everywhere,
Around, beneath them, and above
Found kindred souls and faithful friends,
For that they had the master-key—
The love that all things comprehends,
And opens every heart, and bends
All to its clear simplicity:
Artless and gentle, wise, and true,
All wise and gentle souls they drew.

Yet he was but an artizan,
And hardly twenty years had seen;
A humble, absent, dreamy man,
Whose mind on mathematics ran,
Or planned some new machine;
And guileless as a child was he,
Yet daring as a man who walks,
In his most meek simplicity,
In a far world of theory,
And with the hard world seldom talks,
Or tests his visionary thought
By the experience it has bought.

An artizan, but artist too,
Inventive; none like him could make
The optic glass, and shape it true,
And polish it for perfect view
Of far-off hidden stars that break
The blank black spaces in the sky.
And he, by mathematic fit,
Knew when to turn the searching eye
Upon the field where it must lie,
And seek till he discovered it;
And therefore science crowned his name
With its award of early fame.

And he was greatly loved, but still
More loving, and by all esteemed
For upright walk, and curious skill,
Inventive thought, and steadfast will,
Yea, even for the dreams he dreamed;

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So true he was, and seeking truth,
So rich in multifarious lore,
So patient with impetuous youth,
So helpful oft their path to smooth
By drawing from his varied store;
So humbly reverent of the wise,
It humbled them to watch his eyes.

But she, his sister, fond and brave,
And jealous of his due respect,
Who rose up like a threatening wave,
And proudly curled her lip, and gave
Such glance of scorn, with head erect,
When some one risked a thoughtless jest
At his abstract and dreamy mood—
She held him wisest, truest, best;
And in protecting, but expressed
Her reverence for a soul that stood
Above the common world as far
As some serene and distant star.

A glorious girl, high-thoughted, bright
And beautiful, with woman's sense,
And woman's tact, and keen insight,
A loving heart, and gay and light
In her assured innocence;
A scholar eager still to learn,
A teacher careful to instruct,
She toiled her daily bread to earn,
She toiled high wisdom to discern,
And in the pleasant evenings pluckt
The fruit that was her young life's dream,
To see him held in such esteem.

Chiefly she had with men conversed,
Men of fresh mind and generous heart,—
With youth in noble dreams immersed,
And sages, rich in lore, who erst
Had dreamt like dreams of life and art;
And therefore she more womanly
And gentle was than other girls
Whose gossip is with women; she
Enshrined in her clear modesty,
And walking pure amid its perils,
Was worshipped like a saint, and grew
More womanly the more she knew.

Here had their widowed mother spent,
In patient toil, her latter days,
Days sweetened by a blithe content,
And by a household love that lent
Sunshine and song to all her ways;
And by respect of all the wise,
And by the love of all the good,
And by the faith whose hopes arise,
Like evening stars in darkening skies,
Soft-pulsing o'er the dewy wood;
And the fine odour of her grace
Still fondly lingered in the place.