REUBEN
Old joys incredible; and days to come
Held but one fact, frightful, inevitable,
Real. Within doors often now forbid,
Excluded by himself at first, until
Time to a front of perfect apathy
Should school him, his free wanderings over down
And cliff-side and the curious varied shore
He yet abandon’d quite, and all day long
Toil’d only with a double industry
At the old duties, rarely from earshot
Of what the humble home of Joy had been
Once, but was now of Anguish. And when light
Fail’d him, or labour, he would creep away
Into the old wood-shed, and there for hours
Sit, with a listless hand on Pilot’s neck,
Blankly before him gazing, motionless;
Till a shrill summons, or the step that woke
The dog’s low growling, call’d him. No Psalms now,
And a far different, harder prayer, alone.
But level steps ’twixt rock and rock are found,
Moments of lull in storms, and ’mid long pain
A respite. Mercy’s pangs would slack at times,
And Sarah’s conscience warrant to all three
A holiday from over-help. Such care
As Reuben’s, strait-laced up at every point
With endless detail’d charges, then might serve,
And she among the village gossips take
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