The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ him, but forgets to close the panel.]

      Lilia. Julian! Julian!

      [The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of the mob.]

      1st. I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still!

      2nd. Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his own. Look under the bed, Gian.

      3rd. Nothing there.

      4th. Another door! another door! He's in a trap now, and will soon be in hell! (Opening the door with difficulty.) The devil had better leave him, and make up the fire at home—he'll be cold by and by. (Rushes into the inner room.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.]

      Voices from within. I have him! I have him! Curse your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you. Bring the light there, will you? (One runs out for the light.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall! The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles!

      [Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with torches and follow.]

      * * * * *

      SCENE XIX.—The river-side. LILIA seated in the boat; JULIAN handing her the bags.

      Julian. There! One at a time!—Take care, love; it is heavy.— Put them right in the middle, of the boat: Gold makes good ballast.

      [A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, then pushes gently off.]

      Look how the torches gleam

       Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped!

      [He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with cries of search.]

      (In a low tone.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white, And would return the torches' glare. I fear The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this.

      [Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her.]

      Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars!

       The water mutters Spanish in its sleep.

       My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife!

       God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults,

       Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!—

       Once round the headland, I will set the sail;

       The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream.

       Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all,

       White angel lying in my little boat!

       Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm,

       Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks,

       Should make me rich with womanhood and life!

      [The boat rounds the headland, JULIAN singing.]

      SONG.

      Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife,

       Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled;

       Unresting yet, though folded up from life;

       Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead!

       Out to the ocean fleet and float;

       Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

      O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind,

       O cover me with kisses of her mouth;

       Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind;

       To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south!

       Out to the ocean fleet and float;

       Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

      Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing

       From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea;

       Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing,

       Us to a new love-lit futurity:

       Out to the ocean fleet and float;

       Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

      PART III.

       Table of Contents

      And weep not, though the Beautiful decay

       Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes;

       Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies,

       Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay.

       Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away;

       Her form departs not, though her body dies.

       Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies,

       Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day,

       Through the kind nurture of the winter cold.

       Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive

       The summer-time, when roses were alive;

       Do thou thy work—be willing to be old:

       Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold

       A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive.

      Time: Five years later.

      SCENE I.—Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib. JULIAN sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer.

      Julian. What is this? let me see; 'tis called The Singer:

      "Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body, spake as follows:—"

      "Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over СКАЧАТЬ