The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ bought in the market! Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own; And words of tenderness would falter in, Relenting from the sternness of command. But I am not enough for him: he needs Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure, And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him. So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones. Italian lovers love not so; but he Has German blood in those great veins of his. He never brings me now a little flower. He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child; But never sings to me what the voice-bird Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest. I would I were his child, and not his wife! How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts Fit to be women to his mighty men; And he would love them, if he saw them once.

      Ah! there they come, the visions of my land!

       The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs

       Purple above the blue waves at their feet!

       Down the full river comes a light-blue sail;

       And down the near hill-side come country girls,

       Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits;

       Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad

       For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment

       At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought;

       And to their side come stately, youthful forms,

       Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:—

       Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day.

       Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look

       With pity on their poor contentedness;

       For he sits at the helm, I at his feet.

       He sung a song, and I replied to him.

       His song was of the wind that blew us down

       From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea.

       Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea,

       Where I should cry for comforting in vain,

       Was the expanse of his wide awful soul,

       To which that wind was helpless drifting me!

       I would he were less great, and loved me more.

       I sung to him a song, broken with sighs,

       For even then I feared the time to come:

       "O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now?

       And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?"

       Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart.

       "And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend,

       And suck my soul in vapours up to thee?

       Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours.

       Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I

       In the warm valley, with the lily pale,

       Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves;

       Where odours are the sole invisible clouds,

       Making the heart weep for deliciousness.

       Will thy eternal mountain always bear

       Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot?

       Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow,

       The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head,

       Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door,

       And goest from me into loneliness."

       Ah me, my song! it is a song no more!

       He is alone amid his windy rocks;

       I wandering on a low and dreary plain!

      [She weeps herself asleep.]

      SCENE V.—LORD SEAFORD, alternately writing at a table and composing at his pianoforte.

      SONG.

      Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,

       Sweetly, softly, sadly bright!

       Draw not, ever, o'er my eye,

       Radiant mists of ecstasy.

      Be not proud, O glorious orbs!

       Not your mystery absorbs;

       But the starry soul that lies

       Looking through your night of eyes.

      One moment, be less perfect, sweet;

       Sin once in something small;

       One fault to lift me on my feet

       From love's too perfect thrall!

      For now I have no soul; a sea

       Fills up my caverned brain,

       Heaving in silent waves to thee,

       The mistress of that main.

      O angel! take my hand in thine;

       Unfold thy shining silver wings;

       Spread them around thy face and mine,

       Close curtained in their murmurings.

      But I should faint with too much bliss

       To be alone in space with thee;

       Except, O dread! one angel-kiss

       In sweetest death should set me free.

      O beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on,

       Till thou hast won my soul in sighs;

       I'll smile with thee upon thy flaming throne,

       If thou wilt keep those eyes.

      And if the meanings of untold desires

       Should charm thy pain of one faint sting,

       I will arise amid the scorching fires,

       I will arise and sing.

      O what is God to me? He sits apart

       Amid the clear stars, passionless and cold.

       Divine! thou art enough to fill my heart;

       O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, infold.

      With too much life, I fall before thee dead.

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