The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ The sun was rising—rose Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group.

      What God did for the rest, I know not; it

       Was easy to help them.—I saw them not.—

       I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own!

       Thy lovely face angelic now with grief;

       But that I saw not first: thy head was bent,

       Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between.

       I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise,

       Once only lifting that sweet face to mine,

       Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream

       Had lasted ever!—No; 'twas but a dream;

       Thou art not rescued yet.

      Earth's morning came,

       And my soul's morning died in tearful gray.

       The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped

       In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring;

       The last I heard, a chant break suddenly

       Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound:

       I had not listened in the excess of joy.

      SCENE XVIII.—Portsmouth. A bedroom. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE.

      Lord S. Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry. If you could go alone, I'd have you go.

      Lady Gertrude. And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel. Believe me, father, I am happier In your sick room, than on a glowing island In the blue Bay of Naples.

      Lord S. It was so sudden! 'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly. But have your walk before the sun be hot. Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.

      Lady Gertrude. Good-bye then, father, for a little while.

      [Goes.]

      Lord S. I never knew what illness was before. O life! to think a man should stand so little On his own will and choice, as to be thus Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone From the rich world! No sense is left me more To touch with beauty. Even she has faded Into the far horizon, a spent dream Of love and loss and passionate despair!

      Is there no beauty? Is it all a show

       Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves,

       A reflex of well-ordered organism?

       Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart

       No more mysterious, no more beautiful,

       Than I am to myself this ghastly moment?

       It must be so—it must, except God is, And means the meaning that we think we see, Sends forth the beauty we are taking in. O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower Before it blew on any bank of spring, Then all is untruth, unreality, And we are wretched things; our highest needs Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves; And when we are sick, they are not; and our hearts Die with the voidness of the universe.

      But if thou art, O God, then all is true;

       Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes

       Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain

       Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams.

       And she is beautiful—and I have lost her!

      O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned

       Against thy beauty and thy graciousness!

       That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine.

       Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed

       Before my eyes, a bright particular star:

       Like foolish child, I reached out for the star,

       Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content

       That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee,

       Mine to revere, though not to call my own.

       Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia!

      My love has taken vengeance on my love.

       I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content.

       Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find

       That thou art not a phantom, but God's child;

       That Beauty is, though it is not for me.

       When I would hold it, then I disbelieved.

       That I may yet believe, I will not touch it.

       I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty,

       Denying him in grasping at his work.

      SCENE XIX.—A country churchyard. JULIAN seated on a tombstone. LILY gathering flowers and grass among the grass.

      Julian. O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch, Made ready for the weary! Everywhere, O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children— Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up, Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom Lie in the luxury of primeval peace, Fearless of any morn; as a new babe Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed: That home of blessedness is all there is; He never feels the silent rushing tide, Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness. But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last Ready for him when weary: well the green Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn. O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed To which I bore thee with a nobler joy! —Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain.

      How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart

       Was all so tender to thee! But I fear

       My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed

       With questions to be solved, before my face

       Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me

       Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain.

       Ah, now I know I did not well for thee

       In making thee my wife! I should have gone

       Alone into eternity. I was

       Too rough for thee, for any tender woman—

       Other I had not loved—so full of fancies!

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