The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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       Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea,

       And home with hanging neck the horses went,

       Walking beside their master, force by will:

       Then through the lengthening shades a vision came.

      It was a lady mounted on a horse,

       A slender girl upon a mighty steed,

       That bore her with the pride horses must feel

       When they submit to women. Home she went,

       Alone, or else her groom lagged far behind.

       Scarce had she bent simple acknowledgment

       Of the hand in silent salutation lifted

       To the bowed head, when something faithless yielded:

       The saddle slipped, the horse stopped, and the girl

       Stood on her feet, still holding fast the reins.

      Three paces bore him bounding to her side;

       Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there;

       But with main force, as one that grapples fear,

       He threw the fascination off, and saw

       The work before him. Soon his hand and knife

       Had set the saddle firmer than before

       Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned

       To mount the maiden. But bewilderment

       A moment lasted; for he knew not how,

       With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne,

       Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid:

       A moment only; for while yet she thanked,

       Nor yet had time to teach her further will,

       About her waist he put his brawny hands,

       That all but zoned her round; and like a child

       Lifting her high, he set her on the horse;

       Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him,

       Nor turned aside, although a radiant blush

       Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes.

       And he was never sure if from her heart

       Or from the rosy sunset came the flush.

       Again she thanked him, while again he stood

       Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word

       Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones

       Round which dissolving lambent music played,

       Like dropping water in a silver cup;

       Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill,

       Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke,

       And called himself hard names, and turned and went

       After his horses, bending like them his head.

      Ah God! when Beauty passes from the door,

       Although she came not in, the house is bare:

       Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house!

       Why seems it always that she should be ours?

       A secret lies behind which thou dost know,

       And I can partly guess.

      But think not then,

       The holder of the plough sighed many sighs

       Upon his bed that night; or other dreams

       Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep;

       Nor think the airy castles of his brain

       Had less foundation than the air admits.

       But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name,

       And answer, if he had not from the fair

       Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth,

       An angel vision from a higher world.

      Not much of her I tell. Her glittering life,

       Where part the waters on the mountain-ridge,

       Ran down the southern side, away from his.

       It was not over-blessed; for, I know,

       Its tale wiled many sighs, one summer eve,

       From her who told, and him who, in the pines

       Walking, received it from her loving lips;

       But now she was as God had made her, ere

       The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say,

       And half succeeded, failing utterly.

       Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child

       That looks in every eye; fearless of ill,

       Because she knew it not; and brave withal,

       Because she led a simple country life,

       And loved the animals. Her father's house—

       A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name—

       Was distant but two miles among the hills;

       Yet oft as she had passed his father's farm,

       The youth had never seen her face before,

       And should not twice. Yet was it not enough?

       The vision tarried. She, as the harvest moon

       That goeth on her way, and knoweth not

       The fields of corn whose ripening grain she fills

       With strength of life, and hope, and joy for men,

       Went on her way, and knew not of the virtue

       Gone out of her; yea, never thought of him,

       Save at such times when, all at once, old scenes

       Return uncalled, with wonder that they come.

       Soon was she orphaned of her sheltering hills,

       And rounded with dead glitter, СКАЧАТЬ