The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ His mother's cheek with triumph burned,

       And expectation wore.

      He knew the prayer her bosom housed,

       He read it in her eyes;

       Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused

       Ere yet her words arise.

      "They have no wine!" she, halting, said,

       Her prayer but half begun;

       Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head,

       Show what thou art, my son!"

      A vision rose before his eyes,

       The cross, the waiting tomb,

       The people's rage, the darkened skies,

       His unavoided doom:

      Ah woman dear, thou must not fret

       Thy heart's desire to see!

       His hour of honour is not yet—

       'Twill come too soon for thee!

      His word was dark; his tone was kind;

       His heart the mother knew;

       His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined;

       They gave her heart the cue.

      Another, on the word intent,

       Had read refusal there;

       She heard in it a full consent,

       A sweetly answered prayer.

      "Whate'er he saith unto you, do."

       Out flowed his grapes divine;

       Though then, as now, not many knew

       Who makes the water wine.

      IV.

      "He is beside himself!" Dismayed,

       His mother, brothers talked:

       He from the well-known path had strayed

       In which their fathers walked!

      With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud

       Some one the message bore:—

       He stands within, amid a crowd,

       They at the open door:—

      "Thy mother and thy brothers would

       Speak with thee. Lo, they stand

       Without and wait thee!" Like a flood

       Of sunrise on the land,

      A new-born light his face o'erspread;

       Out from his eyes it poured;

       He lifted up that gracious head,

       Looked round him, took the word:

      "My mother—brothers—who are they?"

       Hearest thou, Mary mild?

       This is a sword that well may slay—

       Disowned by thy child!

      Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear—

       They are our humble lord's!

       O mother, did they wound thy ear?— We thank him for the words.

      "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say,

       Stretching his hand abroad,

       "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they

       That do the will of God!"

      My brother! Lord of life and me, If life might grow to this!— Would it not, brother, sister, be Enough for all amiss?

      Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice:

       Thou art his mother still,

       But may'st be more—of thy own choice

       Doing his Father's will.

      Ambition for thy son restrain,

       Thy will to God's will bow:

       Thy son he shall be yet again.

       And twice his mother thou.

      O humble man, O faithful son!

       That woman most forlorn

       Who yet thy father's will hath done,

       Thee, son of man, hath born!

      V.

      Life's best things gather round its close

       To light it from the door;

       When woman's aid no further goes,

       She weeps and loves the more.

      She doubted oft, feared for his life,

       Yea, feared his mission's loss;

       But now she shares the losing strife,

       And weeps beside the cross.

      The dreaded hour is come at last,

       The sword hath reached her soul;

       The hour of tortured hope is past,

       And gained the awful goal.

      There hangs the son her body bore,

       The limbs her arms had prest!

       The hands, the feet the driven nails tore

       Had lain upon her breast!

      He speaks; the words how faintly brief,

       And how divinely dear!

       The mother's heart yearns through its grief

       Her dying son to hear.

      "Woman, behold thy son.—Behold

       Thy mother." Blessed hest

       That friend to her torn heart to fold

       Who understood him best!

      Another son—ah, not instead!—

       He gave, СКАЧАТЬ