The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Its shame be clear descried.

      All idle hang her listless hands,

       They tingle with her shame;

       She sees not who beside her stands,

       She is so bowed with blame.

      He stoops, he writes upon the ground,

       Regards nor priests nor wife;

       An awful silence spreads around,

       And wakes an inward strife.

      Then comes a voice that speaks for thee,

       Pale woman, sore aghast:

       "Let him who from this sin is free

       At her the first stone cast!"

      Ah then her heart grew slowly sad!

       Her eyes bewildered rose;

       She saw the one true friend she had,

       Who loves her though he knows.

      He stoops. In every charnel breast

       Dead conscience rises slow:

       They, dumb before that awful guest,

       Turn, one by one, and go.

      Up in her deathlike, ashy face

       Rises the living red;

       No greater wonder sure had place

       When Lazarus left the dead!

      She is alone with him whose fear

       Made silence all around;

       False pride, false shame, they come not near,

       She has her saviour found!

      Jesus hath spoken on her side,

       Those cruel men withstood!

       From him her shame she will not hide!

       For him she will be good!

      He rose; he saw the temple bare;

       They two are left alone!

       He said unto her, "Woman, where

       Are thine accusers gone?"

      "Hath none condemned thee?" "Master, no,"

       She answers, trembling sore.

       "Neither do I condemn thee. Go,

       And sin not any more."

      She turned and went.—To hope and grieve?

       Be what she had not been?

       We are not told; but I believe

       His kindness made her clean.

      Our sins to thee us captive hale—

       Ambitions, hatreds dire;

       Cares, fears, and selfish loves that fail,

       And sink us in the mire:

      Our captive-cries with pardon meet;

       Our passion cleanse with pain;

       Lord, thou didst make these miry feet—

       Oh, wash them clean again!

      XIV.

       MARTHA.

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      With joyful pride her heart is high:

       Her humble house doth hold

       The man her nation's prophecy

       Long ages hath foretold!

      Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born:

       Her woman-soul is proud

       To know and hail the coming morn

       Before the eyeless crowd.

      At her poor table will he eat?

       He shall be served there

       With honour and devotion meet

       For any king that were!

      'Tis all she can; she does her part,

       Profuse in sacrifice;

       Nor dreams that in her unknown heart

       A better offering lies.

      But many crosses she must bear;

       Her plans are turned and bent;

       Do what she can, things will not wear

       The form of her intent.

      With idle hands and drooping lid,

       See Mary sit at rest!

       Shameful it was her sister did

       No service for their guest!

      Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot

       Must rule thy hands and eyes;

       Thou, all thy household cares forgot,

       Must sit as idly wise!

      But once more first she set her word

       To bar her master's ways,

       Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord,

       He hath been dead four days!"

      Her housewife-soul her brother dear

       Would fetter where he lies!

       Ah, did her buried best then hear,

       And with the dead man rise?

      XV.

       MARY.

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      I.

      She sitteth at the Master's feet

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