The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
Полная версияThe poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
Полная версия:
The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
PART II
I
A gloomy and a windy day! No sunny spot is bare; Dull vapours, in uncomely play, Go weltering through the air: If through the windows of my mind I let them come and go, My thoughts will also in the wind Sweep restless to and fro. I drop my curtains for a dream.— What comes? A mighty swan, With plumage like a sunny gleam, And folded airy van! She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent By sea-maids to my shore, With stately head proud-humbly bent, And slackening swarthy oar. Lone in a vaulted rock I lie, A water-hollowed cell, Where echoes of old storms go by, Like murmurs in a shell. The waters half the gloomy way Beneath its arches come; Throbbing to outside billowy play, The green gulfs waver dumb. Undawning twilights through the cave In moony glimmers go, Half from the swan above the wave, Half from the swan below, As to my feet she gently drifts Through dim, wet-shiny things, And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts The shoulders of her wings. Old earth is rich with many a nest Of softness ever new, Deep, delicate, and full of rest— But loveliest there are two: I may not tell them save to minds That are as white as they; But none will hear, of other kinds— They all are turned away. On foamy mounds between the wings Of a white sailing swan, A flaky bed of shelterings, There you will find the one. The other—well, it will not out, Nor need I tell it you; I've told you one, and can you doubt, When there are only two? Fill full my dream, O splendid bird! Me o'er the waters bear: Never was tranquil ocean stirred By ship so shapely fair! Nor ever whiteness found a dress In which on earth to go, So true, profound, and rich, unless It was the falling snow! Her wings, with flutter half-aloft, Impatient fan her crown; I cannot choose but nestle soft Into the depth of down. With oary-pulsing webs unseen, Out the white frigate sweeps; In middle space we hang, between The air- and ocean-deeps. Up the wave's mounting, flowing side, With stroke on stroke we rack; As down the sinking slope we slide, She cleaves a talking track— Like heather-bells on lonely steep, Like soft rain on the glass, Like children murmuring in their sleep, Like winds in reedy grass. Her white breast heaving like a wave, She beats the solemn time; With slow strong sweep, intent and grave, Hearkens the ripples rime. All round, from flat gloom upward drawn, I catch the gleam, vague, wide, With which the waves, from dark to dawn, Heave up the polished side. The night is blue; the stars aglow Crowd the still, vaulted steep, Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow Of the self-murmurous deep— A thicker night, with gathered moan! A dull dethroned sky! The shadows of its stars alone Left in to know it by! What faints across yon lifted loop Where the west gleams its last? With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group Of Nereids dreaming past. Row on, fair swan;—who knows but I, Ere night hath sought her cave, May see in splendour pale float by The Venus of the wave!II
A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her, A glory that deepened and grew, A song of colour and odour That thrilled her through and through: 'Twas a dream of too much gladness Ever to see the light; They are only dreams of sadness That weary out the night. Slow darkness began to rifle The nest of the sunset fair; Dank vapour began to stifle The scents that enriched the air; The flowers paled fast and faster, They crumbled, leaf and crown, Till they looked like the stained plaster Of a cornice fallen down. And the change crept nigh and nigher, Inward and closer stole, Till the flameless, blasting fire Entered and withered her soul.— But the fiends had only flouted Her vision of the night; Up came the morn and routed The darksome things with light. Wide awake I have often been in it— The dream that all is none; It will come in the gladdest minute And wither the very sun. Two moments of sad commotion, One more of doubt's palsied rule— And the great wave-pulsing ocean Is only a gathered pool; A flower is a spot of painting, A lifeless, loveless hue; Though your heart be sick to fainting It says not a word to you; A bird knows nothing of gladness, Is only a song-machine; A man is a reasoning madness, A woman a pictured queen! Then fiercely we dig the fountain: Oh! whence do the waters rise? Then panting we climb the mountain: Oh! are there indeed blue skies? We dig till the soul is weary, Nor find the water-nest out; We climb to the stone-crest dreary, And still the sky is a doubt! Let alone the roots of the fountain; Drink of the water bright; Leave the sky at rest on the mountain, Walk in its torrent of light; Although thou seest no beauty, Though widowed thy heart yet cries, With thy hands go and do thy duty, And thy work will clear thine eyes.III
A great church in an empty square, A haunt of echoing tones! Feet pass not oft enough to wear The grass between the stones. The jarring hinges of its gates A stifled thunder boom; The boding heart slow-listening waits, As for a coming doom. The door stands wide. With hideous grin, Like dumb laugh, evil, frore, A gulf of death, all dark within, Hath swallowed half the floor. Its uncouth sides of earth and clay O'erhang the void below; Ah, some one force my feet away, Or down I needs must go! See, see the horrid, crumbling slope! It breathes up damp and fust! What man would for his lost loves grope Amid the charnel dust! Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high! Methinks, with anguish dull, I enter by the empty eye Into a monstrous skull! Stumbling on what I dare not guess, Blind-wading through the gloom, Still down, still on, I sink, I press, To meet some awful doom. My searching hands have caught a door With iron clenched and barred: Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core, Grim Death keeps watch and ward! Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed, As if a ghastly wind, That never bore a leaf or cloud, Were pressing hard behind. They shake, they groan, they outward strain: What thing of dire dismay Will freeze its form upon my brain, And fright my soul away? They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack; The bars, the doors divide; A flood of glory at their back Hath burst the portals wide! In flows a summer afternoon; I know the very breeze! It used to blow the silvery moon About the summer trees. The gulf is filled with flashing tides; Blue sky through boughs looks in; Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides A mazy arras spin. The empty church, the yawning cleft, The earthy, dead despair Are gone, and I alive am left In sunshine and in air!IV
Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly Through the ivory wicket creep; Then suddenly the inward eye Sees them outside the sleep. Once, wandering in the border gray, I spied one past me swim; I caught it on its truant way To nowhere in the dim. All o'er a steep of grassy ground, Lay ruined statues old, Such forms as never more are found Save deep in ancient mould, A host of marble Anakim Shattered in deadly fight! Oh, what a wealth one broken limb Had been to waking sight! But sudden, the weak mind to mock That could not keep its own, Without a shiver or a shock, Behold, the dream was gone! For each dim form of marble rare Stood broken rush or reed; So bends on autumn field, long bare, Some tall rain-battered weed. The shapeless night hung empty, drear, O'er my scarce slumbering head; There is no good in staying here, My spirit moaned, and fled.V
The simplest joys that daily pass Grow ecstasies in sleep; A wind on heights of waving grass In a dream has made me weep. No wonder then my heart one night Was joy-full to the brim: I was with one whose love and might Had drawn me close to him! But from a church into the street Came pouring, crowding on, A troubled throng with hurrying feet, And Lo, my friend was gone! Alone upon a miry road I walked a wretched plain; Onward without a goal I strode Through mist and drizzling rain. Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits, And brick-fields scarred the globe; Those wastes where desolation sits Without her ancient robe. The dreariness, the nothingness Grew worse almost than fear; If ever hope was needful bliss, Hope sure was needful here! Did potent wish work joyous change Like wizard's glamour-spell? Wishes not always fruitless range, And sometimes it is well! I know not. Sudden sank the way, Burst in the ocean-waves; Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay, Red rocks and sounding caves! Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask— Shall earthly dreams, forsooth, Set the old Heavens too hard a task To match them with the truth?VI
Once more I build a dream, awake, Which sleeping I would dream; Once more an unborn fancy take And try to make it seem! Some strange delight shall fill my breast, Enticed from sleep's abyss, With sense of motion, yet of rest, Of sleep, yet waking bliss! It comes!—I lie on something warm That lifts me from below; It rounds me like a mighty arm Though soft as drifted snow. A dream, indeed!—Oh, happy me Whom Titan woman bears Afloat upon a gentle sea Of wandering midnight airs! A breeze, just cool enough to lave With sense each conscious limb, Glides round and under, like a wave Of twilight growing dim! She bears me over sleeping towns, O'er murmuring ears of corn; O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs, O'er moorland wastes forlorn. The harebells in the mountain-pass Flutter their blue about; The myriad blades of meadow grass Float scarce-heard music out. Over the lake!—ah! nearer float, Nearer the water's breast; Let me look deeper—let me doat Upon that lily-nest. Old homes we brush—in wood, on road; Their windows do not shine; Their dwellers must be all abroad In lovely dreams like mine! Hark—drifting syllables that break Like foam-bells on fleet ships! The little airs are all awake With softly kissing lips. Light laughter ripples down the wind, Sweet sighs float everywhere; But when I look I nothing find, For every star is there. O lady lovely, lady strong, Ungiven thy best gift lies! Thou bear'st me in thine arms along, Dost not reveal thine eyes! Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest, In darts a pang of loss: My outstretched hand, for hills of rest, Finds only mounds of moss! Faint and far off the stars appear; The wind begins to weep; 'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear, And all but me asleep!ROADSIDE POEMS
BETTER THINGS
Better to smell the violet Than sip the glowing wine; Better to hearken to a brook Than watch a diamond shine. Better to have a loving friend Than ten admiring foes; Better a daisy's earthy root Than a gorgeous, dying rose. Better to love in loneliness Than bask in love all day; Better the fountain in the heart Than the fountain by the way. Better be fed by mother's hand Than eat alone at will; Better to trust in God, than say, My goods my storehouse fill. Better to be a little wise Than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil To fill perfection's round. Better to sit at some man's feet Than thrill a listening state; Better suspect that thou art proud Than be sure that thou art great. Better to walk the realm unseen Than watch the hour's event; Better the Well done, faithful slave! Than the air with shoutings rent. Better to have a quiet grief Than many turbulent joys; Better to miss thy manhood's aim Than sacrifice the boy's. Better a death when work is done Than earth's most favoured birth; Better a child in God's great house Than the king of all the earth.AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT
My wife contrived a fleecy thing Her husband to infold, For 'tis the pride of woman still To cover from the cold: My daughter made it a new text For a sermon very old. The child came trotting to her side, Ready with bootless aid: "Lily make veckit for papa," The tiny woman said: Her mother gave the means and ways, And a knot upon her thread. "Mamma, mamma!—it won't come through!" In meek dismay she cried. Her mother cut away the knot, And she was satisfied, Pulling the long thread through and through, In fabricating pride. Her mother told me this: I caught A glimpse of something more: Great meanings often hide behind The little word before! And I brooded over my new text Till the seed a sermon bore. Nannie, to you I preach it now— A little sermon, low: Is it not thus a thousand times, As through the world we go? Do we not tug, and fret, and cry— Instead of Yes, Lord—No? While all the rough things that we meet Which will not move a jot, The hindrances to heart and feet, The Crook in every Lot, Mean plainly but that children's threads Have at the end a knot. This world of life God weaves for us, Nor spares he pains or cost, But we must turn the web to clothes And shield our hearts from frost: Shall we, because the thread holds fast, Count labour vain and lost? If he should cut away the knot, And yield each fancy wild, The hidden life within our hearts— His life, the undefiled— Would fare as ill as I should fare From the needle of my child. As tack and sheet unto the sail, As to my verse the rime, As mountains to the low green earth— So hard for feet to climb, As call of striking clock amid The quiet flow of time, As sculptor's mallet to the birth Of the slow-dawning face, As knot upon my Lily's thread When she would work apace, God's Nay is such, and worketh so For his children's coming grace. Who, knowing God's intent with him, His birthright would refuse? What makes us what we have to be Is the only thing to choose: We understand nor end nor means, And yet his ways accuse! This is my sermon. It is preached Against all fretful strife. Chafe not with anything that is, Nor cut it with thy knife. Ah! be not angry with the knot That holdeth fast thy life.LITTLE ELFIE
I have a puppet-jointed child, She's but three half-years old; Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild With looks both shy and bold. Like little imps, her tiny hands Dart out and push and take; Chide her—a trembling thing she stands, And like two leaves they shake. But to her mind a minute gone Is like a year ago; And when you lift your eyes anon, Anon you must say No! Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, She has her sleepless fits; Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair The elfish mortal sits;— Where, if by chance in mood more grave, A hermit she appears Propped in the opening of his cave, Mummied almost with years; Or like an idol set upright With folded legs for stem, Ready to hear prayers all the night And never answer them. But where's the idol-hermit thrust? Her knees like flail-joints go! Alternate kiss, her mother must, Now that, now this big toe! I turn away from her, and write For minutes three or four: A tiny spectre, tall and white, She's standing by the door! Then something comes into my head That makes me stop and think: She's on the table, the quadruped, And dabbling in my ink! O Elfie, make no haste to lose Thy ignorance of offence! Thou hast the best gift I could choose, A heavenly confidence. 'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, To put you in the ark! Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb, Sleep shining through the dark.RECIPROCITY
