The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I by George MacDonald

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[JOSEPH _goes. Sounds approach_.]

Farewell, Lilia!

[_Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone_.]

Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me.
My presence would but bring down evil on you,
My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear,
The terrible things that you have imaged out
If you fled with me. They will not hurt you,
If you be not polluted by my presence.

[_Light from without flares on the wall_.]

They've fired the gate.

[_An outburst of mingled cries_.]

_Steward_
(_entering_).
They've fired the gate, my lord!

_Julian_.
Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph.
You and old Agata tell all the truth,
And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me;
I shall be safe--you know me--never fear.

_Steward_.
God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord!

[_Is going_.]

_Julian_.
But add, it was in vain; the signorina
Would not consent; therefore I fled alone.

[LILIA _stands as before_.]

_Steward_.
Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master!

[Goes.]

_Julian_.
Put your arms round me once, my Lilia.
Not once?--not once at parting?

[_Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries_.]

O God! farewell!

[_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the
panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both
behind him_. LILIA _starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment,
and flies after him, but forgets to close
the panel_.]

_Lilia_.
Julian! Julian!

[_The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door
of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of
the mob_.]

_1st_.
I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still!

_2nd_.
Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his
own. Look under the bed, Gian.

_3rd_.
Nothing there.

_4th_.
Another door! another door! He's in a trap
now, and will soon be in hell! (_Opening the door with
difficulty_.) The devil had better leave him, and make up
the fire at home--he'll be cold by and by. (_Rushes into
the inner room_.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.]

_Voices from within_.
I have him! I have him! Curse
your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You
won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you.
Bring the light there, will you? (_One runs out for the
light_.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall!
The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles!

[_Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with
torches and follow_.]

* * * * *

SCENE XIX.--_The river-side_. LILIA _seated in the boat_; JULIAN
_handing her the bags_.

_Julian_.
There! One at a time!--Take care, love; it
is heavy.--
Put them right in the middle, of the boat:
Gold makes good ballast.

[_A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose,
then pushes gently off_.]

Look how the torches gleam
Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped!

[_He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with
cries of search_.]

(_In a low tone_.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length
In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white,
And would return the torches' glare. I fear
The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this.

[_Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her_.]

Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars!
The water mutters Spanish in its sleep.
My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife!
God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults,
Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!--
Once round the headland, I will set the sail;
The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream.
Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all,
White angel lying in my little boat!
Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm,
Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks,
Should make me rich with womanhood and life!

[_The boat rounds the headland_, JULIAN _singing_.]

SONG.

Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife,
Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled;
Unresting yet, though folded up from life;
Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind,
O cover me with kisses of her mouth;
Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind;
To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing
From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea;
Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing,
Us to a new love-lit futurity:
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

PART III.

And weep not, though the Beautiful decay
Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes;
Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies,
Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay.
Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away;
Her form departs not, though her body dies.
Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies,
Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day,
Through the kind nurture of the winter cold.
Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive
The summer-time, when roses were alive;
Do thou thy work--be willing to be old:
Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold
A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive.

Time: _Five years later_.

SCENE I.--_Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single
candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib_. JULIAN
_sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks
older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer_.

_Julian_.
What is this? let me see; 'tis called _The Singer_:

"Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At
length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the
Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what
he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body,
spake as follows:--"

"Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and
there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near
the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and
above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and
strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a
rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining
between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who
had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: 'What wouldst thou
sing unto us, young man?' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: 'A
song which I have made for my singing.' 'Come, then, and I will lead
thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.' From the assembly
came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose
eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom
he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the
youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a
dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was
a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide
within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw,
far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His
guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of
the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men
leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a
far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they,
I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a
windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it
seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard
a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it
was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat
down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I
ventured to question him. 'Sir,' I said, 'wilt thou tell me what it
means?' And he answered me thus: 'The youth desired to sing to the
Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who
cannot be the hero of his tale--who cannot live the song that he
sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to
take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where
God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of
his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The
sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal;
and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could
not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove
well and overcame. We await the next.' A deep sleep seemed to fall
upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their
eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it
likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that
of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled
within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my
son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary
step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave
hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and
said unto him: 'Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what
songs thou wilt.' Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: 'He hath
told his tale to the Immortals.'"

[_He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and
walks up and down the room_.]

And so five years have poured their silent streams,
Flowing from fountains in eternity,
Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf,
Hath swallowed them; whose living caves they feed;
And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept.
And now the day draws nigh when Christ was born;
The day that showed how like to God himself
Man had been made, since God could be revealed
By one that was a man with men, and still
Was one with God the Father; that men might
By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to God,
Who had come near to them in tenderness.
O God! I thank thee for the friendly eye
That oft hath opened on me these five years;
Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit
That let me know thy thought was toward me;
Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years,
Telling what converse I should hold with God.
I thank thee for the sorrow and the care,
Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent sparks
Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which
Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee.
Five years ago, I prayed in agony
That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not then,
With that close speech I craved so hungrily.
Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart;
And thou wast all the time instructing me
To know the language of thy inmost speech.
I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour
Thou spakest every word my heart could hear,
Though oft I did not know it was thy voice.
My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul;
As if a world far-off in depths of space,
Chaotic, had implored that it might shine
Straightway in sunlight as the morning star.
My soul must be more pure ere it could hold
With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart
That shall see God. As if a well that lay
Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown
Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass
Over its surface, could give back the sun!
Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield
Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven!
And though I am not yet come near to him,
I know I am more nigh; and am content
To walk a long and weary road to find
My father's house once more. Well may it be
A long and weary--I had wandered far.
My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me.
I am content, rejoicing to go on,
Even when my home seems very far away;
For over grief, and aching emptiness,
And fading hopes, a higher joy arises.
In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright,
High overhead, through folds and folds of space;
It is the earnest-star of all my heavens;
And tremulous in the deep well of my being
Its image answers, gazing eagerly.

Alas, my Lilia!--But I'll think of Jesus,
Not of thee now; him who hath led my soul
Thus far upon its journey home to God.
By poor attempts to do the things he said,
Faith has been born; free will become a fact;
And love grown strong to enter into his,
And know the spirit that inhabits there.
One day his truth will spring to life in me,
And make me free, as God says "I am free."
When I am like him, then my soul will dawn
With the full glory of the God revealed--
Full as to me, though but one beam from him;
The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it:
In his light I shall see light. God can speak,
Yea, _will_ speak to me then, and I shall hear.
Not yet like him, how can I hear his words?

[_Stopping by the crib, and bending over the child_.]

My darling child! God's little daughter, drest
In human clothes, that light may thus be clad
In shining, so to reach my human eyes!
Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth,
To call me _father_, that my heart may know
What father means, and turn its eyes to God!
Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me,
How all unfit this heart of mine to have
The guardianship of a bright thing like thee,
Come to entice, allure me back to God
By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home,
And radiating of thy purity
Into my stained heart; which unto thee
Shall ever show the father, answering
The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes.
O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways,
All ignorant of wherefore thou art come,
And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward,
Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light
And pour it forth on me! God bless his own!

[_He resumes his walk, singing in a low voice_.]

My child woke crying from her sleep;
I bended o'er her bed,
And soothed her, till in slumber deep
She from the darkness fled.

And as beside my child I stood,
A still voice said in me--
"Even thus thy Father, strong and good,
Is bending over thee."

SCENE II.--_Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers;
gentlemen looking on_.

1_st Gentleman_.
Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves
As if her body were instinct with thought,
Moulded to motion by the music's waves,
As floats the swan upon the swelling lake;
Or as in dreams one sees an angel move,
Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air,
Then folding them, and turning on his track.

2_nd_.
You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it;
She is a glorious woman; and such eyes!
Think--to be loved by such a woman now!

1_st_.
You have seen her, then, before: what is her name?

2_nd_.
I saw her once; but could not learn her name.

3_rd_.
She is the wife of an Italian count,
Who for some cause, political I think,
Took refuge in this country. His estates
The Church has eaten up, as I have heard:
Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach.

2_nd_.
How do they live?

3_rd_.
Poorly, I should suppose;
For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons:
That's how they know her.--Ah, you should hear her sing!

2_nd_.
If she sings as she looks or as she dances,
It were as well for me I did not hear.

3_rd_.
If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford
To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth.

SCENE III.--_Julian's room_. LILY _asleep_.

_Julian_.
I wish she would come home. When the child wakes,
I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest
On me, then wander searching through the room,
And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia!
'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go
From this dull place, and for a few short hours
Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee;
For thou art very young for such hard things
As poor men's wives in cities must endure.

I am afraid the thought is not at rest,
But rises still, that she is not my wife--
Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child
Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead,
She thinks I have begun to think the same--
Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin
Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia!
When every time I pray, I pray that God
Would look and see that thou and I be one!

_Lily_
(_starting up in her crib_).
Oh, take me! take me!

_Julian_
(_going up to her with a smile_).
What is the matter with my little child?

_Lily_.
I don't know, father; I was very frightened.

_Julian_.
'Twas nothing but a dream. Look--I am with you.

_Lily_.
I am wake now; I know you're there; but then
I did not know it.

[_Smiling_.]

_Julian_.
Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again.

_Lily_
(_beseechingly_).
Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again;
It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up,
And let me sit upon your knee.--Where's mother?
I cannot see her.

_Julian_.
She's not at home, my child;
But soon she will be back.

_Lily_.
But if she walk
Out in the dark streets--so dark, it will catch her.

_Julian_.
She will not walk--but what would catch her, sweet?

_Lily_.
I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes.

_Julian_
(_taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire_).
Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you
A story I have read this very night.

[_She looks in his face_.]

There was a man who had a little boy,
And when the boy grew big, he went and asked
His father to give him a purse of money.
His father gave him such a large purse full!
And then he went away and left his home.
You see he did not love his father much.

_Lily_.
Oh! didn't he?--If he had, he wouldn't have gone!

_Julian_.
Away he went, far far away he went,
Until he could not even spy the top
Of the great mountain by his father's house.
And still he went away, away, as if
He tried how far his feet could go away;
Until he came to a city huge and wide,
Like London here.

_Lily_.
Perhaps it was London.

_Julian_.
Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent
All, all his father's money, buying things
That he had always told him were not worth,
And not to buy them; but he would and did.

_Lily_.
How very naughty of him!

_Julian_.
Yes, my child.
And so when he had spent his last few pence,
He grew quite hungry. But he had none left
To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce;
Nobody gave him any. He had been
Always so idle, that he could not work.
But at last some one sent him to feed swine.

_Lily_.
_Swine_! Oh!

_Julian_.
Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do;
And he was glad to eat some of their food.

[_She stares at him_.]

But at the last, hunger and waking love
Made him remember his old happy home.
"How many servants in my father's house
Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go
And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father;
I am not worthy to be called your son;
Put me among your servants, father, please.'"
Then he rose up and went; but thought the road
So much, much farther to walk back again,
When he was tired and hungry. But at last
He saw the blue top of the great big hill
That stood beside his father's house; and then
He walked much faster. But a great way off,
His father saw him coming, lame and weary
With his long walk; and very different
From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging
In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes--

[_She bursts into tears_.]

_Lily_
(_sobbing_).
Like that poor beggar I saw yesterday?

_Julian_.
Yes, my dear child.

_Lily_.
And was he dirty too?

_Julian_.
Yes, very dirty; he had been so long
Among the swine.

_Lily_.
Is it all true though, father?

_Julian_.
Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far
Than you can think.

_Lily_.
What was his father like?

_Julian_.
A tall, grand, stately man.

_Lily_.
Like you, dear father?

_Julian_.
Like me, only much grander.

_Lily_.
I love you
The best though.

[_Kissing him_.]

_Julian_.
Well, all dirty as he was,
And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes,
His father knew him, the first look, far off,
And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms
Around his neck and kissed him.

_Lily_.
Oh, how dear!
I love him too;--but not so well as you.

[_Sound of a carriage drawing up_.]

_Julian_.
There is your mother.

_Lily_.
I am glad, so glad!

_Enter_ LILIA, _looking pale_.

_Lilia_.
You naughty child, why are you not in bed?

_Lily_
(_pouting_).
I am not naughty. I am afraid to go,
Because you don't go with me into sleep;
And when I see things, and you are not there,
Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out,
And stretch my hands, and so I come awake.
Come with me into sleep, dear mother; come.

_Lilia_.
What a strange child it is! There! (_kissing her_) go to bed.

[_Lays her down_.]

_Julian_
(_gazing on the child_).
As thou art in thy dreams without thy mother,
So are we lost in life without our God.

SCENE IV.--LILIA _in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in the
street; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and ceiling_.

_Lilia_.
Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time
My thoughts would wander to my dreary home.
Through every dance, my soul walked evermore
In a most dreary dance through this same room.
I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard,
As now, his measured step in the next chamber,
Go pacing up and down, and I shut out!
He is too good for me, I weak for him.
Yet if he put his arms around me once,
And held me fast as then, kissed me as then,
My soul, I think, would come again to me,
And pass from me in trembling love to him.
But he repels me now. He loves me, true,--
Because I am his wife: he ought to love me!
Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty.
Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid,
Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven,
He used me like a slave bought in the market!
Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own;
And words of tenderness would falter in,
Relenting from the sternness of command.
But I am not enough for him: he needs
Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him.
So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me
Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones.
Italian lovers love not so; but he
Has German blood in those great veins of his.
He never brings me now a little flower.
He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child;
But never sings to me what the voice-bird
Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest.
I would I were his child, and not his wife!
How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts
Fit to be women to his mighty men;
And he would love them, if he saw them once.

Ah! there they come, the visions of my land!
The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs
Purple above the blue waves at their feet!
Down the full river comes a light-blue sail;
And down the near hill-side come country girls,
Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits;
Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad
For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment
At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought;
And to their side come stately, youthful forms,
Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:--
Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day.
Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look
With pity on their poor contentedness;
For he sits at the helm, I at his feet.
He sung a song, and I replied to him.
His song was of the wind that blew us down
From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea.
Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea,
Where I should cry for comforting in vain,
Was the expanse of his wide awful soul,
To which that wind was helpless drifting me!
I would he were less great, and loved me more.
I sung to him a song, broken with sighs,
For even then I feared the time to come:
"O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now?
And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?"
Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart.
"And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend,
And suck my soul in vapours up to thee?
Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours.
Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I
In the warm valley, with the lily pale,
Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves;
Where odours are the sole invisible clouds,
Making the heart weep for deliciousness.
Will thy eternal mountain always bear
Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot?
Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow,
The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head,
Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door,
And goest from me into loneliness."
Ah me, my song! it is a song no more!
He is alone amid his windy rocks;
I wandering on a low and dreary plain!

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