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

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

_Lord S_.
I never knew what illness was before.
O life! to think a man should stand so little
On his own will and choice, as to be thus
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone
From the rich world! No sense is left me more
To touch with beauty. Even she has faded
Into the far horizon, a spent dream
Of love and loss and passionate despair!

Is there no beauty? Is it all a show
Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves,
A reflex of well-ordered organism?
Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart
No more mysterious, no more beautiful,
Than I am to myself this ghastly moment?
It must be so--it _must_, except God is,
And means the meaning that we think we see,
Sends forth the beauty we are taking in.
O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if
There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower
Before it blew on any bank of spring,
Then all is untruth, unreality,
And we are wretched things; our highest needs
Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves;
And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts
Die with the voidness of the universe.

But if thou art, O God, then all is true;
Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes
Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain
Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams.
And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her!

O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned
Against thy beauty and thy graciousness!
That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine.
Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed
Before my eyes, a bright particular star:
Like foolish child, I reached out for the star,
Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content
That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee,
Mine to revere, though not to call my own.
Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia!

My love has taken vengeance on my love.
I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content.
Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find
That thou art not a phantom, but God's child;
That Beauty is, though it is not for me.
When I would hold it, then I disbelieved.
That I may yet believe, I will not touch it.
I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty,
Denying him in grasping at his work.

SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_.
LILY _gathering flowers and grass among the grass_.

_Julian_.
O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch,
Made ready for the weary! Everywhere,
O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children--
Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up,
Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom
Lie in the luxury of primeval peace,
Fearless of any morn; as a new babe
Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed:
That home of blessedness is all there is;
He never feels the silent rushing tide,
Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on,
Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness.
But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last
Ready for him when weary: well the green
Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn.
O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed
To which I bore thee with a nobler joy!
--Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream
Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain.

How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart
Was all so tender to thee! But I fear
My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed
With questions to be solved, before my face
Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me
Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain.
Ah, now I know I did not well for thee
In making thee my wife! I should have gone
Alone into eternity. I was
Too rough for thee, for any tender woman--
Other I had not loved--so full of fancies!
Too given to meditation. A deed of love
Is stronger than a metaphysic truth;
Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words.
Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it?
How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight--
For life must ever need the shows of life?
How fail to love a man so like thyself,
Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood?
I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones,
But never white flowers, rubied at the heart.
O God, forgive me; it is all my fault.
Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized,
Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty?
Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart,
And I have kept her like a caged seamew
Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead.
O God, my eyes are opening--fearfully:
I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride,
That kept me back from speaking all my soul.
I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst
Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never
Cast all my being, life and all, on hers,
In burning words of openness and truth?
Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love,
Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not
Have been content to minister and wait;
And if she answered not to my desires,
Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say,
Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower:
I gave not five years to a woman's soul!
Had I not drunk at last old wine of love?
I shut her love back on her lovely heart;
I did not shield her in the wintry day;
And she has withered up and died and gone.
God, let me perish, so thy beautiful
Be brought with gladness and with singing home.
If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow
To be her slave, and serve her with my soul.
I in my hand will take my heart, and burn
Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain.
I, I have ruined her--O God, save thou!

[_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up
to him, stumbling over the graves_.]

_Lily_.
Why do they make so many hillocks, father?
The flowers would grow without them.

_Julian_.
So they would.

_Lily_.
What are they for, then?

_Julian (aside_).
I wish I had not brought her;
She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all.

(_Aloud_).

'Tis where they lay them when the story's done.

_Lily_.
What! lay the boys and girls?

_Julian_.
Yes, my own child--
To keep them warm till it begin again.

_Lily_.
Is it dark down there?

[_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.]

_Julian_.
Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet!
For out of there come all the pretty flowers.

_Lily_.
Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk
That tries to touch the little frightened clouds?

_Julian_.
It did, my darling.--There's a door down there
That leads away to where the church is pointing.

[_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and
then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.]

SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_
LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD.

_Lady Gertrude_.
I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!

_Lord S_.
Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!

_Bern_.
I came on Lady Gertrude in the street.
I know not which of us was more surprised.

[LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.]

_Bern_.
Where is the countess?

_Lord S_.
Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.

_Bern_.
The Italian lady.

_Lord S_.
Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!

_Bern_.
I am glad indeed to know your ignorance;
For since I saw the count, I would not have you
Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head.

[LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.]

You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man's own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it--clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.

_Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_).
O God! what am I? My love burns like hate,
Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!

_Bern_.
What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?

_Enter_ Waiter.

_Lord S_.
Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly.

[_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.]

SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_.

_Lily_.
O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done.

[_He takes her on his knees_.]

I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds--white curtains, and white tassels.
--No, no, no--it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.

_Julian_.
You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.

_Lily_.
O will you keep me always, father dear?
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
Don't let it take me; do not let me go:
I cannot leave you, father--love hurts so.

_Julian_.
Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
And try to make you sleep?

_Lily_.
Yes--no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head!
Mother, mother, dear mother!--Sing to me, father.

[_He tries to sing_.]

Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on his throne, and man below.

But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love--for the love with its hurt alone.

Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;

Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
Love for love's sake, like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.

[_She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child
leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in
which he talks_.]

_Julian_.
A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
_Man with the heart, praying for woman's love,
Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
Take this or this_. O Heaven and Earth! I see--What
is it? Statue trembling into life
With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
I see her--where I know not; for I see
Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain--
God keep me!--in celestial nakedness.
She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
With large eyes full of longing, made intense
By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.

O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood--
Glory grown grace, divine to human grown?

I hear the voice again: _Speak but the word:
She will array herself and come to thee.
Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes,
Her earthly dress for work and weary rest_!
--I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep,
Close by the white foot of the wonderful.
It is the same shape, line for line, as she.
Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs.
Why speak I not the word?------Clothe thee, and come,
O infinite woman! my life faints for thee.

Once more the voice: _Stay! look on this side first:
I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man!
Choose then between them_. Ah! ah!

[_Silence_.]

Her I knew
Some ages gone; the woman who did sail
Down a long river with me to the sea;
Who gave her lips up freely to my lips,
Her body willingly into my arms;
Came down from off her statue-pedestal,
And was a woman in a common house,
Not beautified by fancy every day,
And losing worship by her gifts to me.
She gave me that white child--what came of her?
I have forgot.--I opened her great heart,
And filled it half-way to the brim with love--
With love half wine, half vinegar and gall--
And so--and so--she--went away and died?
O God! what was it?--something terrible--
I will not stay to choose, or look again
Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife,
The woman of the old time on the earth.
O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands,
Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain

If thou descend to earth, and find no man
To love thee purely, strongly, in his will,
Even as he loves the truth, because he will,
And when he cannot see it beautiful--
Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep.
Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come.

'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet!
In the same dress, same flowing of the hair,
As long ago, on earth: is her face changed?
Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower;
My dove descending rests upon thy head;
I bless and sanctify thee for my own:
Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee.

Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers!
She rises--turns it up from me to God,
With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!--the stars
Might find new orbits there, and be content.
O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure
Their opening must be prophecy or song!
A high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth!

Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk
That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;--
O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form,
With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet,
And hands with rosy palms--my own ideal!
The woman of _my_ world, with deeper eyes
Than I had power to think--and yet my Lilia,
My wife, with homely airs of earth about her,
And dearer to my heart as my lost wife,
Than to my soul as its new-found ideal!
Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel:
Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear.
Yea, all eternity--

[_He is roused by a cry from the child_.]

_Lily_.
Oh, father! put your arms close round about me.
Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear.
Now! I am better now.

[_She looks long and passionately in his face. Her
eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead_.]

SCENE XXII.--_A cottage-room_. LILIA _folding a letter_.

_Lilia_.
Now I have told him all; no word kept back
To burn within me like an evil fire.
And where I am, I have told him; and I wait
To know his will. What though he love me not,
If I love him!--I will go back to him,
And wait on him submissive. Tis enough
For one life, to be servant to that man!
It was but pride--at best, love stained with pride,
That drove me from him. He and my sweet child
Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart.
How lonely is my Lily all the day,
Till he comes home and makes her paradise!

I go to be his servant. Every word
That comes from him softer than a command,
I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart,
And serve him better for it.--He will receive me.

SCENE XXIII.--LILY _lying dead. JULIAN bending over her_.

_Julian_.
The light of setting suns be on thee, child!
Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns
Is on thee! Joy is with thee--God is Joy;
Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy;
Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy.
Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love.
Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy.

Children, they say, are born into a world
Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think,
Never hadst much of grief--thy second birth
Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief,
If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story,
And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God,
Let not my Lily turn away from me.

Now I am free to follow and find her.
Thy truer Father took thee home to him,
That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife.
I thank him for his gift of thee; for all
That thou hast taught me, blessed little child.
I love thee, dear, with an eternal love.
And now farewell!

[Kissing her.]

--no, not farewell; I come.
Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee.
Yes, they will also lead me on to her.

_Enter a Jew_.

_Jew_.
What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir.

_Julian_.
Walk into the next room; then look at this,
And tell me what you'll give for everything.

[Jew goes.]

My darling's death has made me almost happy.
Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again.
When I have laid my little one to rest
Among the flowers in that same sunny spot,
Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way;
And, calling up all old forgotten skill,
Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind,
I'll be a man once more in the loud world.
Revived experience in its winding ways,
Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love,
If all the world were sworn to secrecy,
Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death.
I'll follow my wife, follow until I die.
How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep,
Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me?
How find her in great Hades, if not here
In this poor little round O of a world?
I'll follow my wife, follow until I find.

_Re-enter_ Jew.

Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal.

_Jew_.
Let me see this room, too. The things are all
Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little.

_Julian_.
Say what you will--only make haste and go.

_Jew_.
Say twenty pounds?

_Julian_.
Well, fetch the money at once,
And take possession. But make haste, I pray.

SCENE XXIV.--_The country-churchyard_. JULIAN _standing by_ LILY'S
_new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill_.

_Julian_.
Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep;
Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child!
Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb
Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek
And find the wandering mother of my lamb.
I cannot weep; I know thee with me still.
Thou dost not find it very dark down there?
Would I could go to thee; I long to go;
My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too;
And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat.
O gladly would I come to thee, my child,
And lay my head upon thy little heart,
And sleep in the divine munificence
Of thy great love! But my night has not come;
She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one.

[_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising_.]

Now for the world--that's Italy, and her!

SCENE XXV.--_The empty room, formerly Lilia's_.

_Enter_ JULIAN.

_Julian_.
How am I here? Alas! I do not know.
I should have been at sea.--Ah, now I know!
I have come here to die.

[_Lies down on the floor_.]
Where's Lilia?
I cannot find her. She is here, I know.
But oh these endless passages and stairs,
And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia!
Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast,
But something holds me. Let me go, devil!
My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you.
You are God's child--they dare not touch you, wife.
O pardon me, my beautiful, my own!

[_Sings_.]

Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing
From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea;
Thou blowest to the sea ray 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.

[_While he sings, enter_ LORD SEAFORD, _pale and haggard_.]

JULIAN _descries him suddenly_.
What are you, man? O brother, bury me--
There's money in my pocket--

[_Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor_.]

by my child.

[_Staring at him_.]

Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse--
I will not walk--I'll ride. What, skeleton!
_I cannot sit him_! ha! ha! Hither, brute!
Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child,
And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up
With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes.
Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs,
Nor is there any maid to bind them on:

I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee.
Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!--we'll go.

_Lord Seaford (stooping over him_).
I am Seaford, Count.

_Julian_.

Seaford! What Seaford?

[_Recollecting_.]

_--Seaford_!

[_Springing to his feet_.]

Where is my wife?

[_He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down_.]

_Lord S_.
Had I seen _him_, she had been safe for me.

[_Goes_.]

[JULIAN _lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He
wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening_.]

_Julian_.
Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead.
I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God!

[_He is quiet a little_.]

So then thou didst not take the child away
That I might find my wife! Thy will be done.
Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire
I send away with grief, but willingly.
I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer:
Take thou thine own way, only lead her home.
Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might;
But thou art mighty, with a power unlike
All, all that we know by the name of power,
Transcending it as intellect transcends
'The stone upon the ground--it may be more,
For these are both created--thou creator,
Lonely, supreme.

Now it is almost over,
My spirit's journey through this strange sad world;
This part is done, whatever cometh next.
Morning and evening have made out their day;
My sun is going down in stormy dark,
But I will face it fearless.
The first act Is over of the drama.--Is it so?
What means this dim dawn of half-memories?

There's something I knew once and know not now!--
A something different from all this earth!
It matters little; I care not--only know
That God will keep the living thing he made.
How mighty must he be to have the right
Of swaying this great power I feel I am--
Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him!
O God, I come to thee! thou art my life;
O God, thou art my home; I come to thee.

Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up
Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see
But that which _is_, the living awful Truth--
All forms of which are but the sparks flung out
From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun,
Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me:
Christ said to Martha--"Whosoever liveth,
And doth believe in me, shall never die"!
I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door
Of God's wide theatre be open flung
To let me in. What marvels I shall see!
The expectation fills me, like new life
Dancing through all my veins.

Once more I thank thee
For all that thou hast made me--most of all,
That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee.
I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her;
Forget her not, my God. If thou save her,
I shall be able then to thank thee so
As will content thee--with full-flowing song,
The very bubbles on whose dancing waves
Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet.

My heart sinks in me.--I grow faint. Oh! whence
This wind of love that fans me out of life?
One stoops to kiss me!--Ah, my lily child!
God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall.

[_Re-enter_ LORD SEAFORD _with the doctor_. JULIAN _takes no
heed of them. The doctor shakes his head_.]

My little child, I'll never leave thee more;
We are both children now in God's big house.
Come, lead me; you are older here than I
By three whole days, my darling angel-child!

[_A letter is brought in_. LORD SEAFORD _holds it before_
JULIAN'S _eyes. He looks vaguely at it_.]

_Lord S_.
It is a letter from your wife, I think.

_Julian (feebly_).
A letter from my Lilia! Bury it with me--
I'll read it in my chamber, by and by:
Dear words should not be read with others nigh.
Lilia, my wife! I am going home to God.

_Lord S. (pending over him_).
Your wife is innocent. I _know_ she is.

JULIAN _gazes at him blankly. A light begins to grow in his
eyes. It grows till his face is transfigured. It vanishes.
He dies_.

PART V.

AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain
More than the Father's heart rich good invent?
Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent,
We know the primrose time will come again;
Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain.
Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent
Is confidence unto the Father lent:
Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain.
His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways
Other than thine, but by pure opulence
Of beauty infinite and love immense.
Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise,
A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays;
Nor other than thy need, thy recompense.

A DREAM.

SCENE I.--"_A world not realized_." LILY. _To her_ JULIAN.

_Lily_.
O father, come with me! I have found her--mother!

SCENE II.--_A room in a cottage_. LILIA _on her knees before a
crucifix. Her back only is seen, for the Poet dares not look on her
face. On a chair beside her lies a book, open at CHAPTER VIII.
Behind her stands an Angel, bending forward, as if to protect her
with his wings partly expanded. Appear_ JULIAN, _with_ LILY _in his
arms_. LILY _looks with love on the angel, and a kind of longing
fear on her mother_.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22