The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2, George MacDonald [8 ebook reader TXT] 📗

eyes flashed fire. The trembling maiden heard a sudden tread- Dull, yet plain dinted on the windy gyre, As if long, wet feet o'er smooth pavement sped- Come fiercely up, as driven by longing dire To enter; followed sounds of hurried rout: With bristling hair, the hounds stood looking out.

Then came, half querulous, a whisper old, Feeble and hollow as if shut in a chest: "Take my face on your bosom; I am cold." She bared her holy bosom's truth-white nest, And forth her two hands instant went, love-bold, And took the face, and close against her pressed: Ah, the dead chill!-Was that the feet again?- But her great heart kept beating for the twain.

She heard the wind fall, heard the following rain Swelling the silent waters till their sound Went wallowing through the night along the plain. The lamp went out, by the slow darkness drowned. Must the fair dawn a thousand years refrain? Like centuries the feeble hours went round. Eternal night entombed her with decay: To her live soul she clasped the breathless clay.

The world stood still. Her life sank down so low That but for wretchedness no life she knew. A charnel wind moaned out a moaning- No ; From the devouring heart of earth it blew. Fair memories lost all their sunny glow: Out of the dark the forms of old friends grew But so transparent blanched with dole and smart She saw the pale worm lying in each heart.

And, worst of all-Oh death of keep-fled life! A voice within her woke and cried: In sooth Vain is all sorrow, hope, and care, and strife! Love and its beauty, its tenderness and truth Are shadows bred in hearts too fancy-rife, Which melt and pass with sure-decaying youth: Regard them, and they quiver, waver, blot; Gaze at them fixedly, and they are not.

And all the answer the poor child could make Was in the tightened clasp of arms and hands. Hopeless she lay, like one Death would not take But still kept driving from his empty lands, Yet hopeless held she out for his dear sake; The darksome horror grew like drifting sands Till nought was precious-neither God nor light, And yet she braved the false, denying night.

So dead was hope, that, when a glimmer weak Stole through a fissure somewhere in the cave, Thinning the clotted darkness on his cheek, She thought her own tired eyes the glimmer gave: He moved his head; she saw his eyes, love-meek, And knew that Death was dead and filled the Grave. Old age, convicted lie, had fled away! Youth, Youth eternal, in her bosom lay!

With a low cry closer to him she crept And on his bosom hid a face that glowed: It was his turn to comfort-he had slept! Oh earth and sky, oh ever patient God, She had not yielded, but the truth had kept! New love, new bliss in weeping overflowed. I can no farther tell the tale begun; They are asleep, and waiting for the sun.


THE LOST SOUL .

Look! look there! Send your eyes across the gray By my finger-point away Through the vaporous, fumy air. Beyond the air, you see the dark? Beyond the dark, the dawning day? On its horizon, pray you, mark Something like a ruined heap Of worlds half-uncreated, that go back: Down all the grades through which they rose Up to harmonious life and law's repose, Back, slow, to the awful deep Of nothingness, mere being's lack: On its surface, lone and bare, Shapeless as a dumb despair, Formless, nameless, something lies: Can the vision in your eyes Its idea recognize?

'Tis a poor lost soul, alack!- Half he lived some ages back; But, with hardly opened eyes, Thinking him already wise, Down he sat and wrote a book; Drew his life into a nook; Out of it would not arise To peruse the letters dim, Graven dark on his own walls; Those, he judged, were chance-led scrawls, Or at best no use to him. A lamp was there for reading these; This he trimmed, sitting at ease, For its aid to write his book, Never at his walls to look- Trimmed and trimmed to one faint spark Which went out, and left him dark.- I will try if he can hear Spirit words with spirit ear!

Motionless thing! who once, Like him who cries to thee, Hadst thy place with thy shining peers, Thy changeful place in the changeless dance Issuing ever in radiance From the doors of the far eternity, With feet that glitter and glide and glance To the music-law that binds the free, And sets the captive at liberty- To the clang of the crystal spheres! O heart for love! O thirst to drink From the wells that feed the sea! O hands of truth, a human link 'Twixt mine and the Father's knee! O eyes to see! O soul to think! O life, the brother of me! Has Infinitude sucked back all The individual life it gave? Boots it nothing to cry and call? Is thy form an empty grave?

It heareth not, brothers, the terrible thing! Sounds no sense to its ear will bring! Let us away, 'tis no use to tarry; Love no light to its heart will carry! Sting it with words, it will never shrink; It will not repent, it cannot think! Hath God forgotten it, alas! Lost in eternity's lumber-room? Will the wind of his breathing never pass Over it through the insensate gloom? Like a frost-killed bud on a tombstone curled, Crumbling it lies on its crumbling world, Sightless and deaf, with never a cry, In the hell of its own vacuity!

See, see yon angel crossing our flight Where the thunder vapours loom, From his upcast pinions flashing the light Of some outbreaking doom! Up, brothers! away! a storm is nigh! Smite we the wing up a steeper sky! What matters the hail or the clashing winds, The thunder that buffets, the lightning that blinds! We know by the tempest we do not lie Dead in the pits of eternity!


THE THREE HORSES .

What shall I be?-I will be a knight
Walled up in armour black, With a sword of sharpness, a hammer of might.
And a spear that will not crack- So black, so blank, no glimmer of light
Will betray my darkling track.

Saddle my coal-black steed, my men,
Fittest for sunless work; Old Night is steaming from her den,
And her children gather and lurk; Bad things are creeping from the fen,
And sliding down the murk.

Let him go!-let him go! Let him plunge!-Keep away!
He's a foal of the third seal's brood! Gaunt with armour, in grim array
Of poitrel and frontlet-hood, Let him go, a living castle, away-
Right for the evil wood.

I and Ravenwing on the course,
Heavy in fighting gear- Woe to the thing that checks our force,
That meets us in career! Giant, enchanter, devil, or worse-
What cares the couched spear!

Slow through the trees zigzag I ride.
See! the goblins!-to and fro! From the skull of the dark, on either side,
See the eyes of a dragon glow! From the thickets the silent serpents glide-
I pass them, I let them go;

For somewhere in the evil night
A little one cries alone; An aged knight, outnumbered in fight,
But for me will be stricken prone; A lady with terror is staring white,
For her champion is overthrown.

The child in my arms, to my hauberk prest,
Like a trembling bird will cling; I will cover him over, in iron nest,
With my shield, my one steel wing, And bear him home to his mother's breast,
A radiant, rescued thing.

Spur in flank, and lance in rest,
On the old knight's foes I flash; The caitiffs I scatter to east and west
With clang and hurtle and crash; Leave them the law, as knaves learn it best,
In bruise, and breach, and gash.

The lady I lift on my panting steed;
On the pommel she holds my mace; Hand on bridle I gently lead
The horse at a gentle pace; The thickets with martel-axe I heed,
For the wood is an evil place.

What treasure is there in manly might
That hid in the bosom lies! Who for the crying will not fight
Had better be he that cries! A man is a knight that loves the right
And mounts for it till he dies.

Alas, 'tis a dream of ages hoar!
In the fens no dragons won; No giants from moated castles roar;
Through the forest wide roadways run; Of all the deeds they did of yore
Not one is left to be done!

If I should saddle old Ravenwing
And hie me out at night, Scared little birds away would spring
An ill-shot arrow's flight: The idle fancy away I fling,
Now I will dream aright!

Let a youth bridle Twilight, my dapple-gray,
With broad rein and snaffle bit; He must bring him round at break of day
When the shadows begin to flit, When the darkness begins to dream away,
And the owls begin to sit.

Ungraithed in plate or mail I go,
With only my sword-gray-blue Like the scythe of the dawning come to mow
The night-sprung shadows anew From the gates of the east, that, fair and slow,
Maid Morning may walk through.

I seek no forest with darkness grim,
To the open land I ride; Low light, from the broad horizon's brim,
Lies wet on the flowing tide, And mottles with shadows dun and dim
The mountain's rugged side.

Steadily, hasteless, o'er valley and hill.
O'er the moor, along the beach, We ride, nor slacken our pace until
Some city of men we reach; There, in the market, my horse stands still,
And I lift my voice and preach.

Wealth and poverty, age and youth
Around me gather and throng; I tell them of justice, of wisdom, of truth,
Of mercy, and law, and wrong; My words are moulded by right and ruth
To a solemn-chanted song.

They bring me questions which would be scanned,
That strife may be forgot; Swerves my balance to neither hand,
The poor I favour no jot; If a man withstand, out sweeps my brand.
I slay him upon the spot.

But what if my eye have in it a beam
And therefore spy his mote? Righteousness only, wisdom supreme
Can tell the sheep from the goat! Not thus I dream a wise man's dream,
Not thus take Wrong by the throat!

Lead Twilight home. I dare not kill;
The sword myself would scare.- When the sun looks over the eastern hill,
Bring out my snow-white mare: One labour is left which no one will
Deny me the right to share!

Take heed, my men, from crest to heel