The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 17

"And he hears In his ears The voice of Life's river, Like a song Of the strong, Jubilant ever!

"Oh, the wine Of the vine May lead to the gates, But the rattle Of battle Wakes the angel who waits!

"To the lord Of the sword Open it must!

The drinker, The thinker Sits in the dust!

"He dreams Of the gleams Of their garments of white; He misses Their kisses, The maidens of light!

"They long For the strong Who has burst through alarms-- Up, by the labour Of stirrup and sabre, Up to their arms!

"Oh, the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost!

The wine of the fight is the joy of a host!"

When Saad came home from the far pursuit, An hour he sat, and an hour was mute.

Then he opened his mouth: "Ah, wife, the fight Had been lost full sure, but an arm of might Sudden rose up on the crest of the battle, Flashed blue lightnings, thundered steel rattle, Took up the fighting, and drove it on-- Enoch sure, or the good Saint John!

Wherever he leaped, like a lion he, The battle was thickest, or soon to be!

Wherever he sprang with his lion roar, In a minute the battle was there no more!

With a headlong fear, the sinners fled, And we swept them down the steep of the dead: Before us, not from us, did they flee, They ceased in the depths of a new Red Sea!

But him who saved us we saw no more; He went as he came, by a secret door!

And strangest of all--nor think I err If a miracle I for truth aver-- I was close to him thrice--the holy Force Wore my silver-ringed hauberk, rode Abdon my horse!"

The lady rose up, withholding her word, And led to the terrace her wondering lord, Where, song-soothed, and weary with battle strain, Abu Midjan sat counting the links of his chain: "The battle was raging, he raging worse; I freed him, harnessed him, gave him thy horse."

"Abu Midjan! the singer of love and of wine!

The arm of the battle, it also was thine?

Rise up, shake the irons from off thy feet: For the lord of the fight are fetters meet?

If thou wilt, then drink till thou be h.o.a.r: Allah shall judge thee; I judge no more!"

Abu Midjan arose; he flung aside The clanking fetters, and thus he cried: "If thou give me to G.o.d and his decrees, Nor purge my sin with the shame of these, Wrath against me I dare not store: In the name of Allah, I drink no more!"

_THE THANKLESS LADY_.

It is May, and the moon leans down at night Over a blossomy land; Leans from her window a lady white, With her cheek upon her hand.

"Oh, why in the blue so misty, moon?

Why so dull in the sky?

Thou look'st like one that is ready to swoon Because her tear-well is dry.

"Enough, enough of longing and wail!

Oh, bird, I pray thee, be glad!

Sing to me once, dear nightingale, The old song, merry mad.

"Hold, hold with thy blossoming, colourless, cold, Apple-tree white as woe!

Blossom yet once with the blossom of old, Let the roses shine through the snow!"

The moon and the blossoms they gloomily gleam, The bird will not be glad: The dead never speak when the mournful dream, They are too weak and sad.

Listened she listless till night grew late, Bound by a weary spell; Then clanked the latch of the garden-gate, And a wondrous thing befell:

Out burst the gladness, up dawned the love.

In the song, in the waiting show; Grew silver the moon in the sky above.

Blushed rosy the blossom below.

But the merry bird, nor the silvery moon, Nor the blossoms that flushed the night Had one poor thanks for the granted boon: The lady forgot them quite!

_LEGEND OF THE CORRIEVRECHAN_.

Prince Breacan of Denmark was lord of the strand And lord of the billowy sea; Lord of the sea and lord of the land, He might have let maidens be!

A maiden he met with locks of gold, Straying beside the sea: Maidens listened in days of old, And repented grievously.

Wiser he left her in evil wiles, Went sailing over the sea; Came to the lord of the Western Isles: Give me thy daughter, said he.

The lord of the Isles he laughed, and said: Only a king of the sea May think the Maid of the Isles to wed, And such, men call not thee!

Hold thine own three nights and days In yon whirlpool of the sea, Or turn thy prow and go thy ways And let the isle-maiden be.

Prince Breacan he turned his dragon prow To Denmark over the sea: Wise women, he said, now tell me how In yon whirlpool to anchor me.

Make a cable of hemp and a cable of wool And a cable of maidens' hair, And hie thee back to the roaring pool And anchor in safety there.

The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule, Will forge three anchors rare; The hemp thou shalt pull, thou shalt shear the wool, And the maidens will bring their hair.

Of the hair that is brown thou shalt twist one strand, Of the hair that is raven another; Of the golden hair thou shalt twine a band To bind the one to the other!

The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule, They forged three anchors rare; The hemp he did pull, and he sh.o.r.e the wool, And the maidens brought their hair.

He twisted the brown hair for one strand, The raven hair for another; He twined the golden hair in a band To bind the one to the other.

He took the cables of hemp and wool.

He took the cable of hair, He hied him back to the roaring pool, He cast the three anchors there.

The whirlpool roared, and the day went by, And night came down on the sea; But or ever the morning broke the sky The hemp was broken in three.

The night it came down, the whirlpool it ran, The wind it fiercely blew; And or ever the second morning began The wool it parted in two.

The storm it roared all day the third, The whirlpool wallowed about, The night came down like a wild black bird, But the cable of hair held out.

Round and round with a giddy swing Went the sea-king through the dark; Round went the rope in the swivel-ring, Round reeled the straining bark.

Prince Breacan he stood on his dragon prow, A lantern in his hand: Blest be the maidens of Denmark now, By them shall Denmark stand!

He watched the rope through the tempest black A lantern in his hold: Out, out, alack! one strand will crack!

It is the strand of gold!