The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 15

Now for a strong pull with my m.u.f.fled oars!

The water mutters Spanish in its sleep.

My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife!

G.o.d-given, and G.o.d-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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sembly 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 G.o.d weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of his own tale; for G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d himself Man had been made, since G.o.d could be revealed By one that was a man with men, and still Was one with G.o.d the Father; that men might By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to G.o.d, Who had come near to them in tenderness.

O G.o.d! 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 G.o.d.

I thank thee for the sorrow and the care, Through which they gleamed, bright phosph.o.r.escent 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 G.o.d. As if a well that lay Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown Up from its depths, and woven a thick ma.s.s 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 G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce; 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 G.o.d.

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 G.o.d says "I am free."

When I am like him, then my soul will dawn With the full glory of the G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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! G.o.d'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 G.o.d!

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 G.o.d 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! G.o.d 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_.