The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 8

Henceforth there is, there can be nothing new-- All things are always new!" Then, like the fall Of a steep avalanche, my joy fell steep: Up in my spirit rose as it were the call Of an old sorrow from an ancient deep; For, with my eyes fixed on the eyes of him Whom I had loved before I learned to creep-- G.o.d's vicar in his twilight nursery dim To gather us to the higher father's knee-- I saw a something fill their azure rim That caught him worlds and years away from me; And like a javelin once more through me pa.s.sed The pang that pierced me walking on the sea: "O saints," I cried, "must loss be still the last?"

XVII.

When I said this, the cloud of witnesses Turned their heads sideways, and the cloud grew dim I saw their faces half, but now their bliss Gleamed low, like the old moon in the new moon's rim.

Then as I gazed, a better kind of light On every outline 'gan to glimmer and swim, Faint as the young moon threadlike on the night, Just born of sunbeams trembling on her edge: 'Twas a great cl.u.s.ter of profiles in sharp white.

Had some far dawn begun to drive a wedge Into the night, and cleave the clinging dark?

I saw no moon or star, token or pledge Of light, save that manifold silvery mark, The shining t.i.tle of each spirit-book.

Whence came that light? Sudden, as if a spark Of vital touch had found some hidden nook Where germs of potent harmonies lay prest, And their outbursting life old Aether shook, Rose, as in prayer to lingering promised guest, From that great cone of faces such a song, Instinct with hope's harmonical unrest, That with sore weeping, and the cry "How long?"

I bore my part because I could not sing.

And as they sang, the light more clear and strong Bordered their faces, till the glory-sting I could almost no more encounter and bear; Light from their eyes, like water from a spring, Flowed; on their foreheads reigned their flashing hair; I saw the light from eyes I could not see.

"He comes! he comes!" they sang, "comes to our prayer!"

"Oh my poor heart, if only it were _He!_"

I cried. Thereat the faces moved! those eyes Were turning on me! In rushed ecstasy, And woke me to the light of lower skies.

XVIII.

"What matter," said I, "whether clank of chain Or over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!"

Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain.

Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less, Sleep's ashes from my eyelids I did brush.

The room was veiled, that morning should not press Upon the slumber which had stayed the rush Of ebbing life; I looked into the gloom: Upon her brow the dawn's first grayest flush, And on her cheek pale hope's reviving bloom, Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone, She who had lifted me from many a tomb!

One then was left me of Love's radiant cone!

Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan, Was shining yet--a dawn upon it thrown From the far coming of the Son of Man!

XIX.

In every forehead now I see a sky Catching the dawn; I hear the wintriest breeze About me blow the news the Lord is nigh.

Long is the night, dark are the polar seas, Yet slanting suns ascend the northern hill.

Round Spring's own steps the oozy waters freeze But hold them not. Dreamers are sleeping still, But labourers, light-stung, from their slumber start: Faith sees the ripening ears with harvest fill When but green blades the clinging earth-clods part.

XX.

Lord, I have spoken a poor parable, In which I would have said thy name alone Is the one secret lying in Truth's well, Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone, Thy face the heart of every flower on earth, Its vision the one hope; for every moan Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth Of little children seated on thy knee!

O human G.o.d! I laugh with sacred mirth To think how all the laden shall go free; For, though the vision tarry, in healing ruth One morn the eyes that shone in Galilee Will dawn upon them, full of grace and truth, And thy own love--the vivifying core Of every love in heart of age or youth, Of every hope that sank 'neath burden sore!

_THE SANGREAL_:

A Part Of The Story Omitted In The Old Romances.

I.

_How sir Galahad despaired of finding the Grail._

Through the wood the sunny day Glimmered sweetly glad; Through the wood his weary way Rode sir Galahad.

All about stood open porch, Long-drawn cloister dim; 'Twas a wavering wandering church Every side of him.

On through columns arching high, Foliage-vaulted, he Rode in thirst that made him sigh, Longing miserably.

Came the moon, and through the trees Glimmered faintly sad; Withered, worn, and ill at ease Down lay Galahad;

Closed his eyes and took no heed What might come or pa.s.s; Heard his hunger-busy steed Cropping dewy gra.s.s.

Cool and juicy was the blade, Good to him as wine: For his labour he was paid, Galahad must pine!

Late had he at Arthur's board, Arthur strong and wise, Pledged the cup with friendly lord, Looked in ladies' eyes;

Now, alas! he wandered wide, Resting never more, Over lake and mountain-side, Over sea and sh.o.r.e!

Swift in vision rose and fled All he might have had; Weary tossed his restless head, And his heart grew sad.

With the lowliest in the land He a maiden fair Might have led with virgin hand From the altar-stair:

Youth away with strength would glide, Age bring frost and woe; Through the world so dreary wide Mateless he must go!

Lost was life and all its good, Gone without avail!

All his labour never would Find the Holy Grail!

II.

_How sir Galahad found and lost the Grail._

Galahad was in the night, And the wood was drear; But to men in darksome plight Radiant things appear:

Wings he heard not floating by, Heard no heavenly hail; But he started with a cry, For he saw the Grail.

Hid from bright beholding sun, Hid from moonlight wan, Lo, from age-long darkness won, It was seen of man!

Three feet off, on cushioned moss, As if cast away, Homely wood with carven cross, Rough and rude it lay!

To his knees the knight rose up, Loosed his gauntlet-band; Fearing, daring, toward the cup Went his naked hand;

When, as if it fled from harm, Sank the holy thing, And his eager following arm Plunged into a spring.

Oh the thirst, the water sweet!

Down he lay and quaffed, Quaffed and rose up on his feet, Rose and gayly laughed;

Fell upon his knees to thank, Loved and lauded there; Stretched him on the mossy bank, Fell asleep in prayer;

Dreamed, and dreaming murmured low Ave, pater, creed; When the fir-tops gan to glow Waked and called his steed;

Bitted him and drew his girth, Watered from his helm: Happier knight or better worth Was not in the realm!

Belted on him then his sword, Braced his slackened mail; Doubting said: "I dreamed the Lord Offered me the Grail."

III.

_How sir Galahad gave up the Quest for the Grail._