The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 48

The king at the tale is filled with amaze:-- "The beaker, well won, is thine; And this ring I will give thee too," he says, "Precious with gems that are more than fine, If thou dive yet once, and bring me the story-- What thou sawst in the sea's lowest repertory."

His daughter she hears with a tender dismay, And her words sweet-suasive plead: "Father, enough of this cruel play!

For you he has done an unheard-of deed!

And can you not master your soul's desire, 'Tis the knights' turn now to disgrace the squire!"

The king he s.n.a.t.c.hes and hurls the cup Into the swirling pool:-- "If thou bring me once more that beaker up, My best knight I hold thee, most wors.h.i.+pful; And this very day to thy home thou shall lead her Who there for thee stands such a pitying pleader."

A heavenly pa.s.sion his being invades, His eyes dart a lightning ray; He sees on her beauty the flus.h.i.+ng shades, He sees her grow pallid and sink away!

Determination thorough him flashes, And downward for life or for death he dashes!

They hear the dull roar!--it is turning again, Its herald the thunderous brawl!

Downward they bend with loving strain: They come! they are coming, the waters all!-- They rush up!--they rush down!--up, down, for ever!

The youth again bring they never.

_TO THE CLOUDS._

Through the unchanging heaven, as ye have sped, Speed onward still, a strange wild company, Fleet children of the waters! Glorious ye, Whether the sun lift up his s.h.i.+ning head, High throned at noontide and established Among the s.h.i.+fting pillars, or we see The sable ghosts of air sleep mournfully Against the sunlight, pa.s.sionless and dead!

Take thus a glory, oh thou higher Sun, From all the cloudy labour of man's hand-- Whether the quickening nations rise and run, Or in the market-place we idly stand Casting huge shadows over these thy plains-- Even thence, O G.o.d, draw thy rich gifts of rains.

_SECOND SIGHT._

Rich is the fancy which can double back All seeming forms, and from cold icicles Build up high glittering palaces where dwells Summer perfection, moulding all this wrack To spirit symmetry, and doth not lack The power to hear amidst the funeral bells The eternal heart's wind-melody which swells In whirlwind flashes all along its track!

So hath the sun made all the winter mine With gardens springing round me fresh and fair; On hidden leaves uncounted jewels s.h.i.+ne; I live with forms of beauty everywhere, Peopling the crumbling waste and icy pool With sights and sounds of life most beautiful.

_NOT UNDERSTOOD._

Tumultuous rus.h.i.+ng o'er the outstretched plains; A wildered maze of comets and of suns; The blood of changeless G.o.d that ever runs With quick diastole up the immortal veins; A phantom host that moves and works in chains; A monstrous fiction, which, collapsing, stuns The mind to stupor and amaze at once; A tragedy which that man best explains Who rushes blindly on his wild career With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, But is extinguished like a falling star;-- Such will at times this life appear to me Until I learn to read more perfectly.

_HOM. IL. v. 403._

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem Thou art a coward if thy safety seem To spring too little from a righteous will; For there is nightmare on thee, nor until Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam Seek thou to a.n.a.lyze the monstrous dream By painful introversion; rather fill Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth; But see thou cherish higher hope than this,-- hope hereafter that thou shall be fit Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit Transparent among other forms of youth Who own no impulse save to G.o.d and bliss.

_THE DAWN_.

And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost?

I am perplexed with thee that thou shouldst cost This earth another turning! All aglow Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show Along far mountain-tops! and I would post Over the breadth of seas, though I were lost In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so Thou earnest ever with this numbing sense Of chilly distance and unlovely light, Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence!

I have another mountain-range from whence Bursteth a sun unutterably bright!

_GALILEO_.

"And yet it moves!" Ah, Truth, where wert thou then When all for thee they racked each piteous limb?

Wert thou in heaven, and busy with thy hymn When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen?

Art thou a phantom that deceives! men To their undoing? or dost thou watch him Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim?

And wilt thou ever speak to him again?

"It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak!

That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloud How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day!

Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud That I alone should know that word to speak!

And now, sweet Truth, s.h.i.+ne upon these, I pray."

_SUBSIDY_.

If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed, Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain.

Others will live in peace, and thou be fain To bargain with despair, and in thy need To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed.

These palaces, for thee they stand in vain; Thine is a ruinous hut, and oft the rain Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea, the speed Of earth outstrip thee, pilgrim, while thy feet Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come Through the time-rents about thy moving cell, _Shot from the Truth's own bow, and flaming sweet,_ An arrow for despair, and oft the hum Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.

_THE PROPHET_.

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start To find thee with us in thine ancient dress, Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, Empty of all save G.o.d and thy loud heart, Nor with like rugged message quick to dart Into the hideous fiction mean and base; But yet, O prophet man, we need not less But more of earnest, though it is thy part To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite The living Mammon, seated, not as then In b.e.s.t.i.a.l quiescence grimly dight, But _robed as priest, and honoured of good men Yet_ thrice as much an idol-G.o.d as when He stared at his own feet from morn to night.

_THE WATCHER_.

From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro Upon the people's tumult, for below The nations smite each other: no amaze Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays Their deep-set contemplation; steadily glow Those ever holier eyeb.a.l.l.s, for they grow Liker unto the eyes of one that prays.

And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power As of the might of worlds, and they are holden Blessing above us in the sunrise golden; And they will be uplifted till that hour Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake This conscious nightmare from us, and we wake.

_THE BELOVED DISCIPLE_.

I.

One do I see and twelve; but second there Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one; Not from thy n.o.bler port, for there are none More quiet-featured: some there are who bear Their message on their brows, while others wear A look of large commission, nor will shun The fiery trial, so their work is done; But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer-- Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips Seem like the porches of the spirit land; For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye Burns with a vision and apocalypse Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand.

II.

A Boanerges too! Upon my heart It lay a heavy hour: features like thine Should glow with other message than the s.h.i.+ne Of the earth-burrowing levin, and the start That cleaveth horrid gulfs! Awful and swart A moment stoodest thou, but less divine-- Brawny and clad in ruin--till with mine Thy heart made answering signals, and apart Beamed forth thy two rapt eyeb.a.l.l.s doubly clear And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty, And, though affianced to immortal Beauty, Hiddest not weakly underneath her veil The pest of Sin and Death which maketh pale: Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear!

_THE LILY OF THE VALLEY_.

There is not any weed but hath its shower, There is not any pool but hath its star; And black and muddy though the waters are We may not miss the glory of a flower, And winter moons will give them magic power To spin in cylinders of diamond spar; And everything hath beauty near and far, And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour!