The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 23

_Lord S_.

(_rising_).

Forgive me, madam. Let me cast myself On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus, All the bright morning, as I walked alone; And when you came, my thoughts flowed forth in words.

It is a weakness with me from my boyhood, That if I act a part in any play, Or follow, merely intellectually, A pa.s.sion or a motive--ere I know, My being is absorbed, my brain on fire; I am possessed with something not myself, And live and move and speak in foreign forms.

Pity my weakness, madam; and forgive My rudeness with your gentleness and truth.

That you are beautiful is simple fact; And when I once began to speak my thoughts, The wheels of speech ran on, till they took fire, And in your face flung foolish sparks and dust.

I am ashamed; and but for dread of shame, I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness.

_Lilia_.

Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray.

--What is this purple flower with the black spot In its deep heart? I never saw it before.

SCENE IV.--_Julian's room. The dusk of evening_. JULIAN _standing with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor_.

_Julian_.

I see her as I saw her then. She sat On a low chair, the child upon her knees, Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood, Her full face beamed upon the face below, Bent over it, as with love to ripen love; Till its intensity, like summer heat, Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes, Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears, The earthly outcome of the heavenly thing!

[_He walks toward the window, seats himself at a little table, and writes_.]

THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING.

My child is lying on my knees; The signs of heaven she reads: My face is all the heaven she sees, Is all the heaven she needs.

And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, If heaven is in my face-- Behind it, all is tenderness, And truthfulness and grace.

I mean her well so earnestly.

Unchanged in changing mood; My life would go without a sigh To bring her something good.

I also am a child, and I Am ignorant and weak; I gaze upon the starry sky, And then I must not speak;

For all behind the starry sky, Behind the world so broad, Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie The Infinite of G.o.d.

If true to her, though troubled sore, I cannot choose but be; Thou, who art peace for evermore, Art very true to me.

If I am low and sinful, bring More love where need is rife; _Thou_ knowest what an awful thing It is to be a life.

Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap My waywardness about, In doubting safety on the lap Of Love that knows no doubt?

Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide s.p.a.ce, My child upon my knee; She looketh up unto my face, And I look up to thee.

SCENE V.--_Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room_. LADY GERTRUDE _lying on a couch_; LILIA _seated beside her, with the girl's hand in both hers_.

_Lady Gertrude_.

How kind of you to come! And you will stay And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well?

I am better since you came. You look so sweet, It brings all summer back into my heart.

_Lilia_.

I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt No one could nurse you quite so well as I.

_Lady Gertrude_.

How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now; And put your white cool hands upon my head; And let me lie and look in your great eyes: 'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing.

_Lilia_.

I must not let you talk too much, dear child.

_Lady Gertrude_.

Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson, And must not speak much, will you sing to me?

Sing that strange ballad you sang once before; 'Twill keep me quiet.

_Lilia_.

What was it, child?

_Lady Gertrude_.

It was Something about a race--Death and a lady--

_Lilia_.

Oh! I remember. I would rather sing Some other, though.

_Lady Gertrude_.

No, no, I want that one.

Its ghost walks up and down inside my head, But won't stand long enough to show itself.

You must talk Latin to it--sing it away, Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me.

_Lilia_.

Well, I'll sing it.

SONG.

Death and a lady rode in the wind, In a starry midnight pale; Death on a bony horse behind, With no footfall upon the gale.

The lady sat a wild-eyed steed; Eastward he tore to the morn.

But ever the sense of a noiseless speed, And the sound of reaping corn!

All the night through, the headlong race Sped to the morning gray; The dew gleamed cold on her cold white face-- From Death or the morning? say.

Her steed's wide knees began to shake, As he flung the road behind; The lady sat still, but her heart did quake, And a cold breath came down the wind.

When, Lo! a fleet bay horse beside, With a silver mane and tail; A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride, With never a coat of mail.

He never lifted his hand to Death, And he never couched a spear; But the lady felt another breath, And a voice was in her ear.

He looked her weary eyes through and through, With his eyes so strong in faith: Her bridle-hand the lady drew, And she turned and laughed at Death.

And away through the mist of the morning gray, The spectre and horse rode wide; The dawn came up the old bright way, And the lady never died.