The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 3

_Robert (glancing at the chest_).

I see; that's well. Are you nearly ready?

_Julian_.

Why? What's the matter?

_Robert_.

You must go this night, If you would go at all.

_Julian_.

Why must I go?

[_Rises_.]

_Robert (turning over the things in the chest_).

Here, put this coat on. Ah! take that thing too.

No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat,

[_Going to the chest again_.]

Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow.

_Julian_.

Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.

_Robert_.

No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you.

Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor Julian!

[_JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes_.]

_Julian_.

Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend.

Farewell! G.o.d bless you! We shall meet again.

_Robert_.

Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this.

[_Goes_.]

[JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow pa.s.sage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, and closes the door behind him_.]

SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, _while his horse is brought out_.

_Abbot_.

Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, Within the holiest of the holy place!

I'll have it made in fas.h.i.+on as a stable, With porphyry pillars to a marble stall; And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay, Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem.

And over him shall bend the Mother mild, In silken white and coroneted gems.

Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now-- The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant; Nor know I any nests of money-bees That could yield half-contentment to my need.

Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet In journeying through this vale of tears have I Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.

SCENE V.--_After midnight_. JULIAN _seated under a tree by the roadside_.

_Julian_.

So lies my journey--on into the dark!

Without my will I find myself alive, And must go forward. Is it G.o.d that draws Magnetic all the souls unto their home, Travelling, they know not how, but unto G.o.d?

It matters little what may come to me Of outward circ.u.mstance, as hunger, thirst, Social condition, yea, or love or hate; But what shall _I_ be, fifty summers hence?

My life, my being, all that meaneth _me_, Goes darkling forward into something--what?

O G.o.d, thou knowest. It is not my care.

If thou wert less than truth, or less than love, It were a fearful thing to be and grow We know not what. My G.o.d, take care of me; Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love, Pervading and inspiring me, thy child.

And let thy own design in me work on, Unfolding the ideal man in me; Which being greater far than I have grown, I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine.

One day, completed unto thine intent, I shall be able to discourse with thee; For thy Idea, gifted with a self, Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts.

Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand; I ask not whither, for it must be on.

This road will lead me to the hills, I think; And there I am in safety and at home.

SCENE VI.--_The Abbot's room. The_ Abbot _and one of the_ Monks.

_Abbot_.

Did she say _Julian_? Did she say the name?

_Monk_.

She did.

_Abbot_.

What did she call the lady? What?

_Monk_.

I could not hear.

_Abbot_.

Nor where she lived?

_Monk_.

Nor that.

She was too wild for leading where I would.

_Abbot_.

So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask: You have kept this matter secret?

_Monk_.

Yes, my lord.

_Abbot_.

Well, go and send him hither.