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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting.
What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies
Have just departed in the sun's bright coach,
And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me,
Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness.
Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold!
How should my cell be filled with wavering forms!
Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher;
Trembling and hesitating to float off,
As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy
Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues,
Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die.
—Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves!
Is it for this that I have left the world?—
Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes
Of that night when the closing door fell dumb
On music and on voices, and I went
Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance,
Under the clear cope of the moonless night,
Wandering away without the city-walls,
Between the silent meadows and the stars,
Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit,
And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God;
When straight within my soul I felt as if
An eye was opened; but I knew not whether
'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me?
It closed again, and darkness fell; but not
To hide the memory; that, in many failings
Of spirit and of purpose, still returned;
And I came here at last to search for God.
Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content
Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free!
A knock at the door. Enter Brother ROBERT with a light.
Robert.
Head in your hands as usual! You will fret
Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.
Come, it is supper-time.
Julian.
I will not sup to-night.
Robert.
Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.
Julian.
A saint! The devil has me by the heel.
Robert.
So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,
Which ever struggles higher for his hold.
It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;—
He should let go his hold, and then he has you.
If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you.
Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.
Chorus. Always merry, and never drunk.
That's the life of the jolly monk.
SONG
They say the first monks were lonely men,
Praying each in his lonely den,
Rising up to kneel again,
Each a skinny male Magdalene,
Peeping scared from out his hole
Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;
But years ring changes as they roll—
Cho. Now always merry, &c.
When the moon gets up with her big round face,
Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place,
Down to the village below we pace;—
We know a supper that wants a grace:
Past the curtsying women we go,
Past the smithy, all a glow,
To the snug little houses at top of the row—
Cho. For always merry, &c.
And there we find, among the ale,
The fragments of a floating tale:
To piece them together we never fail;
And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail.
And so we have them all in hand,
The lads and lasses throughout the land,
And we are the masters,—you understand?
Cho. So always merry, &c.
Last night we had such a game of play
With the nephews and nieces over the way,
All for the gold that belonged to the clay
That lies in lead till the judgment-day!
The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch,
But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.
How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!
What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies
Have just departed in the sun's bright coach,
And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me,
Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness.
Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold!
How should my cell be filled with wavering forms!
Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher;
Trembling and hesitating to float off,
As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy
Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues,
Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die.
—Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves!
Is it for this that I have left the world?—
Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes
Of that night when the closing door fell dumb
On music and on voices, and I went
Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance,
Under the clear cope of the moonless night,
Wandering away without the city-walls,
Between the silent meadows and the stars,
Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit,
And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God;
When straight within my soul I felt as if
An eye was opened; but I knew not whether
'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me?
It closed again, and darkness fell; but not
To hide the memory; that, in many failings
Of spirit and of purpose, still returned;
And I came here at last to search for God.
Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content
Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free!
A knock at the door. Enter Brother ROBERT with a light.
Robert.
Head in your hands as usual! You will fret
Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.
Come, it is supper-time.
Julian.
I will not sup to-night.
Robert.
Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.
Julian.
A saint! The devil has me by the heel.
Robert.
So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,
Which ever struggles higher for his hold.
It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;—
He should let go his hold, and then he has you.
If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you.
Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.
Chorus. Always merry, and never drunk.
That's the life of the jolly monk.
SONG
They say the first monks were lonely men,
Praying each in his lonely den,
Rising up to kneel again,
Each a skinny male Magdalene,
Peeping scared from out his hole
Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;
But years ring changes as they roll—
Cho. Now always merry, &c.
When the moon gets up with her big round face,
Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place,
Down to the village below we pace;—
We know a supper that wants a grace:
Past the curtsying women we go,
Past the smithy, all a glow,
To the snug little houses at top of the row—
Cho. For always merry, &c.
And there we find, among the ale,
The fragments of a floating tale:
To piece them together we never fail;
And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail.
And so we have them all in hand,
The lads and lasses throughout the land,
And we are the masters,—you understand?
Cho. So always merry, &c.
Last night we had such a game of play
With the nephews and nieces over the way,
All for the gold that belonged to the clay
That lies in lead till the judgment-day!
The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch,
But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.
How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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