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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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Never needing sleep.
Oimè!
Morning—they're above me!
Eventide—they love me!
Oimè! Oimè!
Father was so tall!
Oimè!
Stronger he than all!
Oimè!
On his arm he bore me,
Queen of all before me.
Oimè! Oimè!
Mother is asleep;
Oimè!
For her eyes so deep,
Oimè!
Grew so tired and aching,
They could not keep waking.
Oimè! Oimè!
Father, though so strong,
Oimè!
Laid him down along—
Oimè!
By my mother sleeping;
And they left me weeping,
Oimè! Oimè!
Now nor bird, nor bee,
Oimè!
Ever sings to me!
Oimè!
Since they left me crying,
All things have been dying.
Oimè! Oimè!
[LILY looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet. After a little she comes running with a box in her hand.]
Lily.
O mother, mother! there's the old box I had
So long ago, and all my cups and saucers,
And the farm-house and cows.—Oh! some are broken.
Father will mend them for me, I am sure.
I'll ask him when he comes to-night—I will:
He can do everything, you know, dear mother.
SCENE VIII.—A merchants counting-house. JULIAN preparing to go home
Julian.
I would not give these days of common toil,
This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks
Into the very soul, and mars its hue—
Not for the evenings when with gliding keel
I cut a pale green track across the west—
Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted
With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low,
So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails,
That pointed to the south, and wavered not,
Erect upon the waters.—Jesus said
His followers should have a hundred fold
Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.—
In all the labourings of a weary spirit,
I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things.
The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul,
No more look in from far.—I never see
Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about
A gently opening eye into the blue,
But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee,
Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before,
Signed only that the hour for prayer was come,
But now it moves my inmost soul to pray.
On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked
Upon its thousand glories; read them all;
In splendour let them pass on through his soul,
And triumph in their new beatitude,
Finding a heaven of truth to take them in;
But walked on steadily through pain to death.
Better to have the poet's heart than brain,
Feeling than song; but better far than both,
To be a song, a music of God's making;
A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame,
In words harmonious, of triumphant verse,
That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear,
That out of darkness he hath called the light.
It may be voice to such is after given,
To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.
Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope
That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds
Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were
Most blest of men, if I were now returning
To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God,
I can but look to thee. And then the child!—
Why should my love to her break out in tears?
Why should she be only a consolation,
And not an added joy, to fill my soul
Oimè!
Morning—they're above me!
Eventide—they love me!
Oimè! Oimè!
Father was so tall!
Oimè!
Stronger he than all!
Oimè!
On his arm he bore me,
Queen of all before me.
Oimè! Oimè!
Mother is asleep;
Oimè!
For her eyes so deep,
Oimè!
Grew so tired and aching,
They could not keep waking.
Oimè! Oimè!
Father, though so strong,
Oimè!
Laid him down along—
Oimè!
By my mother sleeping;
And they left me weeping,
Oimè! Oimè!
Now nor bird, nor bee,
Oimè!
Ever sings to me!
Oimè!
Since they left me crying,
All things have been dying.
Oimè! Oimè!
[LILY looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet. After a little she comes running with a box in her hand.]
Lily.
O mother, mother! there's the old box I had
So long ago, and all my cups and saucers,
And the farm-house and cows.—Oh! some are broken.
Father will mend them for me, I am sure.
I'll ask him when he comes to-night—I will:
He can do everything, you know, dear mother.
SCENE VIII.—A merchants counting-house. JULIAN preparing to go home
Julian.
I would not give these days of common toil,
This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks
Into the very soul, and mars its hue—
Not for the evenings when with gliding keel
I cut a pale green track across the west—
Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted
With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low,
So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails,
That pointed to the south, and wavered not,
Erect upon the waters.—Jesus said
His followers should have a hundred fold
Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.—
In all the labourings of a weary spirit,
I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things.
The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul,
No more look in from far.—I never see
Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about
A gently opening eye into the blue,
But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee,
Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before,
Signed only that the hour for prayer was come,
But now it moves my inmost soul to pray.
On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked
Upon its thousand glories; read them all;
In splendour let them pass on through his soul,
And triumph in their new beatitude,
Finding a heaven of truth to take them in;
But walked on steadily through pain to death.
Better to have the poet's heart than brain,
Feeling than song; but better far than both,
To be a song, a music of God's making;
A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame,
In words harmonious, of triumphant verse,
That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear,
That out of darkness he hath called the light.
It may be voice to such is after given,
To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.
Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope
That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds
Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were
Most blest of men, if I were now returning
To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God,
I can but look to thee. And then the child!—
Why should my love to her break out in tears?
Why should she be only a consolation,
And not an added joy, to fill my soul
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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