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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth;
And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,
Not here, not here!
(Pointing to his bosom.)
[Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone—]
You do not understand me.
Without my need, you cannot know my want.
You will all night be puzzling to determine
With which of the old heretics to class me.
But you are honest; will not rouse the cry
Against me. I am honest. For the proof,
Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!
Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!
Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?
I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show
Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,
And cannot bear but you should think me true.
Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk
Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,
And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,
Let out one stray beam of its living light,
Or humbled that proud I that knows not God!
You are my friend:—if you should find this cell
Empty some morning, do not be afraid
That any ill has happened.
Robert.]
Well, perhaps
'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,
But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [Goes.
Julian.
Amen.—A good man; but he has not waked,
And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him.
God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;
And so he does, as possible for him.
How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!
He thinks me an enthusiast, because
I seek to know God, and to hear his voice
Talk to my heart in silence; as of old
The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,
He lay communing with his heart; and God
With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until
In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.
My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,
And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;
And let me know the living Father cares
For me, even me; for this one of his children.—
Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.
God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,
And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.
See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou
Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.
I am a child, a fool before thee, God;
But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.
I am an emptiness for thee to fill;
My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie
Diffused, abandoning myself to thee….
—I will look up, if life should fail in looking.
Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!
Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!
SCENE II.—The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation. ROBERT enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in
Stephen
(speaking across the table).
You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic;
Or, if you like it better, stand to reason;
For in this doctrine is involved a cause
Which for its very being doth depend
Upon its own effect. For, don't you see,
He tells me to have faith and I shall live!
Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall
Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven;
What is salvation else? If I believe,
Then he will save me! But, so, this his will
Has no existence till that I believe;
And there is nothing for my faith to rest on,
No object for belief. How can I trust
In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo.
Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence;
To all intents save one, most plenary—
And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.
Monk.
'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.
And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling
At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one
Should find it poison. I have no pique at him—
But there's that Julian!—
Stephen.
Hush! speak lower, friend.
Two Monks farther down the table—in a low tone.
1st Monk.
And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,
Not here, not here!
(Pointing to his bosom.)
[Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone—]
You do not understand me.
Without my need, you cannot know my want.
You will all night be puzzling to determine
With which of the old heretics to class me.
But you are honest; will not rouse the cry
Against me. I am honest. For the proof,
Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!
Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!
Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?
I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show
Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,
And cannot bear but you should think me true.
Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk
Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,
And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,
Let out one stray beam of its living light,
Or humbled that proud I that knows not God!
You are my friend:—if you should find this cell
Empty some morning, do not be afraid
That any ill has happened.
Robert.]
Well, perhaps
'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,
But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [Goes.
Julian.
Amen.—A good man; but he has not waked,
And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him.
God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;
And so he does, as possible for him.
How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!
He thinks me an enthusiast, because
I seek to know God, and to hear his voice
Talk to my heart in silence; as of old
The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,
He lay communing with his heart; and God
With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until
In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.
My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,
And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;
And let me know the living Father cares
For me, even me; for this one of his children.—
Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.
God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,
And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.
See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou
Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.
I am a child, a fool before thee, God;
But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.
I am an emptiness for thee to fill;
My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie
Diffused, abandoning myself to thee….
—I will look up, if life should fail in looking.
Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!
Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!
SCENE II.—The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation. ROBERT enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in
Stephen
(speaking across the table).
You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic;
Or, if you like it better, stand to reason;
For in this doctrine is involved a cause
Which for its very being doth depend
Upon its own effect. For, don't you see,
He tells me to have faith and I shall live!
Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall
Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven;
What is salvation else? If I believe,
Then he will save me! But, so, this his will
Has no existence till that I believe;
And there is nothing for my faith to rest on,
No object for belief. How can I trust
In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo.
Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence;
To all intents save one, most plenary—
And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.
Monk.
'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.
And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling
At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one
Should find it poison. I have no pique at him—
But there's that Julian!—
Stephen.
Hush! speak lower, friend.
Two Monks farther down the table—in a low tone.
1st Monk.
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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