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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
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Therefore Saad his chief spake words of blame,
And set him in irons—a fettered flame;
But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains,
For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:
"I will not think
That the Prophet said
Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red!"
"'Tis a drenched brain
Whose after-sting
Cries out, Refrain:
'Tis an evil thing!
"But I will dare,
With a goodly drought,
To drink, nor spare
Till my thirst be out.
"I do not laugh
Like a Christian fool
But in silence quaff
The liquor cool
"At door of tent
'Neath evening star,
With daylight spent,
And Uriel afar!
"Then, through the sky,
Lo, the emerald hills!
My faith swells high,
My bosom thrills:
"I see them hearken,
The Houris that wait!
Their dark eyes darken
The diamond gate!
"I hear the float
Of their chant divine,
And my heart like a boat
Sails thither on wine!
"Can an evil thing
Make beauty more?
Or a sinner bring
To the heavenly door?
"The sun-rain fine
Would sink and escape,
But is drunk by the vine,
Is stored in the grape:
"And the prisoned light
I free again:
It flows in might
Through my shining brain
"I love and I know;
The truth is mine;
I walk in the glow
Of the sun-bred wine.
"I will not think
That the Prophet said
Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red!
"For his promises, lo,
Sevenfold they shine
When the channels o'erflow
With the singing wine!
"But I care not, I!—'tis a small annoy
To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"
Away went the song on the light wind borne;
His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn
Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip
As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.
Sudden his forehead he lifted high:
A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by!
Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth:
A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north!
A noise and a smoke on the plain afar?
'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war!
He leapt aloft like a tiger snared;
The wine in his veins through his visage flared;
He tore at his fetters in bootless ire,
He called the Prophet, he named his sire;
From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst;
He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed;
And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun,
Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.
The lady of Saad heard him shout,
Heard his fetters ring on the stones about
And set him in irons—a fettered flame;
But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains,
For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:
"I will not think
That the Prophet said
Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red!"
"'Tis a drenched brain
Whose after-sting
Cries out, Refrain:
'Tis an evil thing!
"But I will dare,
With a goodly drought,
To drink, nor spare
Till my thirst be out.
"I do not laugh
Like a Christian fool
But in silence quaff
The liquor cool
"At door of tent
'Neath evening star,
With daylight spent,
And Uriel afar!
"Then, through the sky,
Lo, the emerald hills!
My faith swells high,
My bosom thrills:
"I see them hearken,
The Houris that wait!
Their dark eyes darken
The diamond gate!
"I hear the float
Of their chant divine,
And my heart like a boat
Sails thither on wine!
"Can an evil thing
Make beauty more?
Or a sinner bring
To the heavenly door?
"The sun-rain fine
Would sink and escape,
But is drunk by the vine,
Is stored in the grape:
"And the prisoned light
I free again:
It flows in might
Through my shining brain
"I love and I know;
The truth is mine;
I walk in the glow
Of the sun-bred wine.
"I will not think
That the Prophet said
Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red!
"For his promises, lo,
Sevenfold they shine
When the channels o'erflow
With the singing wine!
"But I care not, I!—'tis a small annoy
To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"
Away went the song on the light wind borne;
His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn
Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip
As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.
Sudden his forehead he lifted high:
A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by!
Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth:
A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north!
A noise and a smoke on the plain afar?
'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war!
He leapt aloft like a tiger snared;
The wine in his veins through his visage flared;
He tore at his fetters in bootless ire,
He called the Prophet, he named his sire;
From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst;
He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed;
And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun,
Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.
The lady of Saad heard him shout,
Heard his fetters ring on the stones about
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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