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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I,
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;—
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now——
Lily
(throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him).
Father, what is a poetry?
Julian.
A beautiful thing,—of the most beautiful
That God has made.
Lily.
As beautiful as mother?
Julian.
No, my dear child; but very beautiful.
Lily.
Do let me see a poetry.
Julian
(opening a book).
There, love!
Lily
(disappointedly).
I don't think that's so very pretty, father.
One side is very well—smooth; but the other
[Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines.]
Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning,
[Smoothing her hair down with both hands.]
Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it.
Julian
(putting the book down, and taking her on his knee).
You do not understand it yet, my child.
You cannot know where it is beautiful.
But though you do not see it very pretty,
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty.
[He reads.]
Lily
(looking pleased).
Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty.
It sounds so nice!—not half so pretty as mother.
Julian.
There's something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you're older
You'll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?
Lily.
Yes, dear father.
[Kissing him, then looking at the book.]
I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all.
[He sets her down. She goes to her corner.]
Julian
(musing).
True, there's not much in me to love, and yet
I feel worth loving. I am very poor,
But that I could not help; and I grow old,
But there are saints in heaven older than I.
I have a world within me; there I thought
I had a store of lovely, precious things
Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass;
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels;
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east;
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column,
'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees;
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge,
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth,
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds:
The distant meadows and the gloomy river
Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.—
Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture:
Of this fair world I would have made her queen;—
Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond
Into that farther world of things unspoken,
Of which these glories are the outer stars,
The clouds that float within its atmosphere.
Under the holy might of teaching love,
I thought her eyes would open—see how, far
And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out,
And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere;
Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber,
Open the little window, and look forth
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;—
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now——
Lily
(throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him).
Father, what is a poetry?
Julian.
A beautiful thing,—of the most beautiful
That God has made.
Lily.
As beautiful as mother?
Julian.
No, my dear child; but very beautiful.
Lily.
Do let me see a poetry.
Julian
(opening a book).
There, love!
Lily
(disappointedly).
I don't think that's so very pretty, father.
One side is very well—smooth; but the other
[Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines.]
Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning,
[Smoothing her hair down with both hands.]
Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it.
Julian
(putting the book down, and taking her on his knee).
You do not understand it yet, my child.
You cannot know where it is beautiful.
But though you do not see it very pretty,
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty.
[He reads.]
Lily
(looking pleased).
Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty.
It sounds so nice!—not half so pretty as mother.
Julian.
There's something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you're older
You'll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?
Lily.
Yes, dear father.
[Kissing him, then looking at the book.]
I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all.
[He sets her down. She goes to her corner.]
Julian
(musing).
True, there's not much in me to love, and yet
I feel worth loving. I am very poor,
But that I could not help; and I grow old,
But there are saints in heaven older than I.
I have a world within me; there I thought
I had a store of lovely, precious things
Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass;
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels;
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east;
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column,
'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees;
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge,
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth,
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds:
The distant meadows and the gloomy river
Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.—
Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture:
Of this fair world I would have made her queen;—
Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond
Into that farther world of things unspoken,
Of which these glories are the outer stars,
The clouds that float within its atmosphere.
Under the holy might of teaching love,
I thought her eyes would open—see how, far
And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out,
And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere;
Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber,
Open the little window, and look forth
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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