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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man's own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it—clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.
Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell).
O God! what am I? My love burns like hate,
Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!
Bern.
What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?
Enter Waiter.
Lord S. Post-chaise for London—four horses—instantly.
[He sinks exhausted in his chair.]
SCENE XXI.—LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her
Lily.
O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done.
[He takes her on his knees.]
I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds—white curtains, and white tassels.
—No, no, no—it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.
Julian.
You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.
Lily.
O will you keep me always, father dear?
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
Don't let it take me; do not let me go:
I cannot leave you, father—love hurts so.
Julian.
Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
And try to make you sleep?
Lily.
Yes—no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head!
Mother, mother, dear mother!—Sing to me, father.
[He tries to sing.]
Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on his throne, and man below.
But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love—for the love with its hurt alone.
Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;
Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
Love for love's sake, like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.
[She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in which he talks.]
Julian.
A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
Man with the heart, praying for woman's love,
Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
Take this or this. O Heaven and Earth! I see—What
is it? Statue trembling into life
With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
I see her—where I know not; for I see
Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain—
God keep me!—in celestial nakedness.
She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
With large eyes full of longing, made intense
By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.
O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood—
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man's own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it—clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.
Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell).
O God! what am I? My love burns like hate,
Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!
Bern.
What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?
Enter Waiter.
Lord S. Post-chaise for London—four horses—instantly.
[He sinks exhausted in his chair.]
SCENE XXI.—LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her
Lily.
O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done.
[He takes her on his knees.]
I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds—white curtains, and white tassels.
—No, no, no—it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.
Julian.
You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.
Lily.
O will you keep me always, father dear?
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
Don't let it take me; do not let me go:
I cannot leave you, father—love hurts so.
Julian.
Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
And try to make you sleep?
Lily.
Yes—no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head!
Mother, mother, dear mother!—Sing to me, father.
[He tries to sing.]
Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on his throne, and man below.
But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love—for the love with its hurt alone.
Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;
Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
Love for love's sake, like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.
[She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in which he talks.]
Julian.
A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
Man with the heart, praying for woman's love,
Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
Take this or this. O Heaven and Earth! I see—What
is it? Statue trembling into life
With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
I see her—where I know not; for I see
Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain—
God keep me!—in celestial nakedness.
She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
With large eyes full of longing, made intense
By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.
O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood—
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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