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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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Her humble house doth hold
The man her nation's prophecy
Long ages hath foretold!
Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born:
Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
Before the eyeless crowd.
At her poor table will he eat?
He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
For any king that were!
'Tis all she can; she does her part,
Profuse in sacrifice;
Nor dreams that in her unknown heart
A better offering lies.
But many crosses she must bear;
Her plans are turned and bent;
Do what she can, things will not wear
The form of her intent.
With idle hands and drooping lid,
See Mary sit at rest!
Shameful it was her sister did
No service for their guest!
Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot
Must rule thy hands and eyes;
Thou, all thy household cares forgot,
Must sit as idly wise!
But once more first she set her word
To bar her master's ways,
Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord,
He hath been dead four days!"
Her housewife-soul her brother dear
Would fetter where he lies!
Ah, did her buried best then hear,
And with the dead man rise?
XV.
MARY
I
She sitteth at the Master's feet
In motionless employ;
Her ears, her heart, her soul complete
Drinks in the tide of joy.
Ah! who but she the glory knows
Of life, pure, high, intense,
In whose eternal silence blows
The wind beyond the sense!
In her still ear, God's perfect grace
Incarnate is in voice;
Her thoughts, the people of the place,
Receive it, and rejoice.
Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright,
Are on the ground cast low;
His words of spirit, life, and light—
They set them shining so.
But see! a face is at the door
Whose eyes are not at rest;
A voice breaks on divinest lore
With petulant request.
"Master," it said, "dost thou not care
She lets me serve alone?
Tell her to come and take her share."
But Mary's eyes shine on.
She lifts them with a questioning glance,
Calmly to him who heard;
The merest sign, she'll rise at once,
Nor wait the uttered word.
His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore
A sense of coming nay;
He told her that her trouble sore
Was needless any day.
And he would not have Mary chid
For want of needless care;
The needful thing was what she did,
At his feet sitting there.
Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart
Doing the thing it would,
When he, the holy, took her part,
And called her choice the good!
The man her nation's prophecy
Long ages hath foretold!
Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born:
Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
Before the eyeless crowd.
At her poor table will he eat?
He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
For any king that were!
'Tis all she can; she does her part,
Profuse in sacrifice;
Nor dreams that in her unknown heart
A better offering lies.
But many crosses she must bear;
Her plans are turned and bent;
Do what she can, things will not wear
The form of her intent.
With idle hands and drooping lid,
See Mary sit at rest!
Shameful it was her sister did
No service for their guest!
Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot
Must rule thy hands and eyes;
Thou, all thy household cares forgot,
Must sit as idly wise!
But once more first she set her word
To bar her master's ways,
Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord,
He hath been dead four days!"
Her housewife-soul her brother dear
Would fetter where he lies!
Ah, did her buried best then hear,
And with the dead man rise?
XV.
MARY
I
She sitteth at the Master's feet
In motionless employ;
Her ears, her heart, her soul complete
Drinks in the tide of joy.
Ah! who but she the glory knows
Of life, pure, high, intense,
In whose eternal silence blows
The wind beyond the sense!
In her still ear, God's perfect grace
Incarnate is in voice;
Her thoughts, the people of the place,
Receive it, and rejoice.
Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright,
Are on the ground cast low;
His words of spirit, life, and light—
They set them shining so.
But see! a face is at the door
Whose eyes are not at rest;
A voice breaks on divinest lore
With petulant request.
"Master," it said, "dost thou not care
She lets me serve alone?
Tell her to come and take her share."
But Mary's eyes shine on.
She lifts them with a questioning glance,
Calmly to him who heard;
The merest sign, she'll rise at once,
Nor wait the uttered word.
His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore
A sense of coming nay;
He told her that her trouble sore
Was needless any day.
And he would not have Mary chid
For want of needless care;
The needful thing was what she did,
At his feet sitting there.
Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart
Doing the thing it would,
When he, the holy, took her part,
And called her choice the good!
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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