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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
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Gold hinges grating,
The mighty dead waiting,
Why dost thou sleep?
Years without number,
Ages of slumber,
Stiff in the track of the infinite One!
Dead, can I think it?
Dropt like a trinket,
A thing whose uses are done!
White wings are crossing,
Glad waves are tossing,
The earth flames out in crimson and green
Spring is appearing,
Summer is nearing—
Where hast thou been?
Down in some cavern,
Death's sleepy tavern,
Housing, carousing with spectres of night?
There is my right hand!
Grasp it full tight and
Spring to the light.
Wonder, oh, wonder!
How the life-thunder
Bursts on his ear in horror and dread!
Happy shapes meet him;
Heaven and earth greet him:
Life from the dead!
TO AN AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER
Seek not my name—it doth no virtue bear;
Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find—
The name God called when thy ideal fair
Arose in deeps of the eternal mind.
When that thou findest, thou art straight a lord
Of time and space—art heir of all things grown;
And not my name, poor, earthly label-word,
But I myself thenceforward am thine own.
Thou hearest not? Or hearest as a man
Who hears the muttering of a foolish spell?
My very shadow would feel strange and wan
In thy abode:—I say No, and Farewell.
Thou understandest? Then it is enough;
No shadow-deputy shall mock my friend;
We walk the same path, over smooth and rough,
To meet ere long at the unending end.
WITH A COPY OF "IN MEMORIAM."
TO E.M. II
Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
And here is one for your regard.
You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;
Already something understand
For whom he mourns and what he sings,
And how he wakes with golden strings
The echoes of "the silent land;"
How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,
Yet loving all and hoping all,
He gazes where the shadows fall,
And finds in darkness some relief;
And how he sends his cries across,
His cries for him that comes no more,
Till one might think that silent shore
Full of the burden of his loss;
And how there comes sublimer cheer—
Not darkness solacing sad eyes,
Not the wild joy of mournful cries,
But light that makes his spirit clear;
How, while he gazes, something high,
Something of Heaven has fallen on him,
His distance and his future dim
Broken into a dawning sky!
Something of this, dear friend, you know;
And will you take the book from me
That holds this mournful melody,
And softens grief to sadness so?
Perhaps it scarcely suits the day
Of joyful hopes and memories clear,
When love should have no thought of fear,
And only smiles be round your way;
Yet from the mystery and the gloom,
From tempted faith and conquering trust,
The mighty dead waiting,
Why dost thou sleep?
Years without number,
Ages of slumber,
Stiff in the track of the infinite One!
Dead, can I think it?
Dropt like a trinket,
A thing whose uses are done!
White wings are crossing,
Glad waves are tossing,
The earth flames out in crimson and green
Spring is appearing,
Summer is nearing—
Where hast thou been?
Down in some cavern,
Death's sleepy tavern,
Housing, carousing with spectres of night?
There is my right hand!
Grasp it full tight and
Spring to the light.
Wonder, oh, wonder!
How the life-thunder
Bursts on his ear in horror and dread!
Happy shapes meet him;
Heaven and earth greet him:
Life from the dead!
TO AN AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER
Seek not my name—it doth no virtue bear;
Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find—
The name God called when thy ideal fair
Arose in deeps of the eternal mind.
When that thou findest, thou art straight a lord
Of time and space—art heir of all things grown;
And not my name, poor, earthly label-word,
But I myself thenceforward am thine own.
Thou hearest not? Or hearest as a man
Who hears the muttering of a foolish spell?
My very shadow would feel strange and wan
In thy abode:—I say No, and Farewell.
Thou understandest? Then it is enough;
No shadow-deputy shall mock my friend;
We walk the same path, over smooth and rough,
To meet ere long at the unending end.
WITH A COPY OF "IN MEMORIAM."
TO E.M. II
Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
And here is one for your regard.
You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;
Already something understand
For whom he mourns and what he sings,
And how he wakes with golden strings
The echoes of "the silent land;"
How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,
Yet loving all and hoping all,
He gazes where the shadows fall,
And finds in darkness some relief;
And how he sends his cries across,
His cries for him that comes no more,
Till one might think that silent shore
Full of the burden of his loss;
And how there comes sublimer cheer—
Not darkness solacing sad eyes,
Not the wild joy of mournful cries,
But light that makes his spirit clear;
How, while he gazes, something high,
Something of Heaven has fallen on him,
His distance and his future dim
Broken into a dawning sky!
Something of this, dear friend, you know;
And will you take the book from me
That holds this mournful melody,
And softens grief to sadness so?
Perhaps it scarcely suits the day
Of joyful hopes and memories clear,
When love should have no thought of fear,
And only smiles be round your way;
Yet from the mystery and the gloom,
From tempted faith and conquering trust,
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
очень хорошая книга для студентов и учителей