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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen
Upon her face. And many more I knew—
Long-suffering women, true in heart and life;
Women that make man proud for very love
Of their humility, and of his pride
Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife.
On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills
Began to rise on each side of the path
Until at last we came into a glen,
From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven,
Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies.
Upon the eastern side one mighty summit
Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air;
And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint,
A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night.
From base to top, on climbing peak and crag,
Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes,
Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth
Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired
Great men of old—up, even to the apex
Of the snow-spear-point. Morning had arisen
From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel
Of Michelangelo laid him reclining,
And stood upon the crest.
A cry awoke
Amid the watchers at the lowest base,
And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth,
Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top;
And "Is God coming?" was the cry; which died
Away in silence; for no voice said No.
The bearers stood and set the coffin down;
The mourners gathered round it in a group;
Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why.
So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke,
And clomb the mountain-side, and died away
In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came.
How long we waited thus, I cannot tell—
How oft the cry arose and died again.
At last, from far, faint summit to the base,
Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes,
A mighty voice descended: "God is coming!"
Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side,
From all that multitude's melodious throats,
Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer!
It ceased, for hope was too intense for song.
A pause.—The figure on the crest flashed out,
Bordered with light. The sun was rising—rose
Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen
Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group.
What God did for the rest, I know not; it
Was easy to help them.—I saw them not.—
I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own!
Thy lovely face angelic now with grief;
But that I saw not first: thy head was bent,
Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between.
I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise,
Once only lifting that sweet face to mine,
Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream
Had lasted ever!—No; 'twas but a dream;
Thou art not rescued yet.
Earth's morning came,
And my soul's morning died in tearful gray.
The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped
In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring;
The last I heard, a chant break suddenly
Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound:
I had not listened in the excess of joy.
SCENE XVIII.—Portsmouth. A bedroom. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE
Lord S.
Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry.
If you could go alone, I'd have you go.
Lady Gertrude.
And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel.
Believe me, father, I am happier
In your sick room, than on a glowing island
In the blue Bay of Naples.
Lord S.
It was so sudden!
'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly.
But have your walk before the sun be hot.
Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.
Lady Gertrude. Good-bye then, father, for a little while.
[Goes.]
Lord S.
I never knew what illness was before.
O life! to think a man should stand so little
On his own will and choice, as to be thus
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone
From the rich world! No sense is left me more
Upon her face. And many more I knew—
Long-suffering women, true in heart and life;
Women that make man proud for very love
Of their humility, and of his pride
Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife.
On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills
Began to rise on each side of the path
Until at last we came into a glen,
From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven,
Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies.
Upon the eastern side one mighty summit
Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air;
And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint,
A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night.
From base to top, on climbing peak and crag,
Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes,
Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth
Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired
Great men of old—up, even to the apex
Of the snow-spear-point. Morning had arisen
From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel
Of Michelangelo laid him reclining,
And stood upon the crest.
A cry awoke
Amid the watchers at the lowest base,
And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth,
Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top;
And "Is God coming?" was the cry; which died
Away in silence; for no voice said No.
The bearers stood and set the coffin down;
The mourners gathered round it in a group;
Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why.
So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke,
And clomb the mountain-side, and died away
In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came.
How long we waited thus, I cannot tell—
How oft the cry arose and died again.
At last, from far, faint summit to the base,
Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes,
A mighty voice descended: "God is coming!"
Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side,
From all that multitude's melodious throats,
Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer!
It ceased, for hope was too intense for song.
A pause.—The figure on the crest flashed out,
Bordered with light. The sun was rising—rose
Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen
Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group.
What God did for the rest, I know not; it
Was easy to help them.—I saw them not.—
I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own!
Thy lovely face angelic now with grief;
But that I saw not first: thy head was bent,
Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between.
I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise,
Once only lifting that sweet face to mine,
Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream
Had lasted ever!—No; 'twas but a dream;
Thou art not rescued yet.
Earth's morning came,
And my soul's morning died in tearful gray.
The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped
In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring;
The last I heard, a chant break suddenly
Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound:
I had not listened in the excess of joy.
SCENE XVIII.—Portsmouth. A bedroom. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE
Lord S.
Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry.
If you could go alone, I'd have you go.
Lady Gertrude.
And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel.
Believe me, father, I am happier
In your sick room, than on a glowing island
In the blue Bay of Naples.
Lord S.
It was so sudden!
'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly.
But have your walk before the sun be hot.
Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.
Lady Gertrude. Good-bye then, father, for a little while.
[Goes.]
Lord S.
I never knew what illness was before.
O life! to think a man should stand so little
On his own will and choice, as to be thus
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone
From the rich world! No sense is left me more
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
очень хорошая книга для студентов и учителей