The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 30

The door went open soundless. We went in, And entered yet again an inner room.

The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if From striking on it. The door closed behind.

And then I saw that there was something black, Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up In the middle of the room. And then I saw That there were shapes of woe all round the room, Like women in long mantles, bent in grief, With long veils hanging low down from their heads, All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing Began to move. Four horrid m.u.f.fled figures Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed, The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left The house in long procession. I was walking Alone beside the coffin--such it was-- Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing.

And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes: Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up White arms of lamentation; Desdemona In her night-robe, crimson on the left side; Thekla in black, with resolute white face; And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow-- 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 G.o.ds; 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed. 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: "_G.o.d is coming_!"

Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side, From all that mult.i.tude'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 To touch with beauty. Even she has faded Into the far horizon, a spent dream Of love and loss and pa.s.sionate despair!

Is there no beauty? Is it all a show Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves, A reflex of well-ordered organism?

Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart No more mysterious, no more beautiful, Than I am to myself this ghastly moment?

It must be so--it _must_, except G.o.d is, And means the meaning that we think we see, Sends forth the beauty we are taking in.

O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower Before it blew on any bank of spring, Then all is untruth, unreality, And we are wretched things; our highest needs Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves; And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts Die with the voidness of the universe.

But if thou art, O G.o.d, then all is true; Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams.

And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her!

O G.o.d! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned Against thy beauty and thy graciousness!

That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine.

Thy thought pa.s.sed into form, that glory pa.s.sed Before my eyes, a bright particular star: Like foolish child, I reached out for the star, Nor kneeled, nor wors.h.i.+pped. I will be content That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee, Mine to revere, though not to call my own.

Forgive me, G.o.d! Forgive me, Lilia!

My love has taken vengeance on my love.

I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content.

Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find That thou art not a phantom, but G.o.d's child; That Beauty is, though it is not for me.

When I would hold it, then I disbelieved.

That I may yet believe, I will not touch it.

I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty, Denying him in grasping at his work.

SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_.

LILY _gathering flowers and gra.s.s among the gra.s.s_.

_Julian_.

O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch, Made ready for the weary! Everywhere, O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children-- Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up, Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom Lie in the luxury of primeval peace, Fearless of any morn; as a new babe Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed: That home of blessedness is all there is; He never feels the silent rus.h.i.+ng tide, Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness.

But thou, thank G.o.d, hast this warm bed at last Ready for him when weary: well the green Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn.

O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed To which I bore thee with a n.o.bler joy!

--Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain.

How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart Was all so tender to thee! But I fear My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed With questions to be solved, before my face Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain.

Ah, now I know I did not well for thee In making thee my wife! I should have gone Alone into eternity. I was Too rough for thee, for any tender woman-- Other I had not loved--so full of fancies!

Too given to meditation. A deed of love Is stronger than a metaphysic truth; Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words.

Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it?

How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight-- For life must ever need the shows of life?

How fail to love a man so like thyself, Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood?

I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones, But never white flowers, rubied at the heart.

O G.o.d, forgive me; it is all my fault.

Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized, Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty?

Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart, And I have kept her like a caged seamew Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead.

O G.o.d, my eyes are opening--fearfully: I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride, That kept me back from speaking all my soul.

I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never Cast all my being, life and all, on hers, In burning words of openness and truth?

Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love, p.r.o.ne at her feet abandonedly? Why not Have been content to minister and wait; And if she answered not to my desires, Have smiled and waited patient? G.o.d, they say, Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower: I gave not five years to a woman's soul!

Had I not drunk at last old wine of love?

I shut her love back on her lovely heart; I did not s.h.i.+eld her in the wintry day; And she has withered up and died and gone.

G.o.d, let me perish, so thy beautiful Be brought with gladness and with singing home.

If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow To be her slave, and serve her with my soul.

I in my hand will take my heart, and burn Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain.