The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 4

[Monk _goes_.]

Said I well, That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?

That G.o.d would hear his own elect who cried?

Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!

So tender in conceit, that it shall draw The heart by very strength of delicateness, And move proud thought to wors.h.i.+p!

I must act With caution now; must win his confidence; Question him of the secret enemies That fight against his soul; and lead him thus To tell me, by degrees, his history.

So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation For future acts, as circ.u.mstance requires.

For if the tale be true that he is rich, And if----

_Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_.

_Monk_.

He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.

_Abbot_ (_starting up_).

What! You are crazy! Gone?

His cell is empty?

_Monk_.

'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!

_Abbot_.

Heaven and h.e.l.l! It shall not be, I swear!

There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied!

Some one is in his confidence!--who is it?

Go rouse the convent.

[Monk _goes_.]

He must be followed, found.

Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!

But by and by your horns, and then your side!

'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating.

I'll go and sift this business to the bran.

Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!--G.o.d's curse! it shall fare ill with any man That has connived at this, if I detect him.

SCENE VII.--_Afternoon. The mountains_. JULIAN.

_Julian_.

Once more I tread thy courts, O G.o.d of heaven!

I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak Is miles away, and high amid the clouds.

Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, With the fantastic rock upon its side, Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, The _hitherto_ of my child-thoughts. Beyond, A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, Might be the depths of the unfathomed s.p.a.ce, This the earth's bulwark over the abyss.

Upon its very point I have watched a star For a few moments crown it with a fire, As of an incense-offering that blazed Upon this mighty altar high uplift, And then float up the pathless waste of heaven.

From the next window I could look abroad Over a plain unrolled, which G.o.d had painted With trees, and meadow-gra.s.s, and a large river, Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, In white and green; but still I turned to look At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows: All here I saw--I knew not what was there.

O love of knowledge and of mystery, Striving together in the heart of man!

"Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."-- Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round: "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!"

But I must hasten; else the sun will set Before I reach the smoother valley-road.

I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, Four years of wandering since I left my home, In suns.h.i.+ne and in snow, in s.h.i.+p and cell, Must have worn changes in this face of mine Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.

SCENE VIII.--_A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the floor_. ROBERT.

_Robert_.

One comfort is, he's far away by this.

Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin.

Where shall I find a daysman in this strife Between my heart and holy Church's words?

Is not the law of kindness from G.o.d's finger, Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, Be subject to the written law of words; Impulses made, made strong, that we might have Within the temple's court live things to bring And slay upon his altar; that we may, By this hard penance of the heart and soul, Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong; I ought not to have let poor Julian go.

And yet that light upon the floor says, yes-- Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life That he might be in peace. Still up and down The balance goes, a good in either scale; Two angels giving each to each the lie, And none to part them or decide the question.

But still the _words_ come down the heaviest Upon my conscience as that scale descends; But that may be because they hurt me more, Being rough strangers in the feelings' home.

Would G.o.d forbid us to do what is right, Even for his sake? But then Julian's life Belonged to G.o.d, to do with as he pleases!

I am bewildered. 'Tis as G.o.d and G.o.d Commanded different things in different tones.

Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest G.o.d's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, Like Mary singing to her mangered child; The other like a self-restrained tempest; Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai, Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_.

O for some light! Would they would kill me! then I would go up, close up, to G.o.d's own throne, And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; And he would slay this ghastly contradiction.

I should not fear, for he would comfort me, Because I am perplexed, and long to know.

But this perplexity may be my sin, And come of pride that will not yield to him!

O for one word from G.o.d! his own, and fresh From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!

_PART II_.

Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!

It is thy Duty waiting thee without.

Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt; A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence; Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence; Go forth into the tumult and the shout; Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about: Of noise alone is born the inward sense Of silence; and from action springs alone The inward knowledge of true love and faith.

Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan: One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own, Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.

SCENE I.--_A room in Julian's castle_. JULIAN _and the old_ Nurse.

_Julian_.

Nembroni? Count Nembroni?--I remember: A man about my height, but stronger built?

I have seen him at her father's. There was something I did not like about him:--ah! I know: He had a way of darting looks at you, As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.

_Nurse_.

The same, my lord. He is the creditor.

The common story is, he sought the daughter, But sought in vain: the lady would not wed.

'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble, Which caused much wonder, for the family Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni Contrived to be the only creditor, And so imprisoned him.

_Julian_.

Where is the lady?