The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 79

How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder; I think I know what I will say to him; I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder, I fear no pa.s.sing vision great and dim.

But he knows all my weary sinful story: How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair?

I come to him in all his conquered glory, Won from the life that I went dreaming there!

I come; I fall before him, faintly saying: "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win?

Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying; I have no honour--but may I come in?"

I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable; To me the earth was very lovely too: Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able To love it greatly!--but thou hast got through."

PART II.

I.

A gloomy and a windy day!

No sunny spot is bare; Dull vapours, in uncomely play, Go weltering through the air: If through the windows of my mind I let them come and go, My thoughts will also in the wind Sweep restless to and fro.

I drop my curtains for a dream.-- What comes? A mighty swan, With plumage like a sunny gleam, And folded airy van!

She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent By sea-maids to my sh.o.r.e, With stately head proud-humbly bent, And slackening swarthy oar.

Lone in a vaulted rock I lie, A water-hollowed cell, Where echoes of old storms go by, Like murmurs in a sh.e.l.l.

The waters half the gloomy way Beneath its arches come; Throbbing to outside billowy play, The green gulfs waver dumb.

Undawning twilights through the cave In moony glimmers go, Half from the swan above the wave, Half from the swan below,

As to my feet she gently drifts Through dim, wet-s.h.i.+ny things, And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts The shoulders of her wings.

Old earth is rich with many a nest Of softness ever new, Deep, delicate, and full of rest-- But loveliest there are two: I may not tell them save to minds That are as white as they; But none will hear, of other kinds-- They all are turned away.

On foamy mounds between the wings Of a white sailing swan, A flaky bed of shelterings, There you will find the one.

The other--well, it will not out, Nor need I tell it you; I've told you one, and can you doubt, When there are only two?

Fill full my dream, O splendid bird!

Me o'er the waters bear: Never was tranquil ocean stirred By s.h.i.+p so shapely fair!

Nor ever whiteness found a dress In which on earth to go, So true, profound, and rich, unless It was the falling snow!

Her wings, with flutter half-aloft, Impatient fan her crown; I cannot choose but nestle soft Into the depth of down.

With oary-pulsing webs unseen, Out the white frigate sweeps; In middle s.p.a.ce we hang, between The air- and ocean-deeps.

Up the wave's mounting, flowing side, With stroke on stroke we rack; As down the sinking slope we slide, She cleaves a talking track-- Like heather-bells on lonely steep, Like soft rain on the gla.s.s, Like children murmuring in their sleep, Like winds in reedy gra.s.s.

Her white breast heaving like a wave, She beats the solemn time; With slow strong sweep, intent and grave, Hearkens the ripples rime.

All round, from flat gloom upward drawn, I catch the gleam, vague, wide, With which the waves, from dark to dawn, Heave up the polished side.

The night is blue; the stars aglow Crowd the still, vaulted steep, Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow Of the self-murmurous deep-- A thicker night, with gathered moan!

A dull dethroned sky!

The shadows of its stars alone Left in to know it by!

What faints across yon lifted loop Where the west gleams its last?

With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group Of Nereids dreaming past.

Row on, fair swan;--who knows but I, Ere night hath sought her cave, May see in splendour pale float by The Venus of the wave!

II.

A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her, A glory that deepened and grew, A song of colour and odour That thrilled her through and through: 'Twas a dream of too much gladness Ever to see the light; They are only dreams of sadness That weary out the night.

Slow darkness began to rifle The nest of the sunset fair; Dank vapour began to stifle The scents that enriched the air; The flowers paled fast and faster, They crumbled, leaf and crown, Till they looked like the stained plaster Of a cornice fallen down.

And the change crept nigh and nigher, Inward and closer stole, Till the flameless, blasting fire Entered and withered her soul.-- But the fiends had only flouted Her vision of the night; Up came the morn and routed The darksome things with light.

Wide awake I have often been in it-- The dream that all is none; It will come in the gladdest minute And wither the very sun.

Two moments of sad commotion, One more of doubt's palsied rule-- And the great wave-pulsing ocean Is only a gathered pool;

A flower is a spot of painting, A lifeless, loveless hue; Though your heart be sick to fainting It says not a word to you; A bird knows nothing of gladness, Is only a song-machine; A man is a reasoning madness, A woman a pictured queen!

Then fiercely we dig the fountain: Oh! whence do the waters rise?

Then panting we climb the mountain: Oh! are there indeed blue skies?

We dig till the soul is weary, Nor find the water-nest out; We climb to the stone-crest dreary, And still the sky is a doubt!

Let alone the roots of the fountain; Drink of the water bright; Leave the sky at rest on the mountain, Walk in its torrent of light; Although thou seest no beauty, Though widowed thy heart yet cries, With thy hands go and do thy duty, And thy work will clear thine eyes.

III.

A great church in an empty square, A haunt of echoing tones!

Feet pa.s.s not oft enough to wear The gra.s.s between the stones.

The jarring hinges of its gates A stifled thunder boom; The boding heart slow-listening waits, As for a coming doom.

The door stands wide. With hideous grin, Like dumb laugh, evil, frore, A gulf of death, all dark within, Hath swallowed half the floor.

Its uncouth sides of earth and clay O'erhang the void below; Ah, some one force my feet away, Or down I needs must go!

See, see the horrid, crumbling slope!

It breathes up damp and fust!

What man would for his lost loves grope Amid the charnel dust!

Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high!

Methinks, with anguish dull, I enter by the empty eye Into a monstrous skull!

Stumbling on what I dare not guess, Blind-wading through the gloom, Still down, still on, I sink, I press, To meet some awful doom.