A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Ma poi ch' i' fui appiè d' un colle giunto,

        Là ove terminava quella valle,

      Che m' avea di paura il cuor compunto;

        Guarda' in alto, e vidi le sue spalle

      Vestite già de' raggi del pianeta,

        Che mena dritto altrui per ogni calle.

      Take of the first fruits, Father, of thy care,

        Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude

        Late waked for early gifts ill understood;

      Claiming in all my harvests rightful share,

      Whether with song that mounts the joyful air

        I praise my God; or, in yet deeper mood,

        Sit dumb because I know a speechless good,

      Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer.

        Thou hast been faithful to my highest need;

      And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore,

      Shall never feel the grateful burden sore.

        Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed,

        But for the sense thy living self did breed

      That fatherhood is at the great world's core.

      All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined,

        As for some being of another race;

        Ah! not with it departing—grown apace

      As years have brought me manhood's loftier mind

      Able to see thy human life behind—

        The same hid heart, the same revealing face—

        My own dim contest settling into grace

      Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined.

        So I beheld my God, in childhood's morn,

      A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart,

      Moveless and dim—I scarce could say Thou art:

        My manhood came, of joy and sadness born—

        Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn,

      Revealed man's glory, God's great human heart.

      Proudly the youth, by manhood sudden crowned,

      Went walking by his horses to the plough,

      For the first time that morn. No soldier gay

      Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt

      (Knowing the blue blade hides within its sheath,

      As lightning in the cloud) with more delight,

      When first he belts it on, than he that day

      Heard still the clank of the plough-chains against

      The horses' harnessed sides, as to the field

      They went to make it fruitful. O'er the hill

      The sun looked down, baptizing him for toil.

      A farmer's son he was, and grandson too;

      Yea, his great-grandsire had possessed these fields.

      Tradition said they had been tilled by men

      Who bore the name long centuries ago,

      And married wives, and reared a stalwart race,

      And died, and went where all had followed them,

      Save one old man, his daughter, and the youth

      Who ploughs in pride, nor ever doubts his toil;

      And death is far from him this sunny morn.

      Why should we think of death when life is high?

      The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night.

      Earth, give us food, and, after that, a grave;

      For both are good, each better in its time.

      The youth knew little; but he read old tales

      Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift

      As charging knights upon their death career.

      And then he chanted old tunes, till the blood

      Was charmed back into its fountain-well,

      And tears arose instead. And Robert's songs,

      Which ever flow in noises like his name,

      Rose from him in the fields beside the kine,

      And met the sky-lark's rain from out the clouds.

      As yet he sang only as sing the birds,

      From gladness simply, or, he knew not why.

      The earth was fair—he knew not it was fair;

      And he so glad—he knew not he was glad:

      He walked as in a twilight of the sense,

      Which this one day shall turn to tender light.

      For, ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops

      Of the fir-thicket on the eastward hill,

      His horses leaned and laboured. His great hands

      Held both the reins and plough-stilts: he was proud;

      Proud with a ploughman's pride; nobler, may be,

      Than statesman's, ay, or poet's pride sometimes,

      For little praise would come that he ploughed well,

      And yet he did it well; proud of his work,

      And not of what would follow. With sure eye,

      He saw the horses keep the arrow-track;

      He saw the swift share cut the measured sod;

      He saw the furrow folding to the right,

      Ready with nimble foot to aid at need.

      And there the slain sod lay, patient for grain,

      Turning its secrets upward to the sun,

      And hiding in a grave green sun-born grass,

      And daisies clipped in carmine: all must die,

      That others live, and they arise again.

      Then when the sun had clomb to his decline,

      And seemed to rest, before his slow descent,

      Upon the keystone of his airy bridge,

      They rested likewise, half-tired man and horse,

      And homeward went for food and courage new;

      Whereby refreshed, they turned again to toil,

      And lived in labour all the afternoon.

      Till, in the gloaming, once again the plough

      Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea;

      And home with hanging neck the horses went,

      Walking beside their master, force by will.

      Then through the deepening shades a vision came.

      It was a lady mounted on a horse,

      A slender girl upon a mighty steed,

      That bore her with the pride horses must feel

      When they submit to women. Home she went,

      Alone,