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

      Three paces bore him bounding to her side;

      Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there;

      But with main force, as one that gripes with fear,

      He threw the fascination off, and saw

      The work before him. Soon his hand and knife

      Replaced the saddle firmer than before

      Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned

      To mount the maiden. But bewilderment

      A moment lasted; for he knew not how,

      With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne,

      Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid:

      A moment only; for while yet she thanked,

      Nor yet had time to teach her further will,

      Around her waist he put his brawny hands,

      That almost zoned her round; and like a child

      Lifting her high, he set her on the horse;

      Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him,

      Nor turned away, although a radiant blush

      Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes.

      But he was never sure if from her heart

      Or from the rosy sunset came the flush.

      Again she thanked him, while again he stood

      Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word

      Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones

      Round which dissolving lambent music played,

      Like dropping water in a silver cup;

      Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill,

      Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke,

      And called himself hard names, and turned and went

      After his horses, bending too his head.

      Ah God! when Beauty passes by the door,

      Although she ne'er came in, the house grows bare.

      Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house.

      Why seems it always that it should be ours?

      A secret lies behind which Thou dost know,

      And I can partly guess.

                             But think not then,

      The holder of the plough had many sighs

      Upon his bed that night; or other dreams

      Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep,

      Within the magic crystal of the soul;

      Nor that the airy castles of his brain

      Had less foundation than the air admits.

      But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name;

      And answer, if he gained not from the fair

      Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth,

      An angel vision from a higher world.

      Not much of her I tell. Her changeful life

      Where part the waters on the mountain ridge,

      Flowed down the other side apart from his.

      Her tale hath wiled deep sighs on summer eves,

      Where in the ancient mysteries of woods

      Walketh a man who worships womanhood.

      Soon was she orphaned of such parent-haunts;

      Surrounded with dead glitter, not the shine

      Of leaves in wind and sunlight; while the youth

      Breathed on, as if a constant breaking dawn

      Sent forth the new-born wind upon his brow;

      And knew the morning light was climbing up

      The further hill-side—morning light, which most,

      They say, reveals the inner hues of earth.

      Now she was such as God had made her, ere

      The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say,

      And half-succeeded, failing utterly.

      Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child

      That stares you in the eyes; fearless of ill,

      Because she knew it not; and brave withal,

      Because she drank the draught that maketh strong,

      The charmed country air. Her father's house—

      A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name—

      Stood only two miles off amid the hills;

      But though she often passed alone as now,

      The youth had never seen her face before,

      And might not twice. Yet was not once enough?

      It left him not. She, as the harvest moon

      That goeth on her way, and knoweth not

      The fields of grain whose ripening ears she fills

      With wealth of life and human joyfulness,

      Went on, and knew not of the influence

      She left behind; yea, never thought of him;

      Save at those times when, all at once, old scenes

      Return uncalled, with wonder that they come,

      Amidst far other thoughts and other cares;

      Sinking again into their ancient graves,

      Till some far-whispered necromantic spell

      Loose them once more to wander for a space.

      Again I say, no fond romance of love,

      No argument of possibilities,

      If he were some one, and she claimed his aid,

      Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams.

      As soon he had sat down and twisted cords

      To snare, and carry home for daylight use,

      Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen

      On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields.

      But when he rose next morn, and went abroad,

      (The exultation of his new-found rank

      Already settling into dignity,)

      He found the earth was beautiful. The sky,

      Which shone with expectation of the sun,

      Somehow, he knew not how, was like her face.

      He grieved almost to plough the daisies down;

      Something they shared in common with that smile

      Wherewith she crowned his manhood; and they fell

      Bent in the furrow, sometimes, with their heads

      Just out imploringly. A hedgehog ran

      With tangled mesh of bristling spikes, and face

      Helplessly innocent, across the field:

      He let it run, and blessed it as it ran.

      At noon returning, something drew his feet

      Into the barn. Entering, he gazed and stood.

      Through the rent roof alighting, one sunbeam,

      Blazing upon the straw one golden spot,

      Dulled