Rampolli. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
Is my weeping, is my wailing:
Would that I were turned to clay!
Evermore I hear him crying
To his Father, see him dying:
Will this heart for ever beat!
Will my eyes in death close never?
Weeping all into a river
Were a bliss for me too sweet!
Hear I none but me bewailing?
Dies his name an echo failing?
Is the world at once struck dead?
Shall I from his eyes, ah! never
More drink love and life for ever?
Is he now for always dead?
Dead? What means that sound of dolour?
Tell me, tell me thou, a scholar,
What it means, that word so grim.
He is silent; all turn from me!
No one on the earth will show me
Where my heart may look for him!
Earth no more, whate’er befall me,
Can to any gladness call me!
She is but one dream of woe!
I too am with him departed:
Would I lay with him, still-hearted,
In the region down below!
Hear, me, hear, his and my father!
My dead bones, I pray thee, gather
Unto his—and soon, I pray!
Grass his hillock soon will cover,
Soon the wind will wander over,
Soon his form will fade away.
If his love they once perceived,
Soon, soon all men had believed,
Letting all things else go by!
Lord of love him only owning,
All would weep with me bemoaning,
And in bitter woe would die!
IX
He lives! he’s risen from the dead!
To every man I shout;
His presence over us is spread,
Goes with us in and out.
To each I say it; each apace
His comrades telleth too—
That straight will dawn in every place
The heavenly kingdom new.
Now, to the new mind, first appears
The world a fatherland;
A new life men receive, with tears
Of rapture, from his hand.
Down into deepest gulfs of sea
Grim Death hath sunk away;
And now each man with holy glee,
Can face his coming day.
The darksome road that he hath gone
Leads out on heaven’s floor:
Who heeds the counsel of the Son
Enters the Father’s door.
Down here weeps no one any more
For friend that shuts his eyes;
For, soon or late, the parting sore
Will change to glad surprise.
And now to every friendly deed
Each heart will warmer glow;
For many a fold the fresh-sown seed
In lovelier fields will blow.
He lives—will sit beside our hearths,
The greatest with the least;
Therefore this day shall be our Earth’s
Glad Renovation-feast.
X
The times are all so wretched!
The heart so full of cares!
The future, far outstretched,
A spectral horror wears.
Wild terrors creep and hover
With foot so ghastly soft!
Our souls black midnights cover
With mountains piled aloft.
Firm props like reeds are waving;
For trust is left no stay;
Our thoughts, like whirlpool raving,
No more the will obey!
Frenzy, with eye resistless,
Decoys from Truth’s defence;
Life’s pulse is flagging listless,
And dull is every sense.
Who hath the cross upheaved
To shelter every soul?
Who lives, on high received,
To make the wounded whole?
Go to the tree of wonder;
Give silent longing room;
Issuing flames asunder
Thy bad dream will consume.
Draws thee an angel tender
In saftey to the strand:
Lo, at thy feet in splendour
Lies spread the Promised Land!
XI
I know not what were left to draw me,
Had I but him who is my bliss;
If still his eye with pleasure saw me,
And, dwelling with me, me would miss.
So many search, round all ways going,
With face distorted, anxious eye,
Who call themselves the wise and knowing,