The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.

      "Thou wanderest in the land of dreams,

        O man of many songs!

      To thee what is, but looks and seems;

        No realm to thee belongs!"

      "Seest thou those mountains, faint and far,

        O spirit caged and tame?"

      "Blue clouds like distant hills they are,

        And like is not the same."

      "Nay, nay; I know each mountain well,

        Each cliff, and peak, and dome!

      In that cloudland, in one high dell,

        Nesteth my little home."

      Behind my father's cottage lies

        A gentle grassy height

      Up which I often ran—to gaze

        Back with a wondering sight,

      For then the chimneys I thought high

        Were down below me quite!

      All round, where'er I turned mine eyes,

        Huge hills closed up the view;

      The town 'mid their converging roots

        Was clasped by rivers two;

      From, one range to another sprang

        The sky's great vault of blue.

      It was a joy to climb their sides,

        And in the heather lie!

      A joy to look at vantage down

        On the castle grim and high!

      Blue streams below, white clouds above,

        In silent earth and sky!

      And now, where'er my feet may roam,

        At sight of stranger hill

      A new sense of the old delight

        Springs in my bosom still,

      And longings for the high unknown

        Their ancient channels fill.

      For I am always climbing hills,

        From the known to the unknown—

      Surely, at last, on some high peak,

        To find my Father's throne,

      Though hitherto I have only found

        His footsteps in the stone!

      And in my wanderings I did meet

        Another searching too:

      The dawning hope, the shared quest

        Our thoughts together drew;

      Fearless she laid her band in mine

        Because her heart was true.

      She was not born among the hills,

        Yet on each mountain face

      A something known her inward eye

        By inborn light can trace;

      For up the hills must homeward be,

        Though no one knows the place.

      Clasp my hand close, my child, in thine—

        A long way we have come!

      Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,

        Farther we yet must roam—

      Climbing and climbing till we reach

        Our heavenly father's home.

      Hark, the rain is on my roof!

      Every murmur, through the dark,

      Stings me with a dull reproof

      Like a half-extinguished spark.

      Me! ah me! how came I here,

      Wide awake and wide alone!

      Caught within a net of fear,

      All my dreams undreamed and gone!

      I will rise; I will go forth.

      Better dare the hideous night,

      Better face the freezing north

      Than be still, where is no light!

      Black wind rushing round me now,

      Sown with arrowy points of rain!

      Gone are there and then and now—

      I am here, and so is pain!

      Dead in dreams the gloomy street!

      I will out on open roads.

      Eager grow my aimless feet—

      Onward, onward something goads!

      I will take the mountain path,

      Beard the storm within its den;

      Know the worst of this dim wrath

      Harassing the souls of men.

      Chasm 'neath chasm! rock piled on rock!

      Roots, and crumbling earth, and stones!

      Hark, the torrent's thundering shock!

      Hark, the swaying pine tree's groans!

      Ah! I faint, I fall, I die,

      Sink to nothingness away!—

      Lo, a streak upon the sky!

      Lo, the opening eye of day!

      Mountain summits lift their snows

      O'er a valley green and low;

      And a winding pathway goes

      Guided by the river's flow;

      And a music rises ever,

      As of peace and low content,

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