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

        But when he turned again, toward the cleft

      Of a great rock, as instantly it ceased,

      And the tall pines stood sudden, as if reft

      Of a strong passion, or from pain released;

      Again they wove their straight, dark, motionless weft

      Across the moonset-bars; and, west and east,

      Cloud-giants rose and marched up cloudy stairs;

      And like sad thoughts the bats came unawares.

        'Twas a drear chamber for thy bridal night,

      O poor, pale, saviour bride! An earthen lamp

      With shaking hands he kindled, whose faint light

      Mooned out a tiny halo on the damp

      That filled the cavern to its unseen height,

      Dim glimmering like death-candle in a swamp.

      Watching the entrance, each side lies a hound,

      With liquid light his red eyes gleaming round.

        A heap rose grave-like from the rocky floor

      Of moss and leaves, by many a sunny wind

      Long tossed and dried—with rich furs covered o'er

      Expectant. Up a jealous glory shined

      In her possessing heart: he should find more

      In her than in those faithless! With sweet mind

      She, praying gently, did herself unclothe,

      And lay down by him, trusting, and not loath.

        Once more a wind came, flapping overhead;

      The hounds pricked up their ears, their eyes flashed fire.

      The trembling maiden heard a sudden tread—

      Dull, yet plain dinted on the windy gyre,

      As if long, wet feet o'er smooth pavement sped—

      Come fiercely up, as driven by longing dire

      To enter; followed sounds of hurried rout:

      With bristling hair, the hounds stood looking out.

        Then came, half querulous, a whisper old,

      Feeble and hollow as if shut in a chest:

      "Take my face on your bosom; I am cold."

      She bared her holy bosom's truth-white nest,

      And forth her two hands instant went, love-bold,

      And took the face, and close against her pressed:

      Ah, the dead chill!—Was that the feet again?—

      But her great heart kept beating for the twain.

        She heard the wind fall, heard the following rain

      Swelling the silent waters till their sound

      Went wallowing through the night along the plain.

      The lamp went out, by the slow darkness drowned.

      Must the fair dawn a thousand years refrain?

      Like centuries the feeble hours went round.

      Eternal night entombed her with decay:

      To her live soul she clasped the breathless clay.

        The world stood still. Her life sank down so low

      That but for wretchedness no life she knew.

      A charnel wind moaned out a moaning—No;

      From the devouring heart of earth it blew.

      Fair memories lost all their sunny glow:

      Out of the dark the forms of old friends grew

      But so transparent blanched with dole and smart

      She saw the pale worm lying in each heart.

        And, worst of all—Oh death of keep-fled life!

      A voice within her woke and cried: In sooth

      Vain is all sorrow, hope, and care, and strife!

      Love and its beauty, its tenderness and truth

      Are shadows bred in hearts too fancy-rife,

      Which melt and pass with sure-decaying youth:

      Regard them, and they quiver, waver, blot;

      Gaze at them fixedly, and they are not.

        And all the answer the poor child could make

      Was in the tightened clasp of arms and hands.

      Hopeless she lay, like one Death would not take

      But still kept driving from his empty lands,

      Yet hopeless held she out for his dear sake;

      The darksome horror grew like drifting sands

      Till nought was precious—neither God nor light,

      And yet she braved the false, denying night.

        So dead was hope, that, when a glimmer weak

      Stole through a fissure somewhere in the cave,

      Thinning the clotted darkness on his cheek,

      She thought her own tired eyes the glimmer gave:

      He moved his head; she saw his eyes, love-meek,

      And knew that Death was dead and filled the Grave.

      Old age, convicted lie, had fled away!

      Youth, Youth eternal, in her bosom lay!

        With a low cry closer to him she crept

      And on his bosom hid a face that glowed:

      It was his turn to comfort—he had slept!

      Oh earth and sky, oh ever patient God,

      She had not yielded, but the truth had kept!

      New love, new bliss in weeping overflowed.

      I can no farther tell the tale begun;

      They are asleep, and waiting for the sun.