The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
See the eyes of a dragon glow!
From the thickets the silent serpents glide—
I pass them, I let them go;
For somewhere in the evil night
A little one cries alone;
An aged knight, outnumbered in fight,
But for me will be stricken prone;
A lady with terror is staring white,
For her champion is overthrown.
The child in my arms, to my hauberk prest,
Like a trembling bird will cling;
I will cover him over, in iron nest,
With my shield, my one steel wing,
And bear him home to his mother's breast,
A radiant, rescued thing.
Spur in flank, and lance in rest,
On the old knight's foes I flash;
The caitiffs I scatter to east and west
With clang and hurtle and crash;
Leave them the law, as knaves learn it best,
In bruise, and breach, and gash.
The lady I lift on my panting steed;
On the pommel she holds my mace;
Hand on bridle I gently lead
The horse at a gentle pace;
The thickets with martel-axe I heed,
For the wood is an evil place.
What treasure is there in manly might
That hid in the bosom lies!
Who for the crying will not fight
Had better be he that cries!
A man is a knight that loves the right
And mounts for it till he dies.
Alas, 'tis a dream of ages hoar!
In the fens no dragons won;
No giants from moated castles roar;
Through the forest wide roadways run;
Of all the deeds they did of yore
Not one is left to be done!
If I should saddle old Ravenwing
And hie me out at night,
Scared little birds away would spring
An ill-shot arrow's flight:
The idle fancy away I fling,
Now I will dream aright!
Let a youth bridle Twilight, my dapple-gray,
With broad rein and snaffle bit;
He must bring him round at break of day
When the shadows begin to flit,
When the darkness begins to dream away,
And the owls begin to sit.
Ungraithed in plate or mail I go,
With only my sword—gray-blue
Like the scythe of the dawning come to mow
The night-sprung shadows anew
From the gates of the east, that, fair and slow,
Maid Morning may walk through.
I seek no forest with darkness grim,
To the open land I ride;
Low light, from the broad horizon's brim,
Lies wet on the flowing tide,
And mottles with shadows dun and dim
The mountain's rugged side.
Steadily, hasteless, o'er valley and hill.
O'er the moor, along the beach,
We ride, nor slacken our pace until
Some city of men we reach;
There, in the market, my horse stands still,
And I lift my voice and preach.
Wealth and poverty, age and youth
Around me gather and throng;
I tell them of justice, of wisdom, of truth,
Of mercy, and law, and wrong;
My words are moulded by right and ruth
To a solemn-chanted song.
They bring me questions which would be scanned,
That strife may be forgot;
Swerves my balance to neither hand,
The poor I favour no jot;
If a man withstand, out sweeps my brand.
I slay him upon the spot.
But what if my eye have in it a beam
And therefore spy his mote?
Righteousness only, wisdom supreme
Can tell the sheep from the goat!
Not thus I dream a wise man's dream,
Not thus take Wrong by the throat!
Lead Twilight home. I dare not kill;
The sword myself would scare.—
When the sun looks over the eastern hill,
Bring out my snow-white mare:
One labour is left which no one will
Deny me the right to share!
Take heed, my men, from crest to heel
Snow-white have no speck;
No curb, no bit her mouth must feel,
No tightening rein her neck;
No saddle-girth drawn with buckle of steel
Shall her mighty breathing check!
Lay on her a cloth of silver sheen,
Bring me a robe of white;
Wherever