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

        "Hear'st thou that moan creeping along the ground?"

      Said the youth, and his veiling eyelids rose

      From deeps of lightning-haunted dark profound

      Ruffled with herald blasts of coming woes.

      "I hear it," said the maiden; "'tis the sound

      Of a great wind that here not seldom blows;

      It swings the huge arms of the dreary pine,

      But thou art safe, my darling, clasped in mine."

        "Hear'st thou the baying of my hounds?" said he;

      "Draw back the lattice bar and let them in."

      From a rent cloud the moonlight, ghostily,

      Slid clearer to the floor, as, gauntly thin,

      She opening, they leaped through with bound so free,

      Then shook the rain-drops from their shaggy skin.

      The maiden closed the shower-bespattered glass,

      Whose spotted shadow through the room did pass.

        The youth, half-raised, was leaning on his hand,

      But, when again beside him sat the maid,

      His eyes for one slow minute having scanned

      Her moonlit face, he laid him down, and said,

      Monotonous, like solemn-read command:

      "For Love is of the earth, earthy, and is laid

      Lifeless at length back in the mother-tomb."

      Strange moanings from the pine entered the room.

        And then two shadows like the shadow of glass,

      Over the moonbeams on the cottage floor,

      As wind almost as thin and shapeless, pass;

      A sound of rain-drops came about the door,

      And a soft sighing as of plumy grass;

      A look of sorrowing doubt the youth's face wore;

      The two great hounds half rose; with aspect grim

      They eyed his countenance by the taper dim.

        Shadow nor moaning sound the maiden noted,

      But on his face dwelt her reproachful look;

      She doubted whether he the saying had quoted

      Out of some evil, earth-begotten book,

      Or up from his deep heart, like bubbles, had floated

      Words which no maiden ever yet could brook;

      But his eyes held the question, "Yea or No?"

      Therefore the maiden answered, "Nay, not so;

        "Love is of heaven, eternal." Half a smile

      Just twinned his lips: shy, like all human best,

      A hopeful thought bloomed out, and lived a while;

      He looked one moment like a dead man blest—

      His soul a bark that in a sunny isle

      At length had found the haven of its rest;

      But he could not remain, must forward fare:

      He spoke, and said with words abrupt and bare,

        "Maiden, I have loved other maidens." Pale

      Her red lips grew. "I loved them, yes, but they

      Successively in trial's hour did fail,

      For after sunset clouds again are gray."

      A sudden light shone through the fringy veil

      That drooping hid her eyes; and then there lay

      A stillness on her face, waiting; and then

      The little clock rung out the hour of ten.

        Moaning once more the great pine-branches bow

      To a soft plaining wind they would not stem.

      Brooding upon her face, the youth said, "Thou

      Art not more beautiful than some of them,

      But a fair courage crowns thy peaceful brow,

      Nor glow thine eyes, but shine serene like gem

      That lamps from radiant store upon the dark

      The light it gathered where its song the lark.

        "The horse that broke this day from grasp of three,

      Thou sawest then the hand thou holdest, hold:

      Ere two fleet hours are gone, that hand will be

      Dry, big-veined, wrinkled, withered up and old!—

      No woman yet hath shared my doom with me."

      With calm fixed eyes she heard till he had told;

      The stag-hounds rose, a moment gazed at him,

      Then laid them down with aspect yet more grim.

        Spake on the youth, nor altered look or tone:

      "'Tis thy turn, maiden, to say no or dare."—

      Was it the maiden's, that importunate moan?—

      "At midnight, when the moon sets, wilt thou share

      The terror with me? or must I go alone

      To meet an agony that will not spare?"

      She answered not, but rose to take her cloak;

      He staid her with his hand, and further spoke.

        "Not yet," he said; "yet there is respite; see,

      Time's finger points not yet to the dead hour!

      Enough is left even now for telling thee

      The far beginnings whence the fearful power

      Of the great dark came shadowing down on me:

      Red roses crowding clothe my love's dear bower—

      Nightshade and hemlock, darnel, toadstools white

      Compass the place where I must lie to-night!"

        Around his neck the maiden put her arm

      And knelt beside him leaning on his breast,

      As o'er his love, to keep it strong and warm,

      Brooding like bird outspread upon her nest.

      And well the faith of her dear eyes might charm

      All doubt away