The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
I bended o'er her bed,
And soothed her, till in slumber deep
She from the darkness fled.
And as beside my child I stood,
A still voice said in me—
"Even thus thy Father, strong and good,
Is bending over thee."
SCENE II.—Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers; gentlemen looking on.
1_st Gentleman_.
Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves
As if her body were instinct with thought,
Moulded to motion by the music's waves,
As floats the swan upon the swelling lake;
Or as in dreams one sees an angel move,
Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air,
Then folding them, and turning on his track.
2_nd_.
You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it;
She is a glorious woman; and such eyes!
Think—to be loved by such a woman now!
1_st_.
You have seen her, then, before: what is her name?
2_nd_.
I saw her once; but could not learn her name.
3_rd_.
She is the wife of an Italian count,
Who for some cause, political I think,
Took refuge in this country. His estates
The Church has eaten up, as I have heard:
Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach.
2_nd_.
How do they live?
3_rd_.
Poorly, I should suppose;
For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons:
That's how they know her.—Ah, you should hear her sing!
2_nd_.
If she sings as she looks or as she dances,
It were as well for me I did not hear.
3_rd_.
If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford
To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth.
SCENE III.—Julian's room. LILY asleep.
Julian. I wish she would come home. When the child wakes, I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest On me, then wander searching through the room, And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia! 'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go From this dull place, and for a few short hours Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee; For thou art very young for such hard things As poor men's wives in cities must endure.
I am afraid the thought is not at rest,
But rises still, that she is not my wife—
Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child
Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead,
She thinks I have begun to think the same—
Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin
Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia!
When every time I pray, I pray that God
Would look and see that thou and I be one!
Lily (starting up in her crib). Oh, take me! take me!
Julian (going up to her with a smile). What is the matter with my little child?
Lily. I don't know, father; I was very frightened.
Julian. 'Twas nothing but a dream. Look—I am with you.
Lily. I am wake now; I know you're there; but then I did not know it.
[Smiling.]
Julian. Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again.
Lily (beseechingly). Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again; It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up, And let me sit upon your knee.—Where's mother? I cannot see her.
Julian. She's not at home, my child; But soon she will be back.
Lily. But if she walk Out in the dark streets—so dark, it will catch her.
Julian. She will not walk—but what would catch her, sweet?
Lily. I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes.
Julian (taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire). Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you A story I have read this very night.
[She looks in his face.]
There was a man who had a little boy,
And when the boy grew big, he went and asked
His father to give him a purse of money.
His father gave him such a large purse full!
And then he went away and left his home.
You see he did not love his father much.
Lily. Oh! didn't he?—If he had, he wouldn't have gone!
Julian. Away he went, far far away he went, Until he could not even spy the top Of the great mountain by his father's house. And still he went away, away, as if He tried how far his feet could go away; Until he came to a city huge and wide, Like London here.
Lily. Perhaps it was London.
Julian. Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent All, all his father's money, buying things That he had always told him were not worth, And not to buy them; but he would and did.
Lily. How very naughty of him!
Julian. Yes, my child. And so when he had spent his last few pence, He grew quite hungry. But he had none left To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce; Nobody gave him any. He had been Always so idle, that he could not work. But at last some one sent him to feed swine.
Lily. Swine! Oh!
Julian. Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do; And he was glad to eat some of their food.
[She stares at him.]
But at the last, hunger and waking love
Made him remember his old happy home.
"How many servants in my father's house
Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go
And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father;
I am not worthy to be called your son;
Put me among your servants, father, please.'"
Then he rose up and went; but thought the road
So much, much farther to walk back again,
When he was tired and hungry. But at last
He saw the blue top of the great big hill
That stood beside his father's house; and then
He walked much faster. But a great way off,
His father saw him coming, lame and weary
With his long walk; and very different
From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging