Kitabı oku: «The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1», sayfa 17

XXXII

 
  Years have passed o'er my broken plan
      To picture out a strife,
  Where ancient Death, in horror wan,
      Faced young and fearing Life.
 
 
  More of the tale I tell not so—
      But for myself would say:
  My heart is quiet with what I know,
      With what I hope, is gay.
 
 
  And where I cannot set my faith,
      Unknowing or unwise,
  I say "If this be what he saith,
      Here hidden treasure lies."
 
 
  Through years gone by since thus I strove,
      Thus shadowed out my strife,
  While at my history I wove,
      Thou wovest in the life.
 
 
  Through poverty that had no lack
      For friends divinely good;
  Through pain that not too long did rack,
      Through love that understood;
 
 
  Through light that taught me what to hold
      And what to cast away;
  Through thy forgiveness manifold,
      And things I cannot say,
 
 
  Here thou hast brought me—able now
      To kiss thy garment's hem,
  Entirely to thy will to bow,
      And trust thee even for them
 
 
  Who in the darkness and the mire
      Walk with rebellious feet,
  Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire
      For heavenly floor unmeet!
 
 
  Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how—
      With this blue air, blue sea,
  This yellow sand, that grassy brow,
      All isolating me—
 
 
  Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart,
      My thoughts to thine draw near;
  But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart,
      Who gav'st me words must hear.
 
 
  Thou mad'st the hand with which I write,
      The eye that watches slow
  Through rosy gates that rosy light
      Across thy threshold go;
 
 
  Those waves that bend in golden spray,
      As if thy foot they bore:
  I think I know thee, Lord, to-day,
      Shall know thee evermore.
 
 
  I know thy father thine and mine:
      Thou the great fact hast bared:
  Master, the mighty words are thine—
      Such I had never dared!
 
 
  Lord, thou hast much to make me yet—
      Thy father's infant still:
  Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set,
      That I may grow thy will.
 
 
  My soul with truth clothe all about,
      And I shall question free:
  The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt,
      In that fear doubteth thee.
 

THE GOSPEL WOMEN

I.
THE MOTHER MARY

I

 
  Mary, to thee the heart was given
  For infant hand to hold,
  And clasp thus, an eternal heaven,
  The great earth in its fold.
 
 
  He seized the world with tender might
  By making thee his own;
  Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height
  Was to thyself unknown.
 
 
  He came, all helpless, to thy power,
  For warmth, and love, and birth;
  In thy embraces, every hour,
  He grew into the earth.
 
 
  Thine was the grief, O mother high,
  Which all thy sisters share
  Who keep the gate betwixt the sky
  And this our lower air;
 
 
  But unshared sorrows, gathering slow,
  Will rise within thy heart,
  Strange thoughts which like a sword will go
  Thorough thy inward part.
 
 
  For, if a woman bore a son
  That was of angel brood,
  Who lifted wings ere day was done,
  And soared from where she stood,
 
 
  Wild grief would rave on love's high throne;
  She, sitting in the door,
  All day would cry: "He was my own,
  And now is mine no more!"
 
 
  So thou, O Mary, years on years,
  From child-birth to the cross,
  Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears,
  Keen sense of love and loss.
 
 
  His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach;
  His godlike tenderness
  Would sometimes seem, in human speech,
  To thee than human less.
 
 
  Strange pangs await thee, mother mild,
  A sorer travail-pain;
  Then will the spirit of thy child
  Be born in thee again.
 
 
  Till then thou wilt forebode and dread;
  Loss will be still thy fear—
  Till he be gone, and, in his stead,
  His very self appear.
 
 
  For, when thy son hath reached his goal,
  And vanished from the earth,
  Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul,
  A second, holier birth.
 

II

 
  Ah, there he stands! With wondering face
  Old men surround the boy;
  The solemn looks, the awful place
  Bestill the mother's joy.
 
 
  In sweet reproach her gladness hid,
  Her trembling voice says—low,
  Less like the chiding than the chid—
  "How couldst thou leave us so?"
 
 
  But will her dear heart understand
  The answer that he gives—
  Childlike, eternal, simple, grand,
  The law by which he lives?
 
 
  "Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear,
  The gulf already opes
  That will in thee keep live the fear,
  And part thee from thy hopes!
 
 
  "My father's business—that ye know
  I cannot choose but do."
  Mother, if he that work forego,
  Not long he cares for you.
 
 
  Creation's harder, better part
  Now occupies his hand:
  I marvel not the mother's heart
  Not yet could understand.
 

III

 
  The Lord of life among them rests;
  They quaff the merry wine;
  They do not know, those wedding guests,
  The present power divine.
 
 
  Believe, on such a group he smiled,
  Though he might sigh the while;
  Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child
  Was born without a smile.
 
 
  He saw the pitchers, high upturned,
  Their last red drops outpour;
  His mother's cheek with triumph burned,
  And expectation wore.
 
 
  He knew the prayer her bosom housed,
  He read it in her eyes;
  Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused
  Ere yet her words arise.
 
 
  "They have no wine!" she, halting, said,
  Her prayer but half begun;
  Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head,
  Show what thou art, my son!"
 
 
  A vision rose before his eyes,
  The cross, the waiting tomb,
  The people's rage, the darkened skies,
  His unavoided doom:
 
 
  Ah woman dear, thou must not fret
  Thy heart's desire to see!
  His hour of honour is not yet—
  'Twill come too soon for thee!
 
 
  His word was dark; his tone was kind;
  His heart the mother knew;
  His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined;
  They gave her heart the cue.
 
 
  Another, on the word intent,
  Had read refusal there;
  She heard in it a full consent,
  A sweetly answered prayer.
 
 
  "Whate'er he saith unto you, do."
  Out flowed his grapes divine;
  Though then, as now, not many knew
  Who makes the water wine.
 

IV

 
  "He is beside himself!" Dismayed,
  His mother, brothers talked:
  He from the well-known path had strayed
  In which their fathers walked!
 
 
  With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud
  Some one the message bore:—
  He stands within, amid a crowd,
  They at the open door:—
 
 
  "Thy mother and thy brothers would
  Speak with thee. Lo, they stand
  Without and wait thee!" Like a flood
  Of sunrise on the land,
 
 
  A new-born light his face o'erspread;
  Out from his eyes it poured;
  He lifted up that gracious head,
  Looked round him, took the word:
 
 
  "My mother—brothers—who are they?"
  Hearest thou, Mary mild?
  This is a sword that well may slay—
  Disowned by thy child!
 
 
  Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear—
  They are our humble lord's!
  O mother, did they wound thy ear?—
  We thank him for the words.
 
 
  "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say,
  Stretching his hand abroad,
  "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they
  That do the will of God!"
 
 
  My brother! Lord of life and me,
  If life might grow to this!—
  Would it not, brother, sister, be
  Enough for all amiss?
 
 
  Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice:
  Thou art his mother still,
  But may'st be more—of thy own choice
  Doing his Father's will.
 
 
  Ambition for thy son restrain,
  Thy will to God's will bow:
  Thy son he shall be yet again.
  And twice his mother thou.
 
 
  O humble man, O faithful son!
  That woman most forlorn
  Who yet thy father's will hath done,
  Thee, son of man, hath born!
 

V

 
  Life's best things gather round its close
  To light it from the door;
  When woman's aid no further goes,
  She weeps and loves the more.
 
 
  She doubted oft, feared for his life,
  Yea, feared his mission's loss;
  But now she shares the losing strife,
  And weeps beside the cross.
 
 
  The dreaded hour is come at last,
  The sword hath reached her soul;
  The hour of tortured hope is past,
  And gained the awful goal.
 
 
  There hangs the son her body bore,
  The limbs her arms had prest!
  The hands, the feet the driven nails tore
  Had lain upon her breast!
 
 
  He speaks; the words how faintly brief,
  And how divinely dear!
  The mother's heart yearns through its grief
  Her dying son to hear.
 
 
  "Woman, behold thy son.—Behold
  Thy mother." Blessed hest
  That friend to her torn heart to fold
  Who understood him best!
 
 
  Another son—ah, not instead!—
  He gave, lest grief should kill,
  While he was down among the dead,
  Doing his father's will.
 
 
  No, not instead! the coming joy
  Will make him hers anew;
  More hers than when, a little boy,
  His life from hers he drew.
 

II.
THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE

 
  Filled with his words of truth and right,
  Her heart will break or cry:
  A woman's cry bursts forth in might
  Of loving agony.
 
 
  "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare!
  The bosom that thee fed!"
  A moment's silence filled the air,
  All heard the words she said.
 
 
  He turns his face: he knows the cry,
  The fountain whence it springs—
  A woman's heart that glad would die
  For woman's best of things.
 
 
  Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear,
  He never quenched or chode:
  "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear
  And keep the word of God!"
 
 
  He would uplift her, not rebuke.
  The crowd began to stir.
  We miss how she the answer took;
  We hear no more of her.
 

III.
THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN

 
  She knelt, she bore a bold request,
  Though shy to speak it out:
  Ambition, even in mother's breast,
  Before him stood in doubt.
 
 
  "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now,
  My sons on thy right hand
  And on thy left shall sit when thou
  Art king, Lord, in the land."
 
 
  "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay
  A baptism and a cup
  She understood not, in the way
  By which he must go up.
 
 
  Her mother-love would lift them high
    Above their fellow-men;
  Her woman-pride would, standing nigh,
    Share in their grandeur then!
 
 
  Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest,
    Counted her prayer well heard,
  Had they, of three on Calvary's crest,
    Hung dying, first and third?
 
 
  She knoweth neither way nor end:
    In dark despair, full soon,
  She will not mock the gracious friend
    With prayer for any boon.
 
 
  Higher than love could dream or dare
    To ask, he them will set;
  They shall his cup and baptism share,
    And share his kingdom yet!
 
 
  They, entering at his palace-door,
    Will shun the lofty seat;
  Will gird themselves, and water pour,
    And wash each other's feet;
 
 
  Then down beside their lowly Lord
    On the Father's throne shall sit:
  For them who godlike help afford
    God hath prepared it.
 

IV.
THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN

 
  "Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go;
      She crieth after us."
  Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so;
      Serve not a woman thus.
 
 
  Their pride, by condescension fed,
      He shapes with teaching tongue:
  "It is not meet the children's bread
      To little dogs be flung."
 
 
  The words, for tender heart so sore,
      His voice did seem to rue;
  The gentle wrath his countenance wore,
      With her had not to do.
 
 
  He makes her share the hurt of good,
      Takes what she would have lent,
  That those proud men their evil mood
      May see, and so repent;
 
 
  And that the hidden faith in her
      May burst in soaring flame:
  With childhood deeper, holier,
      Is birthright not the same?
 
 
  Ill names, of proud religion born—
      She'll wear the worst that comes;
  Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,
      To share the healing crumbs!
 
 
  "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small
      Under the table eat
  The crumbs the little ones let fall—
      That is not thought unmeet."
 
 
  The prayer rebuff could not amate
      Was not like water spilt:
  "O woman, but thy faith is great!
      Be it even as thou wilt."
 
 
  Thrice happy she who yet will dare,
      Who, baffled, prayeth still!
  He, if he may, will grant her prayer
      In fulness of her will!
 

V.
THE WIDOW OF NAIN

 
  Forth from the city, with the load
      That makes the trampling low,
  They walk along the dreary road
      That dust and ashes go.
 
 
  The other way, toward the gate
      Their trampling strong and loud,
  With hope of liberty elate,
      Comes on another crowd.
 
 
  Nearer and nearer draw the twain—
      One with a wailing cry!
  How could the Life let such a train
      Of death and tears go by!
 
 
  "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier:
      They stand, the dead who bear;
  The mother knows nor hope nor fear—
      He waits not for her prayer.
 
 
  "Young man, I say to thee, arise."
      Who hears, he must obey:
  Up starts the body; wide the eyes
      Flash wonder and dismay.
 
 
  The lips would speak, as if they caught
      Some converse sudden broke
  When the great word the dead man sought,
      And Hades' silence woke.
 
 
  The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare
      Gives place to ordered sight;
  The murmur dies upon the air;
      The soul is dumb with light.
 
 
  He brings no news; he has forgot,
      Or saw with vision weak:
  Thou sees! all our unseen lot,
      And yet thou dost not speak.
 
 
  Hold'st thou the news, as parent might
      A too good gift, away,
  Lest we should neither sleep at night,
      Nor do our work by day?
 
 
  The mother leaves us not a spark
      Of her triumph over grief;
  Her tears alone have left their mark
      Upon the holy leaf:
 
 
  Oft gratitude will thanks benumb,
      Joy will our laughter quell:
  May not Eternity be dumb
      With things too good to tell?
 
 
  Her straining arms her lost one hold;
      Question she asketh none;
  She trusts for all he leaves untold;
      Enough, to clasp her son!
 
 
  The ebb is checked, the flow begun,
      Sent rushing to the gate:
  Death turns him backward to the sun,
      And life is yet our fate!