Читать книгу The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1 - George MacDonald - Страница 28

  Julian.

  Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect

  To hear from you soon after my arrival.

  Is the boat ready?

  Steward.

                  Yes, my lord; afloat

  Where you directed.

  Julian.

                A strange feeling haunts me,

  As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast

  The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.

  Steward.

  I will, directly.

  Julian.

                         How shall I manage it?

  I have her father's leave, but have not dared

  To tell her all; and she must know it first!

  She fears me half, even now: what will she think

  To see my shaven head? My heart is free—

  I know that God absolves mistaken vows.

  I looked for help in the high search from those

  Who knew the secret place of the Most High.

  If I had known, would I have bound myself

  Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds

  Never a lark springs to salute the day?

  The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best

  Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!

  It cannot be God's will I should be such.

  But there was more: they virtually condemned

  Me in my quest; would have had me content

  To kneel with them around a wayside post,

  Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?

  It was the dull abode of foolishness:

  Not such the house where God would train his children!

  My very birth into a world of men

  Shows me the school where he would have me learn;

  Shows me the place of penance; shows the field

  Where I must fight and die victorious,

  Or yield and perish. True, I know not how

  This will fall out: he must direct my way!

  But then for her—she cannot see all this;

  Words will not make it plain; and if they would,

  The time is shorter than the words would need:

  This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.—

  It may be only vapour, of the heat

  Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear

  That the fair gladness is too good to live:

  The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest,

  The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;

  But how will she receive it? Will she think

  I have been mocking her? How could I help it?

  Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,

  So strong was I in truth, I never thought

  Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.

  My love did make her so a part of me,

  I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,

  Until our talk of yesterday. And now

  Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me:

  To wed a monk will seem to her the worst

  Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.

  I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,

  Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.

  She loves me—not as I love her. But always

  —There's Robert for an instance—I have loved

  A life for what it might become, far more

  Than for its present: there's a germ in her

  Of something noble, much beyond her now:

  Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.

This evening must decide it, come what will.