The Poetical Works of George MacDonald, vol 1 | Page 3

Head in your hands as usual! You will fret Your life out, sitting moping in the dark. Come, it is supper-time.
Julian. I will not sup to-night.
Robert. Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.
Julian. A saint! The devil has me by the heel.
Robert. So has he all saints; as a boy his kite, Which ever struggles higher for his hold. It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;-- He should let go his hold, and then he has you. If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you. Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.
Chorus. _Always merry, and never drunk. That's the life of the jolly monk_.
SONG.
They say the first monks were lonely men, Praying each in his lonely den, Rising up to kneel again, Each a skinny male Magdalene, Peeping scared from out his hole Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole; But years ring changes as they roll--
Cho. _Now always merry, &c_.
When the moon gets up with her big round face, Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place, Down to the village below we pace;-- We know a supper that wants a grace: Past the curtsying women we go, Past the smithy, all a glow, To the snug little houses at top of the row--
Cho. _For always merry, &c_.
And there we find, among the ale, The fragments of a floating tale: To piece them together we never fail; And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail. And so we have them all in hand, The lads and lasses throughout the land, And we are the masters,--you understand?
Cho. _So always merry, &c_.
Last night we had such a game of play With the nephews and nieces over the way, All for the gold that belonged to the clay That lies in lead till the judgment-day! The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch, But we saved her share for old Mamma Church. How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!
Cho. _Oh! always merry, and never drunk_. That's the life of the jolly monk!
Robert. The song is hardly to your taste, I see! Where shall I set the light?
Julian. I do not need it.
Robert. Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies. I wish you were at table, were it only To stop the talking of the men about you. You in the dark are talked of in the light.
Julian. Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me.
Robert. No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say, You would be thought a saint without the trouble; You do no penance that they can discover. You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart, Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon. You are a prince, say others, hiding here, Till circumstance that bound you, set you free. To-night, there are some whispers of a lady That would refuse your love.
Julian. Ay! What of her?
Robert. I heard no more than so; and that you came To seek the next best service you could find: Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.
Julian. One part at least is true: I knock at God's; He has not yet been pleased to let me in. As for the lady--that is--so far true, But matters little. Had I less to think, This talking might annoy me; as it is, Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it; I keep in-doors.
Robert. Gloomy as usual, brother! Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send The light that all day long gladdened the earth, Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire Transformed the weathercock into a star, That you should gloom within stone walls all day. At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come: We will salute the breezes, as they rise And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss-- Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring Lets forth in vapour through the genial air. Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, And thence descend triumphant, step by step, The stairway of the hills. Free air and action Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.
Julian. My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy, "There is your father's house: go in and rest;" Through every open room the child would pass, Timidly looking for the friendly eye; Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder At what he saw, until he found his sire; But gathered to his bosom, straight he is The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears. And so with me: not having seen Him yet, The light rests on me with a heaviness; All beauty wears to me a doubtful look; A voice is in the wind I do not know;