The Poetical Works of George MacDonald, vol 1 | Page 6

me _live_, if but a daisy's
life! No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! Wherefore wilt thou

not hear me, Lord of me? Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none
That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. Hast thou not
made me? Liv'st thou not in me? I have done naught for thee, am but a
want; But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; And this same
need of thee which thou hast given, Is a strong claim on thee to give
thyself, And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. Through all my
sinning thou hast not recalled This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead
For thee with me, and for thy child with thee.
Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him; Or was it but my heart
that spoke for him? "Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give;
My longing is thy promise, O my God! If, having sinned, I thus have
lost the claim, Why doth the longing yet remain with me, And make me
bold thus to besiege thy doors?" Methought I heard for answer:
"Question on. Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds Thy being
yet to mine. I give it thee, A hungering and a fainting and a pain, Yet a
God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead While this pain lives in thee. I
bless thee with it. Better to live in pain than die that death."
So I will live, and nourish this my pain; For oft it giveth birth unto a
hope That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. Softly I'll walk
the earth; for it is his, Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. A still small
voice I cannot but believe, Says on within: God will reveal himself.
I must go from this place. I cannot rest. It boots not staying. A desire
like thirst Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, To be abroad on the
mysterious earth, Out with the moon in all the blowing winds.
'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. For many months I
had not seen her form, Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past, Until
I laid me down an hour ago; When twice through the dark chamber full
of eyes, The memory passed, reclothed in verity: Once more I now
behold it; the inward blaze Of the glad windows half quenched in the
moon; The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, "Ah! wake me
not," which left them to their sleep, All save the poplar: it was full of
joy, So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. Sudden as Aphrodite
from the sea, She issued radiant from the pearly night. It took me half
with fear--the glimmer and gleam Of her white festal garments, haloed

round With denser moonbeams. On she came--and there I am
bewildered. Something I remember Of thoughts that choked the
passages of sound, Hurrying forth without their pilot-words; Of agony,
as when a spirit seeks In vain to hold communion with a man; A hand
that would and would not stay in mine; A gleaming of white garments
far away; And then I know not what. The moon was low, When from
the earth I rose; my hair was wet, Dripping with dew--
Enter ROBERT cautiously.
Why, how now, Robert?
[Rising on his elbow.] _Robert (glancing at the chest_). I see; that's well.
Are you nearly ready?
Julian. Why? What's the matter?
Robert. You must go this night, If you would go at all.
Julian. Why must I go? [Rises.] _Robert (turning over the things in the
chest_). Here, put this coat on. Ah! take that thing too. No more such
head-gear! Have you not a hat,
[Going to the chest again.]
Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub Got up about you!
The Abbot comes to-morrow.
Julian. Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.
Robert. No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you. Ten minutes more,
they will be round to bar The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor
Julian!
[JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes.]
Julian. Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend. Farewell! God
bless you! We shall meet again.

Robert. Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this.
[Goes.]
[JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow passage to
a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, and closes the door behind
him_.]

SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, while his
horse is brought out.
Abbot. Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, Within the holiest
of the holy place! I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, With porphyry