A Hidden Life and Other Poems by George MacDonald (best smutty novels .TXT) 📕

thee from thy rest?

It may be that some spirit fair,
Who knew not what must be,
Fled in the anguish of his care
For help for him to thee.

But rather would I think thee great;
That rumours upward went,
And pierced the palisades of state
In which thy rank was pent;

And that a Roman matron thou,
Too noble for thy spouse,
The far-heard grandeur must allow,
And sit with pondering brows.

And so thy maidens' gathered tale
For thee with wonder teems;
Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale
Returneth in thy dreams.

And thou hast suffered for his sake
Sad visions all the night:
One day thou wilt, then first awake,
Rejoice in his dear light.


XI.

THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA.


The empty pitcher to the pool
She bore in listless mood:
In haste she turned; the pitcher full
Beside the water stood.

To her was heard the age's prayer:
He sat upon the brink;
Weary beside the waters fair,
And yet He could not drink.

He begged her help. The woman's hand
Was ready to reply;
From out the old well of the land
She drew Him plenteously.

He spake as never man before;
She stands with open ears;
He spoke of holy days in store,
Laid bare the vanished years.

She cannot grapple with her heart,
Till, in the city's bound,
She cries, to ease the joy-born smart,
"I have the Master found."

Her life before was strange and sad;
Its tale a dreary sound:
Ah! let it go-or good or bad,
She has the Master found.


XII.

MARY MAGDALENE.


With eyes aglow, and aimless zeal,
Throughout the land she goes;
Her tones, her motions, all reveal
A mind without repose.

She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea,
By madness tortured, driven;
One hour's forgetfulness would be
A gift from very heaven.

The night brings sleep, the sleep distress;
The torture of the day
Returns as free, in darker dress,
In more secure dismay.

No soft-caressing, soothing palm
Her confidence can raise;
No eye hath loving force to calm
And draw her answering gaze.

He comes. He speaks. A light divine
Dawns gracious in thy soul;
Thou seest love and order shine,-
His health will make thee whole.

One wrench of pain, one pang of death,
And in a faint delight,
Thou liest, waiting for new breath,
For morning out of night.

Thou risest up: the earth is fair,
The wind is cool and free;
As when a dream of mad despair
Dissolves in ecstasy.

And, pledge of life and future high,
Thou seest the Master stand;
The life of love is in his eye,
Its power is in his hand.

What matter that the coming time
Will stain thy virgin name;
Attribute thy distress to crime
The worst for woman-fame;

Yea, call that woman Magdalen,
Whom slow-reviving grace
Turneth at last from evil men
To seek the Father's face.

What matters it? The night is gone;
Right joyous shines the sun;
The same clear sun that always shone
Ere sorrow had begun.

Oh! any name may come and bide,
If he be well content
To see not seldom by his side
Thy head serenely bent.

Thou, sharing in the awful doom,
Wilt help thy Lord to die;
And, mourning o'er his empty tomb,
First share his victory.


XIII.

THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE.


A still dark joy. A sudden face,
Cold daylight, footsteps, cries;
The temple's naked, shining space,
Aglare with judging eyes.

With all thy wild abandoned hair,
And terror-pallid lips,
Thy blame unclouded to the air,
Thy honour in eclipse;

Thy head, thine eyes droop to the ground,
Thy shrinking soul to hide;
Lest, at its naked windows found,
Its shame be all descried.

Another shuts the world apart,
Low bending to the ground;
And in the silence of his heart,
Her Father's voice will sound.

He stoops, He writes upon the ground,
From all those eyes withdrawn;
The awful silence spreads around
In that averted dawn.

With guilty eyes bent downward still,
With guilty, listless hands,
All idle to the hopeless will,
She, scorn-bewildered, stands.

Slow rising to his manly height,
Fronting the eager eyes,
The righteous Judge lifts up his might,
The solemn voice replies:

(What, woman! does He speak for thee?
For thee the silence stir?)
"Let him who from this sin is free,
Cast the first stone at her!"

Upon the death-stained, ashy face,
The kindling blushes glow:
No greater wonder sure had place
When Lazarus forth did go!

Astonished, hopeful, growing sad,
The wide-fixed eyes arose;
She saw the one true friend she had,
Who loves her though He knows.

Sick womanhood awakes and cries,
With voiceless wail replete.
She looks no more; her softening eyes
Drop big drops at her feet.

He stoops. In every charnel breast
Dead conscience rises slow.
They, dumb before the awful guest,
Turn one by one, and go.

They are alone. The silence dread
Closes and deepens round.
Her heart is full, her pride is dead;
No place for fear is found.

Hath He not spoken on her side?
Those cruel men withstood?
Even her shame she would not hide-
Ah! now she will be good.

He rises. They are gone. But, lo!
She standeth as before.
"Neither do I condemn thee; go,
And sin not any more."

She turned and went. The veil of tears
Fell over what had been;
Her childhood's dawning heaven appears,
And kindness makes her clean.

And all the way, the veil of tears
Flows from each drooping lid;
No face she sees, no voice she hears,
Till in her chamber hid.

And then returns one voice, one face,
A presence henceforth sure;
The living glory of the place,
To keep that chamber pure.

Ah, Lord! with all our faults we come,-
With love that fails to ill;
With Thee are our accusers dumb,
With Thee our passions still.

Ah! more than father's holy grace
Thy lips and brow afford;
For more than mother's tender face
We come to Thee, O Lord!


XIV.

MARTHA.


With joyful pride her heart is great:
Her house, in all the land,
Holds Him who conies, foretold by fate,
With prophet-voice and hand.

True, he is poor and lowly born:
Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
Before the eyeless crowd.

At her poor table will He eat?
He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
For any king that were.

'T is all she can; she does not fail;
Her holy place is his:
The place within the purple veil
In the great temple is.

But many crosses she must bear,
Straight plans are sideways bent;
Do all she can, things will not wear
The form of her intent.

With idle hands, by Him unsought,
Her sister sits at rest;
'Twere better sure she rose, and wrought
Some service for their guest.

She feels a wrong. The feeling grows,
As other cares invade:
Strong in her right, at last she goes
To claim her sister's aid.

Ah, Martha! one day thou like her,
Or here, or far beyond,
Will sit as still, lest, but to stir,
Should break the charmed bond.


XV.

MARY.


1.

She sitteth at the Master's feet
In motionless employ;
Her ears, her heart, her soul complete
Drinks in the tide of joy.

She is the Earth, and He the Sun;
He shineth forth her leaves;
She, in new life from darkness won,
Gives back what she receives.

Ah! who but she the glory knows
Of life, pure, high, intense;
Whose holy calm breeds awful shows,
Transfiguring the sense!

The life in voice she drinks like wine;
The Word an echo found;
Her ear the world, where Thought divine
Incarnate was in sound.

Her holy eyes, brimful of light,
Shine all unseen and low;
As if the radiant words all night
Forth at those orbs would go.

The opening door reveals a face
Of anxious household state:
"Car'st thou not, Master, for my case,
That I alone should wait?"

Heavy with light, she lifts those eyes
To Him who calmly heard;
Ready that moment to arise,
And go, before the word.

Her fear is banished by his voice,
Her fluttering hope set free:
"The needful thing is Mary's choice,
She shall remain with me."

Oh, joy to every doubting heart,
Doing the thing it would,
If He, the Holy, take its part,
And call its choice the good!


2.

Not now as then his words are poured
Into her lonely ears;
But many guests are at the board,
And many tongues she hears.

With sacred foot she cometh slow,
With daring, trembling tread;
With shadowing worship bendeth low
Above the godlike head.

The sacred chrism in snowy stone
A gracious odour sends.
Her little hoard, so slowly grown,
In one full act she spends.

She breaks the box, the honoured thing!
The ointment pours amain;
Her priestly hands anoint her King,
And He shall live and reign.

They called it waste. Ah, easy well!
Their love they could endure;
For her, her heart did ache and swell,
That she forgot the poor.

She meant it for the coming crown;
He took it for the doom;
And his obedience laid Him down,
Crowned in the quiet tomb.


XVI.

THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER


She washes them with sorrow sweet,
She wipes them with her hair;
Her kisses soothe the weary feet,
To all her kisses bare.

The best of woman, beauty's crown,
She spends upon his feet;
Her eyes, her lips, her hair, flung down,
In one devotion meet.

His face, his words, her heart had woke.
She judged Him well, in sooth:
Believing Him, her bonds she broke,
And fled to