A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

to gurgle, under, in his soul.

       Anon the lava-stream burst forth amain,

       And glowed, and scorched, and blasted as it flowed.

       For purest souls sometimes have direst fears,

       In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth

       Is cast on half her children, from the sun

       Who is afar and busy with the rest.

       "If my high lady be but only such

       As some men say of women—very pure

       When dressed in white, and shining in men's eyes,

       And with the wavings of great unborn wings

       Around them in the aether of the souls,

       Felt at the root where senses meet in one

       Like dim-remembered airs and rhymes and hues;

       But when alone, at best a common thing,

       With earthward thoughts, and feet that are of earth!

       Ah no—it cannot be! She is of God.

       But then, fair things may perish; higher life

       Gives deeper death; fair gifts make fouler faults:

       Women themselves—I dare not think the rest.

       And then they say that in her London world,

       They have other laws and judgments than in ours."

       And so the thoughts walked up and down his soul,

       And found at last a spot wherein to rest,

       Building a resolution for the day.

      But next day, and the next, he was too worn

       With the unrest of this chaotic night—

       As if a man had sprung to life before

       The spirit of God moved on the waters' face,

       And made his dwelling ready, who in pain,

       Himself untuned, groaned for a harmony,

       For order and for law around his life—

       Too tired he was to do as he had planned.

       But on the next, a genial south-born wind

       Waved the blue air beneath the golden sun,

       Bringing glad news of summer from the south.

       Into his little room the bright rays shone,

       And, darting through the busy blazing fire,

       Turning it ghostly pale, slew it almost;

       As the great sunshine of the further life

       Quenches the glow of this, and giveth death.

       He had lain gazing at the wondrous strife

       And strange commingling of the sun and fire,

       Like spiritual and vital energies,

       Whereof the one doth bear the other first,

       And then destroys it for a better birth;

       And now he rose to help the failing fire,

       Because the sunshine came not near enough

       To do for both. And then he clothed himself,

       And sat him down betwixt the sun and fire,

       And got him ink and paper, and began

       And wrote with earnest dying heart as thus.

       "Lady, I owe thee much. Nay, do not look

       To find my name; for though I write it here,

       I date as from the churchyard, where I lie

       Whilst thou art reading; and thou know'st me not.

       I dare to write, because I am crowned by death

       Thy equal. If my boldness should offend,

       I, pure in my intent, hide with the ghosts,

       Where thou wilt never meet me, until thou

       Knowest that death, like God, doth make of one.

      "But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun,

       My thoughts moved towards thee with a gentle flow

       That bore a depth of waters. When I took

       My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf,

       Precipitate and foamy. Can it be,

       That death who humbles all hath made me proud?

       Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain,

       As if I were thy heritage in sooth,

       Bequeathed from sires beyond all story's reach.

       For I have loved thee from afar, and long;

       Joyous in having seen what lifted me,

       By very power to see, above myself.

       Thy beauty hath made beautiful my life;

       Thy virtue made mine strong to be itself.

       Thy form hath put on every changing dress

       Of name, and circumstance, and history,

       That so the life, dumb in the wondrous page

       Recording woman's glory, might come forth

       And be the living fact to longing eyes—

       Thou, thou essential womanhood to me;

       Afar as angels or the sainted dead,

       Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man,

       And taking any shape for every need.

      "Years, many years, have passed since the first time,

       Which was the last, I saw thee. What have they

       Made or unmade in thee? I ask myself.

       O lovely in my memory! art thou

       As lovely in thyself? Thy features then

       Said what God made thee; art thou such indeed?

       Forgive my boldness, lady; I am dead;

       And dead men may cry loud, they make no noise.

      "I have a prayer to make thee—hear the dead.

       Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful

       As that white form that dwelleth in my heart;

       Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure

       That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God,

       Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself

       I pray. For if I die and find that she,

       My woman-glory, lives in common air,

       Is not so very radiant after all,

       My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts,

       Not used to see such rooted sadness there,

       At least in fields where I may hope to walk

       And find good company. Upon my knees

       I could implore thee—justify my faith

       In womanhood's white-handed nobleness,

       And thee, its revelation unto me.

      "But I bethink me, lady. If thou turn

       Thy thoughts upon thyself, for the great sake

       Of purity and conscious whiteness' self,

       Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half

       Is to forget the first, and all thyself,

       Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day;

       Turning thy being full unto thy God;

       Where shouldst thou quite forget the name of Truth,

       Yet thou wouldst be a pure, twice holy child,