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George MacDonald - Within and Without: Part IV: A Dramatic Poem
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My need of her is but thy thought of me;
She is the offspring of thy beauty, God;
Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee:
Thou wilt restore her to my very soul.

[Rising.]

It may be all a lie. Some needful cause
Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think
One moment that my wife could sin against me!
She will come back to-night. I know she will.
I never can forgive my jealousy!
Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford`s house!


[His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her
sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in
his bosom.]

It will be all explained. To think I should,
Without one word from her, condemn her so!
What can I say to her when she returns?
I shall be utterly ashamed before her.
She will come back to-night. I know she will.

[He throws himself wearily on the bed.]


SCENE XIV.—Crowd about the Italian Opera-House. JULIAN. LILY
in his arms. Three Students.

1st Student.
Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man?
There is a character for that same novel
You talk of thunder-striking London with,
One of these days.

2nd St.
I scarcely noticed him;
I was so taken with the lovely child.
She is angelic.

3rd St.
You see angels always,
Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals.
She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid.
I wonder what the old fellow is about.
Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract,
That lingers at the door he cannot enter!
Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon,
And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds.
Here`s mine.

1st St.
And mine.

2nd St.
And mine.

[3rd Student offers the money to JULIAN.]

Julian
(very quietly).
No, thank you, sir.

Lily.
Oh! there is mother!

[Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage.]

Julian.
No, no; hush, my child!

[The lady looks round, and LILY clings to her father.
Women talking.]

1st W.
I`m sure he`s stolen the child. She can`t be his.

2nd W.
There`s a suspicious look about him.

3rd W
True;
But the child clings to him as if she loved him.

[JULIAN moves on slowly.]

SCENE XV.—JULIAN seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor.
LILY playing in a corner.

Julian.
Though I am lonely, yet this little child—
She understands me better than the Twelve
Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord.
Ten times last night I woke in agony,
I knew not why. There was no comforter.
I stretched my arm to find her, and her place
Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain
Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being;
Then would I lay my aching, weary head
Upon her bosom, promise of relief:
I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world!

[He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger.]

You`ll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp.
Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear.

[He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her.]

`Here, take the pretty part. It`s not so pretty
As it was once!

[Thinking aloud.]
I picked the jewels out
To buy your mother the last dress I gave her.
There`s just one left, I see, for you, my Lily.
Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I,
Saving thee only for a greater ill!
If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;—
Is she not part of thee, and all my own?
But now——

Lily
(throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him).
Father, what is a poetry?

Julian.
A beautiful thing,—of the most beautiful
That God has made.

Lily.
As beautiful as mother?

Julian.
No, my dear child; but very beautiful.

Lily.
Do let me see a poetry.

Julian
(opening a book).
There, love!

Lily
(disappointedly).
I don`t think that`s so very pretty, father.
One side is very well—smooth; but the other

[Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines.]

Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning,

[Smoothing her hair down with both hands.]

Before it`s brushed. I don`t care much about it.

Julian
(putting the book down, and taking her on his knee).
You do not understand it yet, my child.
You cannot know where it is beautiful.
But though you do not see it very pretty,
Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty.

[He reads.]

Lily
(looking pleased).
Oh! that`s much prettier, father. Very pretty.
It sounds so nice!—not half so pretty as mother.

Julian.
There`s something in it very beautiful,
If I could let you see it. When you`re older
You`ll find it for yourself, and love it well.
Do you believe me, Lily?

Lily.
Yes, dear father.

[Kissing him, then looking at the book.]

I wonder where its prettiness is, though;
I cannot see it anywhere at all.

[He sets her down. She goes to her corner.]

Julian
(musing).
True, there`s not much in me to love, and yet
I feel worth loving. I am very poor,
But that I could not help; and I grow old,
But there are saints in heaven older than I.
I have a world within me; there I thought
I had a store of lovely, precious things
Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass;
Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels;
And glimmering daylight in the cloven east;
There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column,
`Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees;
There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge,
Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth,
And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds:
The distant meadows and the gloomy river
Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.—
Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture:
Of this fair world I would have made her queen;—
Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond
Into that farther world of things unspoken,
Of which these glories are the outer stars,
The clouds that float within its atmosphere.
Under the holy might of teaching love,
I thought her eyes would open—see how, far
And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out,
And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere;
Thought she would turn into her spirit`s chamber,
Open the little window, and look forth
On the wide silent ocean, silent winds,
And see what she must see, I could not tell.
By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake
The sleeping music of her poet-soul:
We read together many magic words;
Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art;
Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound;
Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs;
And evermore I talked. I was too proud,
Too confident of power to waken life,
Believing in my might upon her heart,
Not trusting in the strength of living truth.
Unhappy saviour, who by force of self
Would save from selfishness and narrow needs!
I have not been a saviour. She grew weary.
I began wrong. The infinitely High,
Made manifest in lowliness, had been
The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there,
And set her down by humble Mary`s side,
He would have taught her all I could not teach.
Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus
Terribly wretched, and beyond relief?

[He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book
to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear;
then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it.]

Julian (bursting into tears).
Father, I am thy child.
Forgive me this:
Thy poetry is very hard to read.


SCENE XVI.—JULIAN walking with LILY through one of the squares.

Lily.
Wish we could find her somewhere. `Tis so sad
Not to have any mother! Shall I ask
This gentleman if he knows where she is?

Julian.
No, no, my love; we`ll find her by and by.


BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together.

Bernard.
Have you seen Seaford lately?

Gentleman.
No. In fact,
He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago.
Sam saw him with a lady in his cab;
And if I hear aright, one more is missing—
Just the companion for his lordship`s taste.
You`ve not forgot that fine Italian woman
You met there once, some months ago?

Bern.
Forgot her!
I have to try though, sometimes—hard enough:
Her husband is alive!

Lily.
Mother was Italy, father,—was she not?

Julian.
Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word.

Gentleman.
Oh, yes; no doubt!
But what of that?—a poor half-crazy creature!

Bern.
Something quite different, I assure you, Harry.
Last week I saw him—never to forget him—
Ranging through Seaford`s house, like the questing beast.

Gentleman.
Better please two than one, he thought—and wisely.
`Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize
Worth sinning for a little more than little.

Lily
(whispering).
Why don`t you ask them whether it was mother?
I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it.

Gentleman.
Look what a lovely child!

Bern.
Harry! Good heavens!
It is the Count Lamballa. Come along.


SCENE XVII.—Julian`s room. JULIAN. LILY asleep.


Julian.
I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou,
To whom I never lift my soul, in hope
To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears
Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart
That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought
Of him in whom I live, who lives in me,
And makes me live in him; by whose one thought,
Alone, unreachable, the making thought,
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here,
A living, thinking will, that cannot know
The power whereby I am—so blest the more
In being thus in thee—Father, thy child.
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.
My being shares thy glory: lay on me
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me
Whate`er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I
May do it as my best, my highest joy;
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.

Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know
The power in thee to purify from sin.
But Life can cleanse the life it lived alive.
Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.
She loves me not, I know—ah, my sick heart!—
I will love her the more, to fill the cup;
One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled;
For if I love her not, how desolate
The poor child will be left! he loves her not.

I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:—
Give me my wife again, that I may watch
And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell
What loving-kindness I have found in thee;
And she will come to thee to make her clean.
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss,
To know a dead one lieth in the house:
Let me be near her in that agony,
To tend her in the fever of the soul,
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope,
Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh;
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.
God, I would give her love like thine to me,
Because I love her, and her need is great.
Lord, I need her far more than thou need`st me,
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell:
Help me to love her with a love like thine.

How shall I find her? It were horrible
If the dread hour should come, and I not near.
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang,
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse,
For she must hate the evil she has done;
Only take not away hope utterly.

Lily (in her sleep).
Lily means me—don`t throw it over the wall.

Julian (going to her).
She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill.
I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless.
To-morrow I will take her to the sea.

[Returning.]

If I knew where, I would write to her, and write
So tenderly, she could not choose but come.
I will write now; I`ll tell her that strange dream
I dreamed last night: `twill comfort her as well.

[He sits down and writes.]

My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe.
I was alone upon a desolate moor;
And the wind blew by fits and died away—
I know not if it was the wind or me.
How long I wandered there, I cannot tell;
But some one came and took me by the hand.
I gazed, but could not see the form that led me,
And went unquestioning, I cared not whither.
We came into a street I seemed to know,
Came to a house that I had seen before.
The shutters were all closed; the house was dead.
The door went open soundless. We went in,
And entered yet again an inner room.
The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if
From striking on it. The door closed behind.
And then I saw that there was something black,
Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up
In the middle of the room. And then I saw
That there were shapes of woe all round the room,
Like women in long mantles, bent in grief,
With long veils hanging low down from their heads,
All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound
Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing
Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures
Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed,
The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left
The house in long procession. I was walking
Alone beside the coffin—such it was—
Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing.
And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes:
Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up
White arms of lamentation; Desdemona
In her night-robe, crimson on the left side;
Thekla in black, with resolute white face;
And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow—
That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen
Upon her face. And many more I knew—
Long-suffering women, true in heart and life;
Women that make man proud for very love
Of their humility, and of his pride
Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife.
On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills
Began to rise on each side of the path
Until at last we came into a glen,
From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven,
Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies.
Upon the eastern side one mighty summit
Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air;
And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint,
A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night.
From base to top, on climbing peak and crag,
Ay, on the glaciers` breast, were human shapes,
Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth
Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired
Great men of old—up, even to the apex
Of the snow-spear-point. Morning had arisen
From Giulian`s tomb in Florence, where the chisel
Of Michelangelo laid him reclining,
And stood upon the crest.
A cry awoke
Amid the watchers at the lowest base,
And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth,
Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top;
And "Is God coming?" was the cry; which died
Away in silence; for no voice said No.
The bearers stood and set the coffin down;
The mourners gathered round it in a group;
Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why.
So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke,
And clomb the mountain-side, and died away
In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came.

How long we waited thus, I cannot tell—
How oft the cry arose and died again.

At last, from far, faint summit to the base,
Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes,
A mighty voice descended: "God is coming!"
Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side,
From all that multitude`s melodious throats,
Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer!
It ceased, for hope was too intense for song.
A pause.—The figure on the crest flashed out,
Bordered with light. The sun was rising—rose
Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen
Upon the coffin `mid the circling group.

What God did for the rest, I know not; it
Was easy to help them.—I saw them not.—
I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own!
Thy lovely face angelic now with grief;
But that I saw not first: thy head was bent,
Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between.
I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise,
Once only lifting that sweet face to mine,
Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream
Had lasted ever!—No; `twas but a dream;
Thou art not rescued yet.

Earth`s morning came,
And my soul`s morning died in tearful gray.
The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped
In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring;
The last I heard, a chant break suddenly
Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound:
I had not listened in the excess of joy.


SCENE XVIII.—Portsmouth. A bedroom. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE.

Lord S.
Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry.
If you could go alone, I`d have you go.

Lady Gertrude.
And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel.
Believe me, father, I am happier
In your sick room, than on a glowing island
In the blue Bay of Naples.

Lord S.
It was so sudden!
`Tis plain it will not go again as quickly.
But have your walk before the sun be hot.
Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do.

Lady Gertrude.
Good-bye then, father, for a little
while.

[Goes.]

Lord S.
I never knew what illness was before.
O life! to think a man should stand so little
On his own will and choice, as to be thus
Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent
To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone
From the rich world! No sense is left me more
To touch with beauty. Even she has faded
Into the far horizon, a spent dream
Of love and loss and passionate despair!

Is there no beauty? Is it all a show
Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves,
A reflex of well-ordered organism?
Is earth a desert? Is a woman`s heart
No more mysterious, no more beautiful,
Than I am to myself this ghastly moment?
It must be so—it must, except God is,
And means the meaning that we think we see,
Sends forth the beauty we are taking in.
O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if
There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower
Before it blew on any bank of spring,
Then all is untruth, unreality,
And we are wretched things; our highest needs
Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves;
And when we are sick, they are not; and our hearts
Die with the voidness of the universe.

But if thou art, O God, then all is true;
Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes
Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain
Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams.
And she is beautiful—and I have lost her!

O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned
Against thy beauty and thy graciousness!
That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine.
Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed
Before my eyes, a bright particular star:
Like foolish child, I reached out for the star,
Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content
That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee,
Mine to revere, though not to call my own.
Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia!

My love has taken vengeance on my love.
I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content.
Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find
That thou art not a phantom, but God`s child;
That Beauty is, though it is not for me.
When I would hold it, then I disbelieved.
That I may yet believe, I will not touch it.
I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty,
Denying him in grasping at his work.


SCENE XIX.—A country churchyard. JULIAN seated on a tombstone.
LILY gathering flowers and grass among the grass.

Julian.
O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch,
Made ready for the weary! Everywhere,
O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children—
Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up,
Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom
Lie in the luxury of primeval peace,
Fearless of any morn; as a new babe
Lies nestling in his mother`s arms in bed:
That home of blessedness is all there is;
He never feels the silent rushing tide,
Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on,
Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness.
But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last
Ready for him when weary: well the green
Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn.
O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed
To which I bore thee with a nobler joy!
—Alas! there`s no such rest: I only dream
Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain.

How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart
Was all so tender to thee! But I fear
My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed
With questions to be solved, before my face
Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me
Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain.
Ah, now I know I did not well for thee
In making thee my wife! I should have gone
Alone into eternity. I was
Too rough for thee, for any tender woman—
Other I had not loved—so full of fancies!
Too given to meditation. A deed of love
Is stronger than a metaphysic truth;
Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words.
Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it?
How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight—
For life must ever need the shows of life?
How fail to love a man so like thyself,
Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood?
I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones,
But never white flowers, rubied at the heart.
O God, forgive me; it is all my fault.
Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized,
Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty?
Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart,
And I have kept her like a caged seamew
Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead.
O God, my eyes are opening—fearfully:
I know it now—`twas pride, yes, very pride,
That kept me back from speaking all my soul.
I was self-haunted, self-possessed—the worst
Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never
Cast all my being, life and all, on hers,
In burning words of openness and truth?
Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love,
Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not
Have been content to minister and wait;
And if she answered not to my desires,
Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say,
Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower:
I gave not five years to a woman`s soul!
Had I not drunk at last old wine of love?
I shut her love back on her lovely heart;
I did not shield her in the wintry day;
And she has withered up and died and gone.
God, let me perish, so thy beautiful
Be brought with gladness and with singing home.
If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow
To be her slave, and serve her with my soul.
I in my hand will take my heart, and burn
Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain.
I, I have ruined her—O God, save thou!

[His bends his head upon his knees. LILY comes running up
to him, stumbling over the graves.]

Lily.
Why do they make so many hillocks, father?
The flowers would grow without them.

Julian.
So they would.

Lily.
What are they for, then?

Julian (aside).
I wish I had not brought her;
She will ask questions. I must tell her all.

(Aloud).

`Tis where they lay them when the story`s done.

Lily.
What! lay the boys and girls?

Julian.
Yes, my own child—
To keep them warm till it begin again.

Lily.
Is it dark down there?

[Clinging to JULIAN, and pointing down.]

Julian.
Yes, it is dark; but pleasant—oh, so sweet!
For out of there come all the pretty flowers.

Lily.
Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk
That tries to touch the little frightened clouds?

Julian.
It did, my darling.—There`s a door down there
That leads away to where the church is pointing.

[She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and
then up. JULIAN carries her away.]


SCENE XX.—Portsmouth. LORD SEAFORD, partially recovered. Enter
LADY GERTRUDE and BERNARD.

Lady Gertrude.
I have found an old friend, father. Here he is!

Lord S.
Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here!

Bern.
I came on Lady Gertrude in the street.
I know not which of us was more surprised.

[LADY GERTRUDE goes.]

Bern.
Where is the countess?

Lord S.
Countess! What do you mean? I do not know.

Bern.
The Italian lady.

Lord S.
Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me!

Bern.
I am glad indeed to know your ignorance;
For since I saw the count, I would not have you
Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head.

[LORD SEAFORD covers his eyes with his hands.]

You have not then heard the news about yourself?
Such interesting echoes reach the last
A man`s own ear. The public has decreed
You and the countess run away together.
`Tis certain she has balked the London Argos,
And that she has been often to your house.
The count believes it—clearly from his face:
The man is dying slowly on his feet.

Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell)
O God! what am I? My love burns like hate,
Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath!

Bern.
What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving?

Enter Waiter.

Lord S.
Post-chaise for London—four horses—instantly.

[He sinks exhausted in his chair.]


SCENE XXI.—LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her.

Lily.
O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me.
Another story is very nearly done.

[He takes her on his knees.]

I am so tired! Think I should like to go
Down to the warm place that the flowers come from,
Where all the little boys and girls are lying
In little beds—white curtains, and white tassels.
—No, no, no—it is so dark down there!
Father will not come near me all the night.

Julian.
You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you.

Lily.
O will you keep me always, father dear?
And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me?
Oh, I should be so happy, never to move!
`Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms!
Don`t let it take me; do not let me go:
I cannot leave you, father—love hurts so.

Julian.
Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good
Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now,
And try to make you sleep?

Lily.
Yes—no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head!
Mother, mother, dear mother!—Sing to me, father.

[He tries to sing.]

Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love!
Wherever the sun shines, the waters go.
It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove,
God on his throne, and man below.

But sun would not shine, nor waters go,
Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan,
God be on high, nor man below,
But for love—for the love with its hurt alone.

Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows;
Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain:
Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows,
Help us love on in the hope of thy gain;

Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever;
Love for love`s sake, like the Father above,
But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never
Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love.

[She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child
leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in
which he talks.]

Julian.
A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault:
Man with the heart, praying for woman`s love,
Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice:
Take this or this. O Heaven and Earth! I see—What
is it? Statue trembling into life
With the first rosy flush upon the skin?
Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings?
I see her—where I know not; for I see
Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain—
God keep me!—in celestial nakedness.
She leaneth forward, looking down in space,
With large eyes full of longing, made intense
By mingled fear of something yet unknown;
Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands
Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms.

O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone
To find my own ideal womanhood—
Glory grown grace, divine to human grown?

I hear the voice again: Speak but the word:
She will array herself and come to thee.
Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes,
Her earthly dress for work and weary rest!
—I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep,
Close by the white foot of the wonderful.
It is the same shape, line for line, as she.
Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs.
Why speak I not the word?———Clothe thee, and come,
O infinite woman! my life faints for thee.

Once more the voice: Stay! look on this side first:
I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man!
Choose then between them. Ah! ah!

[Silence.]

Her I knew
Some ages gone; the woman who did sail
Down a long river with me to the sea;
Who gave her lips up freely to my lips,
Her body willingly into my arms;
Came down from off her statue-pedestal,
And was a woman in a common house,
Not beautified by fancy every day,
And losing worship by her gifts to me.
She gave me that white child—what came of her?
I have forgot.—I opened her great heart,
And filled it half-way to the brim with love—
With love half wine, half vinegar and gall—
And so—and so—she—went away and died?
O God! what was it?—something terrible—
I will not stay to choose, or look again
Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife,
The woman of the old time on the earth.
O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands,
Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain

If thou descend to earth, and find no man
To love thee purely, strongly, in his will,
Even as he loves the truth, because he will,
And when he cannot see it beautiful—
Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep.
Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come.

`Tis she, `tis she, low-kneeling at my feet!
In the same dress, same flowing of the hair,
As long ago, on earth: is her face changed?
Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower;
My dove descending rests upon thy head;
I bless and sanctify thee for my own:
Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee.

Heavens, what a face! `Tis hers! It is not hers!
She rises—turns it up from me to God,
With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!—the stars
Might find new orbits there, and be content.
O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure
Their opening must be prophecy or song!
A high-entranced maiden, ever pure,
And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth!

Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk
That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;—
O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form,
With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet,
And hands with rosy palms—my own ideal!
The woman of my world, with deeper eyes
Than I had power to think—and yet my Lilia,
My wife, with homely airs of earth about her,
And dearer to my heart as my lost wife,
Than to my soul as its new-found ideal!
Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel:
Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear.
Yea, all eternity—

[He is roused by a cry from the child.]

Lily.
Oh, father! put your arms close round about me.
Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear.
Now! I am better now.

[She looks long and passionately in his face. Her
eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead.]


SCENE XXII.—A cottage-room. LILIA folding a letter.

Lilia.
Now I have told him all; no word kept back
To burn within me like an evil fire.
And where I am, I have told him; and I wait
To know his will. What though he love me not,
If I love him!—I will go back to him,
And wait on him submissive. Tis enough
For one life, to be servant to that man!
It was but pride—at best, love stained with pride,
That drove me from him. He and my sweet child
Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart.
How lonely is my Lily all the day,
Till he comes home and makes her paradise!

I go to be his servant. Every word
That comes from him softer than a command,
I`ll count it gain, and lay it in my heart,
And serve him better for it.—He will receive me.


SCENE XXIII.—LILY lying dead. JULIAN bending over her.

Julian.
The light of setting suns be on thee, child!
Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns
Is on thee! Joy is with thee—God is Joy;
Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy;
Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy.
Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love.
Thou wilt need love, even God`s, to give thee joy.

Children, they say, are born into a world
Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think,
Never hadst much of grief—thy second birth
Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief,
If, orphaned now, thou know`st thy mother`s story,
And know`st thy father`s hardness. O my God,
Let not my Lily turn away from me.

Now I am free to follow and find her.
Thy truer Father took thee home to him,
That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife.
I thank him for his gift of thee; for all
That thou hast taught me, blessed little child.
I love thee, dear, with an eternal love.
And now farewell!

[Kissing her.]

—no, not farewell; I come.
Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee.
Yes, they will also lead me on to her.

Enter a Jew.

Jew.
What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir.


Julian.
Walk into the next room; then look at this,
And tell me what you`ll give for everything.

[Jew goes.]

My darling`s death has made me almost happy.
Now, now I follow, follow. I`m young again.
Source
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