The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)
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"Which of you, knight or squire, will dare
Plunge into yonder gulf? A golden beaker I fling in it--there!
The black mouth swallows it like a wolf! Who brings me the cup again, whoever, It is his own--he may keep it for ever!"
'Tis the king who speaks. He flings from the brow
Of the cliff, that, rugged and steep, Hangs out o'er the endless sea below,
The cup in the whirlpool's howling heap:-- "Again I ask, what hero will follow, What hero plunge into yon dark hollow?"
The knights and the squires the king about
Hear, and dumbly stare Into the wild sea's tumbling rout;
To win the beaker they hardly care! The king, for the third time, round him glaring-- "Not one soul of you has the daring?"
Speechless all, as before, they stand.
Then a squire, young, gentle, gay, Steps from his comrades' shrinking band,
Flinging his girdle and cloak away; And all the women and men that surrounded Gazed on the noble youth, astounded.
And when he stepped to the rock's rough brow
And looked down on the gulf so black, The waters which it had swallowed, now Charybdis bellowing rendered back; And, with a roar as of distant thunder, Foaming they burst from the dark lap under.
It wallows, seethes, hisses in raging rout,
As when water wrestles with fire, Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout;
And flood upon flood keeps mounting higher: It will never its endless coil unravel, As the sea with another sea were in travail!
But, at last, slow sinks the writhing spasm,
And, black through the foaming white, Downward gapes a yawning chasm--
Bottomless, cloven to hell's wide night; And, sucked up, see the billows roaring Down through the whirling funnel pouring!
Then in haste, ere the out-rage return again,
The youth to his God doth pray, And--ascends a cry of horror and pain!--
Already the vortex hath swept him away, And o'er the bold swimmer, in darkness eternal, Close the great jaws of the gulf infernal!
Then the water above grows smooth as glass,
While, below, dull roarings ply; And trembling they hear the murmur pass--
"High-hearted youth, farewell, good-bye!" And hollower still comes the howl affraying, Till their hearts are sick with the frightful delaying.
If the crown itself thou in should fling,
And say, "Who back with it hies Himself shall wear it, and shall be king,"
I would not covet the precious prize! What Ocean hides in that howling hell of it Live soul will never come back to tell of it!
Ships many, caught in that whirling surge,
Shot sheer to their dismal doom: Keel and mast only did ever emerge,
Shattered, from out the all-gulping tomb!-- Like the bluster of tempest, clearer and clearer, Comes its roaring nearer and ever nearer!
It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout,
As when water wrestles with fire, Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout,
Wave upon wave's back mounting higher; And as with the grumble of distant thunder, Bellowing it bursts from the dark lap under.
And, see, from its bosom, flowing dark,
Something heave up, swan-white! An arm and a shining neck they mark,
And it rows with never relaxing might! It is he! and high his golden capture His left hand waves in success's rapture!
With long deep breaths his path he ploughed,
And he hailed the heavenly day; Jubilant shouted the gazing crowd,
"He lives! he is there! he broke away! Out of the grave, the whirlpool uproarious, The hero hath rescued his life victorious!"
He comes; they surround him with shouts of glee;
At the king's feet he sinks on the sod, And hands him the beaker upon his knee;
To his lovely daughter the king gives a nod: She fills it brim-full of wine sparkling and playing, And then to the king the youth turned him saying:
"Long live the king!--Well doth he fare
Who breathes in this rosy light, But, ah, it is horrible down there!
And man must not tempt the heavenly Might, Or ever seek, with prying unwholesome, What he graciously covers with darkness dolesome!
"It tore me down with a headlong swing;
Then a shaft in a rock outpours, Wild-rushing against me, a torrent spring;
It seized me, the double stream's raging force, And like a top, with giddy twisting, It spun me round--there was no resisting!
"Then God did show me, sore beseeching
In deepest, frightfullest need, Up from the bottom a rock-ledge reaching--
At it I caught, and from death was freed! And, behold, on spiked corals the beaker suspended, Which had else to the very abyss descended!
"For below me it lay yet mountain-deep
The purply darksome maw; And though to the ear it was dead asleep,
The ghasted eye, down staring, saw How with dragons, lizards, salamanders crawling, The hell-jaws horrible were sprawling.
"Black swarming in medley miscreate,
In masses lumped hideously, Wallowed the conger, the thorny skate,
The lobster's grisly deformity; And bared its teeth with cruel sheen a Terrible shark, the sea's hyena.
"And there I hung, and shuddering knew
That human help was none; One thinking soul mid the horrid crew,
In the ghastly solitude I was alone-- Deeper than man's speech ever sounded, By the waste sea's dismal monsters surrounded.
"I thought and shivered. Then something crept near,
Moved at once a hundred joints! Now it will have me!--Frantic with fear
I lost my grasp of the coral points! Away the whirl in its raging tore me, But it was my salvation, and upward bore me!"
The king at the tale is filled with amaze:--
"The beaker, well won, is thine; And this ring I will give thee too," he says,
"Precious with gems that are more than fine, If thou dive yet once, and bring me the story-- What thou sawst in the sea's lowest repertory."
His daughter she hears with a tender dismay,
And her words sweet-suasive plead: "Father, enough of this cruel play!
For you he has done an unheard-of deed! And can you not master your soul's desire, 'Tis the knights' turn now to disgrace the squire!"
The king he snatches and hurls the cup
Into the swirling pool:-- "If thou bring me once more that beaker up,
My best knight I hold thee, most worshipful; And this very day to thy home thou shall lead her Who there for thee stands such a pitying pleader."
A heavenly passion his being invades,
His eyes dart a lightning ray; He sees on her beauty the flushing shades,
He sees her grow pallid and sink away! Determination thorough him flashes, And downward for life or for death he dashes!
They hear the dull roar!--it is turning again,
Its herald the thunderous brawl! Downward they bend with loving strain:
They come! they are coming, the waters all!-- They rush up!--they rush down!--up, down, for ever! The youth again bring they never.
TO THE CLOUDS.
Through the unchanging heaven, as ye have sped, Speed onward still, a strange wild company, Fleet children of the waters! Glorious ye, Whether the sun lift up his shining head, High throned at noontide and established Among the shifting pillars, or we see The sable ghosts of air sleep mournfully Against the sunlight, passionless and dead! Take thus a glory, oh thou higher Sun, From all the cloudy labour of man's hand-- Whether the quickening nations rise and run, Or in the market-place we idly stand Casting huge shadows over these thy plains-- Even thence, O God, draw thy rich gifts of rains.
SECOND SIGHT.
Rich is the fancy which can double back All seeming forms, and from cold icicles Build up high glittering palaces where dwells Summer perfection, moulding all this wrack To spirit symmetry, and doth not lack The power to hear amidst the funeral bells The eternal heart's wind-melody which swells In whirlwind flashes all along its track! So hath the sun made all the winter mine With gardens springing round me fresh and fair; On hidden leaves uncounted jewels shine; I live with forms of beauty everywhere, Peopling the crumbling waste and icy pool With sights and sounds of life most beautiful.
NOT UNDERSTOOD.
Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains; A wildered maze of comets and of suns; The blood of changeless God that ever runs With quick diastole up the immortal veins; A phantom host that moves and works in chains; A monstrous fiction, which, collapsing, stuns The mind to stupor and amaze at once; A tragedy which that man best explains Who rushes blindly on his wild career With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, But is extinguished like a falling star;-- Such will at times this life appear to me Until I learn to read more perfectly.
HOM. IL. v. 403.
If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem Thou art a coward if thy safety seem To spring too little from a righteous will; For there is nightmare on thee, nor until Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream By painful introversion; rather fill Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth; But see thou cherish higher hope than this,-- hope hereafter that thou shall be fit Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit Transparent among other forms of youth Who own no impulse save to God and bliss.
THE DAWN.
And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost? I am perplexed with thee that thou shouldst cost This earth another turning! All aglow Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show Along far mountain-tops! and I would post Over the breadth of seas, though I were lost In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so Thou earnest ever with this numbing sense Of chilly distance and unlovely light, Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence! I have another mountain-range from whence Bursteth a sun unutterably bright!
GALILEO.
"And yet it moves!" Ah, Truth, where wert thou then When all for thee they racked each piteous limb? Wert thou in heaven, and busy with thy hymn When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen? Art thou a phantom that deceives! men To their undoing? or dost thou watch him Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim? And wilt thou ever speak to him again? "It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak! That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloud How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day! Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud That I alone should know that word to speak! And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray."
SUBSIDY.
If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed, Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. Others will live in peace, and thou be fain To bargain with despair, and in thy need To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed. These palaces, for thee they stand in vain; Thine is a ruinous hut, and oft the rain Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea, the speed Of earth outstrip thee, pilgrim, while thy feet Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come Through the time-rents about thy moving cell, Shot from the Truth's own bow, and flaming sweet, An arrow for despair, and oft the hum Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.
THE PROPHET.
Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start To find thee with us in thine ancient dress, Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, Empty of all save God and thy loud heart, Nor with like rugged message quick to dart Into the hideous fiction mean and base; But yet, O prophet man, we need not less But more of earnest, though it is thy part To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite The living Mammon, seated, not as then In bestial quiescence grimly dight, But robed as priest, and honoured of good men Yet thrice as much an idol-god as when He stared at his own feet from morn to night.
THE WATCHER.
From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro Upon the people's tumult, for below The nations smite each other: no amaze Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays Their deep-set contemplation; steadily glow Those ever holier eyeballs, for they grow Liker unto the eyes of one that prays. And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power As of the might of worlds, and they are holden Blessing above us in the sunrise golden; And they will be uplifted till that hour Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake This conscious nightmare from us, and we wake.
THE BELOVED DISCIPLE.