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    The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald: A Book of Strife, in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul + Rampolli: Growths from a Long-planted Root + A Hidden Life Collection and Other Poems
    The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald: A Book of Strife, in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul + Rampolli: Growths from a Long-planted Root + A Hidden Life Collection and Other Poems
    The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald: A Book of Strife, in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul + Rampolli: Growths from a Long-planted Root + A Hidden Life Collection and Other Poems
    Ebook1,890 pages18 hours

    The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald: A Book of Strife, in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul + Rampolli: Growths from a Long-planted Root + A Hidden Life Collection and Other Poems

    By George MacDonald

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    This carefully crafted ebook: "The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald" is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents.
    George MacDonald (1824-1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister. He was a pioneering figure in the field of fantasy literature and the mentor of fellow writer Lewis Carroll. His writings have been cited as a major literary influence by many notable authors. MacDonald has been credited with founding the "kailyard school" of Scottish writing.
    Table of Contents:
    A Book of Strife, in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul
    Rampolli: Growths from a Long-planted Root
    Other Poetical Works:
    WITHIN AND WITHOUT
    A HIDDEN LIFE
    A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE
    THE DISCIPLE
    THE GOSPEL WOMEN
    A BOOK OF SONNETS
    ORGAN SONGS
    VIOLIN SONGS
    SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS
    A BOOK OF DREAMS
    ROADSIDE POEMS
    TO AND OF FRIENDS
    PARABLES
    BALLADS
    MINOR DITTIES
    MOTES IN THE SUN
    POEMS FOR CHILDREN
    A THREEFOLD CORD
    SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS
    A Hidden Life and Other Poems
    THE HOMELESS GHOST
    ABU MIDJAN
    AN OLD STORY
    A BOOK OF DREAMS
    TO AURELIO SAFFI
    SONNET
    A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA
    A GIFT
    THE MAN OF SONGS
    BETTER THINGS
    THE JOURNEY
    PRAYER
    REST
    TO A. J. SCOTT
    LIGHT
    TO A. J. SCOTT
    WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER
    IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN
    BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH
    THE HILLS
    I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS
    I WOULD I WERE A CHILD
    THE LOST SOUL
    A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
    AFTER AN OLD LEGEND
    THE TREE'S PRAYER
    A STORY OF THE SEA SHORE
    MY HEART
    O DO NOT LEAVE ME
    THE HOLY SNOWDROPS
    TO MY SISTER
    O THOU OF LITTLE FAITH
    LONGING
    A BOY'S GRIEF
    THE CHILD-MOTHER
    LOVE'S ORDEAL
    A PRAYER FOR THE PAST
    FAR AND NEAR
    MY ROOM
    SYMPATHY
    LITTLE ELFIE
    THE THANK OFFERING
    THE BURNT OFFERING
    FOUR SONNETS
    SONNET
    EIGHTEEN SONNETS
    DEATH AND BIRTH
    EARLY POEMS
    LONGING
    MY EYES MAKE PICTURES
    DEATH
    LESSONS FOR A CHILD
    HOPE DEFERRED
    THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR
    A SONG IN A DREAM
    A THANKSGIVING
    THE GOSPEL WOMEN
    LanguageEnglish
    Publishere-artnow
    Release dateOct 20, 2015
    ISBN9788026845621
    The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald: A Book of Strife, in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul + Rampolli: Growths from a Long-planted Root + A Hidden Life Collection and Other Poems
    Author

    George MacDonald

    George MacDonald (1824-1905) was born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. After making a name for himself as a preacher, he left the ministry in 1850 to pursue a literary career, writing over fifty books to support his family of eleven children. To this day, MacDonald’s novels, fantasies, and children's stories are cherished for their literary quality and spiritual insight; C. S. Lewis has said that MacDonald’s influence can be found in every book he wrote.

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      The Complete Poetry of George MacDonald - George MacDonald

      ROOT

      THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD

      Table of Contents

      VOLUME I

      Table of Contents

      Table of Contents

      VOLUME I

      WITHIN AND WITHOUT

      A HIDDEN LIFE

      A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE

      THE DISCIPLE

      THE GOSPEL WOMEN

      I. THE MOTHER MARY

      II. THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE

      III. THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN

      IV. THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN

      V. THE WIDOW OF NAIN

      VI. THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND

      VII. THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD

      VIII. THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES

      IX. THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM

      X. PILATE'S WIFE

      XI. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA

      XII. MARY MAGDALENE

      XIII. THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE

      XIV. MARTHA

      XV. MARY

      XVI. THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER

      A BOOK OF SONNETS

      THE BURNT-OFFERING

      THE UNSEEN FACE

      CONCERNING JESUS

      A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA

      A. M. D

      TO GARIBALDI—WITH A BOOK

      TO S. F. S

      RUSSELL GURNEY

      TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS

      TO AUBREY DE VERE

      GENERAL GORDON

      THE CHRYSALIS

      THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR

      DEATH

      ORGAN SONGS

      TO A. J. SCOTT

      LIGHT

      TO A. J. SCOTT

      I WOULD I WERE A CHILD

      A PRAYER FOR THE PAST

      A PRAYER FOR THE PAST

      LONGING

      I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS

      SYMPATHY

      THE THANK-OFFERING

      PRAYER

      REST

      O DO NOT LEAVE ME

      BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH

      HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL

      WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN

      A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862

      A CHRISTMAS CAROL

      THE SLEEPLESS JESUS

      CHRISTMAS, 1873

      CHRISTMAS, 1884

      AN OLD STORY

      A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS

      TO MY AGING FRIENDS

      CHRISTMAS SONG OF THE OLD CHILDREN

      CHRISTMAS MEDITATION

      THE OLD CASTLE

      CHRISTMAS PRAYER

      SONG OF THE INNOCENTS

      CHRISTMAS DAY AND EVERY DAY

      THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN

      REJOICE

      THE GRACE OF GRACE

      ANTIPHON

      DORCAS

      MARRIAGE SONG

      BLIND BARTIMEUS

      COME UNTO ME

      MORNING HYMN

      NOONTIDE HYMN

      EVENING HYMN

      THE HOLY MIDNIGHT

      RONDEL

      A PRAYER

      HOME FROM THE WARS

      GOD; NOT GIFT

      TO ANY FRIEND

      VIOLIN SONGS

      HOPE DEFERRED

      DEATH

      HARD TIMES

      IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN

      MY HEART

      THE FLOWER-ANGELS

      TO MY SISTER

      OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH!

      WILD FLOWERS

      SPRING SONG

      SUMMER SONG

      AUTUMN SONG

      WINTER SONG

      PICTURE SONGS

      A DREAM SONG

      AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET

      A FATHER TO A MOTHER

      THE TEMPLE OF GOD

      GOING TO SLEEP

      TO-MORROW

      FOOLISH CHILDREN

      LOVE IS HOME

      FAITH

      WAITING

      OUR SHIP

      MY HEART THY LARK

      TWO IN ONE

      BEDTIME

      A PRAYER

      A SONG PRAYER

      SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS

      SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS

      SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS

      SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS

      SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS

      SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS

      SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS

      SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS

      SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS

      A BOOK OF DREAMS

      ROADSIDE POEMS

      BETTER THINGS

      AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT

      LITTLE ELFIE

      RECIPROCITY

      THE SHADOWS

      THE CHILD-MOTHER

      HE HEEDED NOT

      THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT

      THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER

      A DREAM OF WAKING

      A MANCHESTER POEM

      WHAT THE LORD SAITH

      HOW SHALL HE SING WHO HATH NO SONG?

      THIS WORLD

      SAINT PETER

      ZACCHAEUS

      AFTER THOMAS KEMPIS

      TO AND OF FRIENDS

      TO LADY NOEL BYRON

      TO THE SAME

      TO AURELIO SAFFI

      A THANKSGIVING FOR F. D. MAURICE

      GEORGE ROLLESTON

      TO GORDON, LEAVING KHARTOUM

      SONG OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS

      FAILURE

      TO E. G., DEDICATING A BOOK

      TO G. M. T.

      IN MEMORIUM

      WITHIN AND WITHOUT

      Table of Contents

      A Dramatic Poem.

        What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather—

        With outward maker's force, or like an inward father.

      SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S Arcadia.

      Written December and January, 1850-51.

      TO L.P.M.D.

        Receive thine own; for I and it are thine.

        Thou know'st its story; how for forty days—

        Weary with sickness and with social haze,

        (After thy hands and lips with love divine

        Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine,

        Though with a watery lustre,) more delays

        Of blessedness forbid—I took my ways

        Into a solitude, Invention's mine;

        There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee.

        Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book;

        My child, developed since in limb and look.

        It came in shining vapours from the sea,

        And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me,

        When the red life-blood labour would not brook.

      May, 1855.

      WITHIN AND WITHOUT

      PART I.

      Table of Contents

        Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door;

        And pray to Him in secret: He will hear.

        But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear

        The numberless ascensions, more and more,

        Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before

        Thou comest to the Father's likeness near,

        And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear

        That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er.

        Be thou content if on thy weary need

        There falls a sense of showers and of the spring;

        A hope that makes it possible to fling

        Sickness aside, and go and do the deed;

        For highest aspiration will not lead

        Unto the calm beyond all questioning.

      SCENE I.—A cell in a convent. JULIAN alone.

      Julian.

        Evening again slow creeping like a death!

        And the red sunbeams fading from the wall,

        On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars

        Of the poor window-pane that let them in,

        For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven!

        Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come.

        But what is light to me, while I am dark!

        And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues,

        Reflected flushes from the Evening's face,

        Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched,

        Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left

        His chamber in the dim deserted east.

        Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea!

        The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light,

        As the blue globe had by a blow been broken,

        And the insphered glory bubbled forth!

        Or the sun were a splendid water-bird,

        That flying furrowed with its golden feet

        A flashing wake over the waves, and home!

        Lo there!—Alas, the dull blank wall!—High up,

        The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night

        Come on me like a thief!—Ah, well! the sun

        Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray:

        The terror of the night begins with prayer.

        (Vesper bell.)

        Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons;

        My knees would not so pain me when I kneel,

        If only at thy voice my prayer awoke.

        I will not to the chapel. When I find Him,

        Then will I praise him from the heights of peace;

        But now my soul is as a speck of life

        Cast on the deserts of eternity;

        A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more.

        I am as a child new-born, its mother dead,

        Its father far away beyond the seas.

        Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him:

        He goeth by me, and I see him not.

        I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes,

        My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul.

        (Choir and organ-music.)

        I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting.

        What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies

        Have just departed in the sun's bright coach,

        And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me,

        Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness.

        Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold!

        How should my cell be filled with wavering forms!

        Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher;

        Trembling and hesitating to float off,

        As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy

        Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues,

        Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die.

        —Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves!

        Is it for this that I have left the world?—

        Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes

        Of that night when the closing door fell dumb

        On music and on voices, and I went

        Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance,

        Under the clear cope of the moonless night,

        Wandering away without the city-walls,

        Between the silent meadows and the stars,

        Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit,

        And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God;

        When straight within my soul I felt as if

        An eye was opened; but I knew not whether

        'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me?

        It closed again, and darkness fell; but not

        To hide the memory; that, in many failings

        Of spirit and of purpose, still returned;

        And I came here at last to search for God.

        Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content

        Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free!

      A knock at the door. Enter Brother ROBERT with a light.

      Robert.

        Head in your hands as usual! You will fret

        Your life out, sitting moping in the dark.

        Come, it is supper-time.

      Julian.

        I will not sup to-night.

      Robert.

        Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint.

      Julian.

         A saint! The devil has me by the heel.

      Robert.

        So has he all saints; as a boy his kite,

        Which ever struggles higher for his hold.

        It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;—

        He should let go his hold, and then he has you.

        If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you.

        Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings.

          Chorus. Always merry, and never drunk.

                That's the life of the jolly monk.

      SONG.

            They say the first monks were lonely men,

            Praying each in his lonely den,

            Rising up to kneel again,

            Each a skinny male Magdalene,

            Peeping scared from out his hole

            Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole;

            But years ring changes as they roll—

      Cho. Now always merry, &c.

            When the moon gets up with her big round face,

            Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place,

            Down to the village below we pace;—

            We know a supper that wants a grace:

            Past the curtsying women we go,

            Past the smithy, all a glow,

            To the snug little houses at top of the row—

      Cho. For always merry, &c.

            And there we find, among the ale,

            The fragments of a floating tale:

            To piece them together we never fail;

            And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail.

            And so we have them all in hand,

            The lads and lasses throughout the land,

            And we are the masters,—you understand?

      Cho. So always merry, &c.

            Last night we had such a game of play

            With the nephews and nieces over the way,

            All for the gold that belonged to the clay

            That lies in lead till the judgment-day!

            The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch,

            But we saved her share for old Mamma Church.

            How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch!

          Cho. Oh! always merry, and never drunk.

               That's the life of the jolly monk!

      Robert.

        The song is hardly to your taste, I see!

        Where shall I set the light?

      Julian.

        I do not need it.

      Robert.

        Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies.

        I wish you were at table, were it only

        To stop the talking of the men about you.

        You in the dark are talked of in the light.

      Julian.

        Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me.

      Robert.

        No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say,

        You would be thought a saint without the trouble;

        You do no penance that they can discover.

        You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart,

        Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon.

        You are a prince, say others, hiding here,

        Till circumstance that bound you, set you free.

        To-night, there are some whispers of a lady

        That would refuse your love.

      Julian.

        Ay! What of her?

      Robert.

        I heard no more than so; and that you came

        To seek the next best service you could find:

        Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.

      Julian.

        One part at least is true: I knock at God's;

        He has not yet been pleased to let me in.

        As for the lady—that is—so far true,

        But matters little. Had I less to think,

        This talking might annoy me; as it is,

        Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it;

        I keep in-doors.

      Robert.

        Gloomy as usual, brother!

        Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send

        The light that all day long gladdened the earth,

        Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire

        Transformed the weathercock into a star,

        That you should gloom within stone walls all day.

        At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come:

        We will salute the breezes, as they rise

        And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours

        Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss—

        Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring

        Lets forth in vapour through the genial air.

        Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light

        Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak,

        And thence descend triumphant, step by step,

        The stairway of the hills. Free air and action

        Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.

      Julian.

        My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,

        There is your father's house: go in and rest;

        Through every open room the child would pass,

        Timidly looking for the friendly eye;

        Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder

        At what he saw, until he found his sire;

        But gathered to his bosom, straight he is

        The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears.

        And so with me: not having seen Him yet,

        The light rests on me with a heaviness;

        All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;

        A voice is in the wind I do not know;

        A meaning on the face of the high hills

        Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.

        A something is behind them: that is God.

        These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;

        These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;

        And he is present, but I find him not.

        I have not yet been held close to his heart.

        Once in his inner room, and by his eyes

        Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,

        'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles,

        And sounds that never lose love's mystery.

        Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.

      Robert

        (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess). See, there

          is God revealed in human form!

      Julian (kneeling and crossing).

        Alas, my friend!—revealed—but as in nature:

        I see the man; I cannot find the God.

        I know his voice is in the wind, his presence

        Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth;

        And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,

        Not here, not here!

        (Pointing to his bosom.)

        [Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone—]

                           You do not understand me.

        Without my need, you cannot know my want.

        You will all night be puzzling to determine

        With which of the old heretics to class me.

        But you are honest; will not rouse the cry

        Against me. I am honest. For the proof,

        Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!

        Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!

        Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?

        I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show

        Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,

        And cannot bear but you should think me true.

        Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk

        Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,

        And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,

        Let out one stray beam of its living light,

        Or humbled that proud I that knows not God!

        You are my friend:—if you should find this cell

        Empty some morning, do not be afraid

        That any ill has happened.

      Robert.]

                                  Well, perhaps

        'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you,

        But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [Goes.

      Julian.

        Amen.—A good man; but he has not waked,

        And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him.

        God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks;

        And so he does, as possible for him.

        How he will wonder when he looks for heaven!

        He thinks me an enthusiast, because

        I seek to know God, and to hear his voice

        Talk to my heart in silence; as of old

        The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed,

        He lay communing with his heart; and God

        With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until

        In his light he saw light. God speaks to men.

        My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms,

        And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God;

        And let me know the living Father cares

        For me, even me; for this one of his children.—

        Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought.

        God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine,

        And let mine answer as a pulse to thine.

        See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou

        Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee.

        I am a child, a fool before thee, God;

        But thou hast made my weakness as my strength.

        I am an emptiness for thee to fill;

        My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie

        Diffused, abandoning myself to thee….

        —I will look up, if life should fail in looking.

        Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring!

        Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!

      SCENE II.—The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation. ROBERT enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in.

      Stephen

        (speaking across the table).

        You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic;

        Or, if you like it better, stand to reason;

        For in this doctrine is involved a cause

        Which for its very being doth depend

        Upon its own effect. For, don't you see,

        He tells me to have faith and I shall live!

        Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall

        Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven;

        What is salvation else? If I believe,

        Then he will save me! But, so, this his will

        Has no existence till that I believe;

        And there is nothing for my faith to rest on,

        No object for belief. How can I trust

        In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo.

        Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence;

        To all intents save one, most plenary—

        And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.

      Monk.

        'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown.

        And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling

        At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one

        Should find it poison. I have no pique at him—

        But there's that Julian!—

      Stephen.

                                  Hush! speak lower, friend.

      Two Monks farther down the table—in a low tone.

      1st Monk.

        Where did you find her?

      2nd Monk.

                                 She was taken ill

        At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way,

        And so they called me in. I found her dying.

        But ere she would confess and make her peace,

        She begged to know if I had ever seen,

        About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man,

        Moody and silent, with a little stoop

        As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders,

        And a strange look of mingled youth and age,—

      1st Monk.

        Julian, by—

      2nd Monk.

                      'St—no names! I had not seen him.

        I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes,

        And urged her to proceed; and she began;

        But went not far before delirium came,

        With endless repetitions, hurryings forward,

        Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past

        Was running riot in her conquered brain;

        And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group

        Held carnival; went freely out and in,

        Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed

        As some confused tragedy went on;

        Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant

        Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain

        Lay desolate and silent. I can gather

        So much, and little more:—This Julian

        Is one of some distinction; probably rich,

        And titled Count. He had a love-affair,

        In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.—

        Give me the woman; love is troublesome!—

        She loved him too, but falsehood came between,

        And used this woman for her minister;

        Who never would have peached, but for a witness

        Hidden behind some curtain in her heart—

        An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience,

        Who has appeared and blabbed—but must conclude

        His story to some double-ghostly father,

        For she is ghostly penitent by this.

        Our consciences will play us no such tricks;

        They are the Church's, not our own. We must

        Keep this small matter secret. If it should

        Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye—

        A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns!

        And so the world will have the benefit

        Of the said wealth of his, if such there be.

        I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else

        Until our Abbot comes.

      1st Monk.

                              That is to-morrow.

      Another group near the bottom of the table, in which

        is ROBERT.

      1st Monk.

        'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him.

        Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity,

        Which passes like a thought across his face,

        When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen,

        A while to our discourse?—he never joins.

      2nd Monk.

        I know quite well. I stood beside him once,

        Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking:

        He chanced to say the words, Our Holy Faith.

        Their faith indeed, poor fools! fell from his lips,

        Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words

        Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure

        He is an atheist at the least.

      3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed).

                                       And I

        Fear he is something worse. I had a trance

        In which the devil tempted me: the shape

        Was Julian's to the very finger-nails.

      Non nobis, Domine! I overcame.

        I am sure of one thing—music tortures him:

        I saw him once, amid the Gloria Patri,

        When the whole chapel trembled in the sound,

        Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain,

        And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands,

        Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees.

      2nd Monk.

        He does not know his rubric; stands when others

        Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice

        With his missal upside down.

      4th Monk (plethoric and husky).

                                    He blew his nose

        Quite loud on last Annunciation-day,

        And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat.

      Robert.

        When he returns, we must complain; and beg

        He'll take such measures as the case requires.

      SCENE III.—Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, its candle nearly burnt out. JULIAN lying on his bed, looking at the light.

      Julian.

        And so all growth that is not toward God

        Is growing to decay. All increase gained

        Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth.

        'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires,

        Towering above the light it overcomes,

        But ever sinking with the dying flame.

        O let 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 pillars to a marble stall;

        And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay,

        Shall fill the silver manger for a bed,

        Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved

        By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem.

        And over him shall bend the Mother mild,

        In silken white and coroneted gems.

        Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now—

        The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant;

        Nor know I any nests of money-bees

        That could yield half-contentment to my need.

        Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet

        In journeying through this vale of tears have I

        Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.

      SCENE V.—After midnight. JULIAN seated under a tree by the roadside.

      Julian.

        So lies my journey—on into the dark!

        Without my will I find myself alive,

        And must go forward. Is it God that draws

        Magnetic all the souls unto their home,

        Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?

        It matters little what may come to me

        Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst,

        Social condition, yea, or love or hate;

        But what shall I be, fifty summers hence?

        My life, my being, all that meaneth me,

        Goes darkling forward into something—what?

        O God, thou knowest. It is not my care.

        If thou wert less than truth, or less than love,

        It were a fearful thing to be and grow

        We know not what. My God, take care of me;

        Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love,

        Pervading and inspiring me, thy child.

        And let thy own design in me work on,

        Unfolding the ideal man in me;

        Which being greater far than I have grown,

        I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine.

        One day, completed unto thine intent,

        I shall be able to discourse with thee;

        For thy Idea, gifted with a self,

        Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,

        And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts.

        Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand;

        I ask not whither, for it must be on.

        This road will lead me to the hills, I think;

        And there I am in safety and at home.

      SCENE VI.—The Abbot's room. The Abbot and one of the Monks.

      Abbot.

        Did she say Julian? Did she say the name?

      Monk.

        She did.

      Abbot.

                   What did she call the lady? What?

      Monk.

        I could not hear.

      Abbot.

                         Nor where she lived?

      Monk.

                                               Nor that.

        She was too wild for leading where I would.

      Abbot.

        So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask:

        You have kept this matter secret?

      Monk.

                                        Yes, my lord.

      Abbot.

        Well, go and send him hither.

        [Monk goes.]

                                     Said I well,

        That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me?

        That God would hear his own elect who cried?

        Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means

        That it shall draw the eyes by power of light!

        So tender in conceit, that it shall draw

        The heart by very strength of delicateness,

        And move proud thought to worship!

                                            I must act

        With caution now; must win his confidence;

        Question him of the secret enemies

        That fight against his soul; and lead him thus

        To tell me, by degrees, his history.

        So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation

        For future acts, as circumstance requires.

        For if the tale be true that he is rich,

        And if——

      _Re-enter _Monk in haste and terror.

      Monk.

        He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.

      Abbot (starting up).

                     What! You are crazy! Gone?

        His cell is empty?

      Monk.

        'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!

      Abbot.

        Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear!

        There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied!

        Some one is in his confidence!—who is it?

        Go rouse the convent.

      [Monk goes.]

                                 He must be followed, found.

        Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!

        But by and by your horns, and then your side!

        'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating.

        I'll go and sift this business to the bran.

        Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!—God's

        curse! it shall fare ill with any man

        That has connived at this, if I detect him.

      SCENE VII.—Afternoon. The mountains. JULIAN.

      Julian.

        Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven!

        I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak

        Is miles away, and high amid the clouds.

        Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit,

        With the fantastic rock upon its side,

        Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window

        Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze

        With wondering awe upon the mighty thing,

        Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied,

        The hitherto of my child-thoughts. Beyond,

        A sea might roar around its base. Beyond,

        Might be the depths of the unfathomed space,

        This the earth's bulwark over the abyss.

        Upon its very point I have watched a star

        For a few moments crown it with a fire,

        As of an incense-offering that blazed

        Upon this mighty altar high uplift,

        And then float up the pathless waste of heaven.

        From the next window I could look abroad

        Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted

        With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river,

        Where boats went to and fro like water-flies,

        In white and green; but still I turned to look

        At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows:

        All here I saw—I knew not what was there.

        O love of knowledge and of mystery,

        Striving together in the heart of man!

        Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing.—

        Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round:

        Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!

        But I must hasten; else the sun will set

        Before I reach the smoother valley-road.

        I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has

        Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think,

        Four years of wandering since I left my home,

        In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell,

        Must have worn changes in this face of mine

        Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.

      SCENE VIII.—A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the floor. ROBERT.

      Robert.

        One comfort is, he's far away by this.

        Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin.

        Where shall I find a daysman in this strife

        Between my heart and holy Church's words?

        Is not the law of kindness from God's finger,

        Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must

        Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield,

        Be subject to the written law of words;

        Impulses made, made strong, that we might have

        Within the temple's court live things to bring

        And slay upon his altar; that we may,

        By this hard penance of the heart and soul,

        Become the slaves of Christ.—I have done wrong;

        I ought not to have let poor Julian go.

        And yet that light upon the floor says, yes—

        Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good,

        Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life

        That he might be in peace. Still up and down

        The balance goes, a good in either scale;

        Two angels giving each to each the lie,

        And none to part them or decide the question.

        But still the words come down the heaviest

        Upon my conscience as that scale descends;

        But that may be because they hurt me more,

        Being rough strangers in the feelings' home.

        Would God forbid us to do what is right,

        Even for his sake? But then Julian's life

        Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases!

        I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God

        Commanded different things in different tones.

        Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest

        God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind,

        Like Mary singing to her mangered child;

        The other like a self-restrained tempest;

        Like—ah, alas!—the trumpet on Mount Sinai,

        Louder and louder, and the voice of words.

        O for some light! Would they would kill me! then

        I would go up, close up, to God's own throne,

        And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth;

        And he would slay this ghastly contradiction.

        I should not fear, for he would comfort me,

        Because I am perplexed, and long to know.

        But this perplexity may be my sin,

        And come of pride that will not yield to him!

        O for one word from God! his own, and fresh

        From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!

      PART II.

      Table of Contents

        Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense!

        It is thy Duty waiting thee without.

        Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt;

        A hand doth pull thee—it is Providence;

        Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence;

        Go forth into the tumult and the shout;

        Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about:

        Of noise alone is born the inward sense

        Of silence; and from action springs alone

        The inward knowledge of true love and faith.

        Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath,

        And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan:

        One day upon His bosom, all thine own,

        Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.

      SCENE I.—A room in Julian's castle. JULIAN and the old Nurse.

      Julian.

        Nembroni? Count Nembroni?—I remember:

        A man about my height, but stronger built?

        I have seen him at her father's. There was something

        I did not like about him:—ah! I know:

        He had a way of darting looks at you,

        As if he wished to know you, but by stealth.

      Nurse.

        The same, my lord. He is the creditor.

        The common story is, he sought the daughter,

        But sought in vain: the lady would not wed.

        'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble,

        Which caused much wonder, for the family

        Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni

        Contrived to be the only creditor,

        And so imprisoned him.

      Julian.

                              Where is the lady?

      Nurse.

                           Down in the town.

      Julian.

                But where?

      Nurse.

                                          If you turn left,

        When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house

        Upon this side the way. An honest couple,

        Who once were almost pensioners of hers,

        Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home

        With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis

        A wretched change for her.

      Julian.

                            Hm! ah! I see.

        What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse?

      Nurse.

        Here he is little known. His title comes

        From an estate, they say, beyond the hills.

        He looks ungracious: I have seen the children

        Run to the doors when he came up the street.

      Julian.

        Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay—one thing more:

        Have any of my people seen me?

      Nurse. None

        But me, my lord.

      Julian.

                                       And can you keep it secret?—

        know you will for my sake. I will trust you.

        Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.]

        Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid

        His plans for nothing further! I will watch him.

        Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake.

        Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father,

        Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame;

        My love had no claim on like love from thee.—How

        the old tide comes rushing to my heart!

        I know not what I can do yet but watch.

        I have no hold on him. I cannot go,

        Say, I suspect; and, Is it so or not?

        I should but injure them by doing so.

        True, I might pay her father's debts; and will,

        If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well

        During my absence. I have not spent much.

        But still she'd be in danger from this man,

        If not permitted to betray himself;

        And I, discovered, could no more protect.

        Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt

        Her footsteps like an angel, not for long

        Should I remain unseen of other eyes,

        That peer from under cowls—not angel-eyes—

        Hunting me out, over the stormy earth.

         No; I must watch. I can do nothing better.

      SCENE II.—A poor cottage. An old Man and Woman sitting together.

      Man.

        How's the poor lady now?

      Woman.

                                She's poorly still.

        I fancy every day she's growing thinner.

        I am sure she's wasting steadily.

      Man.

                                 Has the count

        Been here again to-day?

      Woman.

                                       No. And I think

        He will not come again. She was so proud

        The last time he was here, you would have thought

        She was a queen at least.

      Man.

                              Remember, wife,

        What she has been. Trouble like that throws down

        The common folk like us all of a heap:

        With folks like her, that are high bred and blood,

        It sets the mettle up.

      Woman.

                                All very right;

        But take her as she was, she might do worse

        Than wed the Count Nembroni.

      Man.

                                             Possible.

        But are you sure there is no other man

        Stands in his way?

      Woman.

                          How can I tell? So be,

        He should be here to help her. What she'll do

        I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her.

        And for her work, she does it far too well

        To earn a living by it. Her times are changed—

        She should not give herself such prideful airs.

      Man.

        Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard

        On one another! You speak fair for men,

        And make allowances; but when a woman

        Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her.

        But where is this you're going then to-night?

        Do they want me to go as well as you?

      Woman.

        Yes, you must go, or else it is no use.

        They cannot give the money to me, except

        My husband go with me. He told me so.

      Man.

        Well, wife, it's worth the going—but to see:

        I don't expect a groat to come of it.

      SCENE III.—Kitchen of a small inn. Host and Hostess.

      Host.

        That's a queer customer you've got upstairs!

        What the deuce is he?

      Hostess.

                             What is that to us?

        He always pays his way, and handsomely.

        I wish there were more like him.

      Host.

                             Has he been

        At home all day?

      Hostess.

                         He has not stirred a foot

        Across the threshold. That's his only fault—

        He's always in the way.

      Host.

                         What does he do?

      Hostess.

        Paces about the room, or sits at the window.

        I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard,

        To see what he's about: he looks annoyed,

        But does not speak a word.

      Host.

                                       He must be crazed,

        Or else in hiding for some scrape or other.

      Hostess.

        He has a wild look in his eye sometimes;

        But sure he would not sit so much in the dark,

        If he were mad, or anything on his conscience;

        And though he does not say much, when he speaks

        A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way.

      Host.

        Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come?

      SCENE IV.—The inn; a room upstairs. JULIAN at the window, half hidden by the curtain.

      Julian.

        With what profusion her white fingers spend

        Delicate motions on the insensate cloth!

        It was so late this morning ere she came!

        I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale!

        Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely.

        Do I not love he? more than when that beauty

        Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond

        The confines of her wondrous face and form,

        And animated with a present power

        Her garment's folds, even to the very hem!

        Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest

        In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door,

        As for her husband. Something will follow this.

        And here he comes, all in his best like her.

        They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk,

        With short steps down the street. Now I must wake

        The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes!

      SCENE V.—A back street. Two Servants with a carriage and pair.

      1st Serv.

        Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There!

        That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head,

        I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say;

        We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten.

      2nd Serv.

        Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare

        She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already,

        As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were

        Under some roof or other. I fear this business

        Is not of the right sort.

      1st Serv.

                              He looked as black

        As if he too had lightning in his bosom.

        There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo!

      SCENE VI.—Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without.

      Julian.

        Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone—no, there it flares!

        I wish the wind would leave or blow it out.

        Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm

        Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind!

        That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he

        Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear

        This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain

        Has blotted all my view with crossing lights.

        'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over,

        And take my stand in the corner by the door.

        But if he comes while I go down the stairs,

        And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently

        Up the stair to the landing by her door.

      [He goes quickly toward the door.]

      Hostess (opening the door and looking in). If you please, sir—

      [He hurries past]

      The devil's in the man!

      SCENE VII.—The landing.

      Voice within.

        If you scream, I must muffle you.

      Julian (rushing up the stair).

                                          He is there!

        His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream!

      [Flinging the door open, as NEMBRONI springs forward on the other side.]

      Back!

      Nembroni. What the devil!—Beggar!

      [Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at JULIAN, which he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he springs within NEMBRONI'S guard.]

      Julian (taking him by the throat).

                           I have faced worse

        storms than you.

      [They struggle.]

      Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force,

      [He stabs him.]

      Your ribs will not mail your heart!

        [NEMBRONI falls dead. JULIAN wipes his dagger on the

        dead man's coat.]

        If men will be devils,

        They are better in hell than here.

      [Lightning flashes on the blade.]

        What a night

        For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven!

      [Approaches the lady within.]

        Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope

        It will not pass too soon. It is not far

        To the half-hidden door in my own fence,

        And that is well. If I step carefully,

        Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints.

        What! blood? He does not bleed much, I should think!

        Oh, I see! it is mine—he has wounded me.

        That's awkward now.

      [Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window.]

      Pardon me, dear lady;

      [Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm.]

        'Tis not to save my blood I would defile

        Even your handkerchief.

      [Coming towards the door, carrying her.]

                               I am pleased to think

        Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength.

      [Looking out of the window on the landing.]

      For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him.

      [He goes down the stair]

      SCENE VIII.—A room in the castle. JULIAN and the Nurse.

      Julian.

        Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse.

        You have put your charge to bed?

      Nurse.

        Yes, my dear lord.

      Julian.

        And has she spoken yet?

      Nurse.

                              After you left,

        Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once:

      Where am I, mother?—then she looked at me,

        And her eyes wandered over all my face,

        Till half in comfort, half in weariness,

        They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is

        As feeble as a child.

      Julian.

                                  Under your care

        She'll soon be well again. Let no one know

        She is in the house:—blood has been shed for her.

      Nurse.

        Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress.

      Julian.

        That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire.

        Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you.

      Nurse.

        Leave?

      Julian.

        Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again

        Over the earth and sea. She must not know

        I have been here. You must contrive to keep

        My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke

        When a branch caught me, but she could not see me.

        She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her;

        Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse.

        Let her on no pretense guess where she is,

        Nor utter word that might suggest the fact.

        When she is well and wishes to be gone,

        Then write to this address—but under cover

      [Writing.]

            To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I

            Will see to all the rest. But let her know

            Her father is set free; assuredly,

            Ere you can say it is, it will be so.

      Nurse.

        How shall I best conceal her, my good lord?

      Julian.

        I have thought of that. There's a deserted room

        In the old west wing, at the further end

        Of the oak gallery.

      Nurse.

                           Not deserted quite.

        I ventured, when you left, to make it mine,

        Because you loved it when a boy, my lord.

      Julian.

        You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though:

        I found a sliding panel, and a door

        Into a room behind. I'll show it you.

        You'll find some musty traces of me yet,

        When you go in. Now take her to your room,

        But get the other ready. Light a fire,

        And keep it burning well for several days.

        Then, one by one, out of the other rooms,

        Take everything to make it comfortable;

        Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter,

        Bind her to be as secret as yourself.

        Then put her there. I'll let her father know

        She is in safety.—I must change attire,

        And be far off or ever morning break.

      [Nurse goes.]

        My treasure-room! how little then I thought,

        Glad in my secret, one day it would hold

        A treasure unto which I dared not come.

        Perhaps she'd love me now—a very little!—

        But not with even a heavenly gift would I

        Go begging love; that should be free as light,

        Cleaving unto myself even for myself.

        I have enough to brood on, joy to turn

        Over and over in my secret heart:—

        She lives, and is the better that I live!

      Re-enter Nurse.

      Nurse.

        My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving;

        She's in a dreadful fever. We must send

        To Arli for the doctor, else her life

        Will be in danger.

      Julian

        (rising disturbed).

                          Go and fetch your daughter.

        Between you, take her to my room, yours now.

        I'll see her there. I think you can together!

      Nurse.

        O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child!

      [Nurse goes.]

      Julian.

        I ought to know the way to treat a fever,

        If it be one of twenty. Hers has come

        Of low food, wasting, and anxiety.

        I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna!

      SCENE IX.—The Abbot's room in the monastery. The Abbot.

      Abbot.

        'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet.

        One hope remains: that fellow has a head!

      Enter STEPHEN.

        Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told

        You said to-day, if I commissioned you,

        You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave.

      Stephen.

        I did, my lord.

      Abbot.

                          How would you do it, Stephen?

      Stephen.

        Try one plan till it failed; then try another;

        Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes

        And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord:

        Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever.

        I have no plan; but, give me time and money,

        I'll find him out.

      Abbot.

                      Stephen, you're just the man

        I have been longing for. Get yourself ready.

      SCENE X.—Towards morning. The Nurse's room. LILIA in bed. JULIAN watching.

      Julian.

        I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then

        She will do well. What strange things she has spoken!

        My heart is beating as if it would spend

        Its life in this one night, and beat it out.

        And well it may, for there is more of life

        In one such moment than in many years!

        Pure life is measured by intensity,

        Not by the how much of the crawling clock.

        Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across

        The window-blind? or is it but a band

        Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed

        Upon the other?—'Tis the moon herself,

        Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this—

      Lilia

        (half-asleep, wildly).

        If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!—

        Julian! Julian!

      [Half-rising.]

      Julian

        (forgetting his caution, and going up to her).

                                    I am here, my Lilia.

        Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream,

        A terrible dream. Gone now—is it not?

        [She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on

        the pillow. He leaves her.]

        How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me!

        But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long

        She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead

        In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced,

        And leave her to console my solitude.

        Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it!

        And what a grief! I will not think of that!

        Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own!

        O God, I did not know thou wast so rich

        In making and in giving; did not know

        The gathered glory of this earth of thine.

        What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy?

        Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take

        Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born

        In thee, and send it home to dwell with me?

      [He leans on the wall.]

      Lilia

        (softly).

        Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad,

        As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am.

        I see the flashing of ten thousand glories;

        I hear the trembling of a thousand wings,

        That vibrate music on the murmuring air!

        Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool

        Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!—

        What is it, though, that makes me glad like this?

        I knew, but cannot find it—I forget.

        It must be here—what was it?—Hark! the fall,

        The endless going of the stream of life!—

        Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,—I am so thirsty!

      [Querulously.]

      [JULIAN gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him again, with large wondering eyes.]

      Ah! now I know—I was so very thirsty!

      [He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window.]

      Julian.

        The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless;

        With its obtrusive I am written large

        Upon its face!

        [Approaches the bed, and gazes on LILIA silently with

        clasped hands; then returns to the window.]

                       She sleeps so peacefully!

        O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep.

        Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain.

      Enter Nurse.

        Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep.

        You must be near her when she wakes again.

        I think she'll be herself. But do be careful—

        Right cautious how you tell her I am here.

        Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep!

      [JULIAN goes.]

      Nurse.

        Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter,

        That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks,

        And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!—

        Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life

        From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see

        Your shutters open, for I then should know

        Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back,

        To peep at morning from her own bright windows.

        Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her,

        To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams

        Have but betrayed her secrets honestly!

        Will he not give thee love as dear as thine!

      SCENE XI.—A hilly road. STEPHEN, trudging alone, pauses to look around him.

      Stephen.

        Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound

        would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged

        good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length—mind

        thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not

        hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not.

        Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.—It is a poor man

        that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not

        follow thee.

      [Sings.]

            Oh, many a hound is stretching out

            His two legs or his four,

            And the saddled horses stand about

            The court and the castle door,

            Till out come the baron, jolly and stout,

            To hunt the bristly boar!

            The emperor, he doth keep a pack

            In his antechambers standing,

            And up and down the stairs, good lack!

            And eke upon the landing:

            A straining leash, and a quivering back,

            And nostrils and chest expanding!

            The devil a hunter long hath been,

            Though Doctor Luther said it:

            Of his canon-pack he was the dean,

            And merrily he led it:

            The old one kept them swift and lean

            On faith—that's devil's credit!

            Each man is a hunter to his trade,

              And they follow one another;

            But such a hunter never was made

              As the monk that hunted his brother!

            And the runaway pig, ere its game be played,

              Shall be eaten by its mother!

      Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and precipices! But the flea may be caught, and so shall the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave his plaything, and wants it back!—I wonder whereabouts I am.

      SCENE XII.—The Nurse's room. LILIA sitting up in bed. JULIAN seated by her; an open note in his hand.

      Lilia.

        Tear it up, Julian.

      Julian.

                         No; I'll treasure it

        As the remembrance of a by-gone grief:

        I love it well, because it is not yours.

      Lilia.

        Where have you been these long, long years away?

        You look much older. You have suffered, Julian!

      Julian.

        Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much,

        Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself,

        I'll tell you all you want to know about me.

      Lilia.

        Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong;

        It will not hurt me.

      Julian.

                           Wait a day or two.

        Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all.

      Lilia.

        And I have much to tell you, Julian. I

        Have suffered too—not all for my own sake.

      [Recalling something.]

        Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!—

        I don't know when it was. It must have been

        Before you brought me here! I am sure it was.

      Julian.

        Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards.

        You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must.

      Lilia.

        I will obey you, will not speak a word.

      Enter Nurse.

      Nurse.

        Blessings upon her! she's near well already.

        Who would have thought, three days ago, to see

        You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders.

      Julian.

        My art has helped a little, I thank God.—

        To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while.

      [JULIAN goes.]

      Lilia.

        Why does he always wear that curious cap?

      Nurse.

        I don't know. You must sleep.

      Lilia.

                                     Yes. I forgot.

      SCENE XIII.—The Steward's room. JULIAN and the Steward. Papers on the table, which JULIAN has just finished examining.

      Julian.

        Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me.

        You sent that note privately to my friend?

      Steward.

        I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money,

        Putting all things in train for his release,

        Without appearing in it personally,

        Or giving any clue to other hands.

        He sent this message by my messenger:

        His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it.

        He will be secret. For his daughter, she

        Is safe with you as with himself; and so

        God bless you both! He will expect to hear

        From both of you from England.

      Julian.

                                  Well, again.

        What money is remaining in your hands?

      Steward.

        Two bags, three hundred each; that's all.

        I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more.

      Julian.

        One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance

        Befall us, though I do not fear it much—

        have been very secret—is that boat

        I had before I left, in sailing trim?

      Steward.

        I knew it was a favorite with my lord;

        I've taken care of it. A month ago,

        With my own hands I painted it all fresh,

        Fitting

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