The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

ABU MIDJAN

 
"If I sit in the dust
  For lauding good wine,
Ha, ha! it is just:
  So sits the vine!"
 
 
Abu Midjan sang as he sat in chains,
For the blood of the grape ran the juice of his veins.
The Prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not!"
Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot;
Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine,
He called it good names—a joy divine,
The giver of might, the opener of eyes,
Love's handmaid, the water of Paradise!
Therefore Saad his chief spake words of blame,
And set him in irons—a fettered flame;
But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains,
For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:
 
 
"I will not think
  That the Prophet said
Ye shall not drink
  Of the flowing red!"
 
 
"'Tis a drenched brain
  Whose after-sting
Cries out, Refrain:
  'Tis an evil thing!
 
 
"But I will dare,
  With a goodly drought,
To drink, nor spare
  Till my thirst be out.
 
 
"I do not laugh
  Like a Christian fool
But in silence quaff
  The liquor cool
 
 
"At door of tent
  'Neath evening star,
With daylight spent,
  And Uriel afar!
 
 
"Then, through the sky,
  Lo, the emerald hills!
My faith swells high,
  My bosom thrills:
 
 
"I see them hearken,
  The Houris that wait!
Their dark eyes darken
  The diamond gate!
 
 
"I hear the float
  Of their chant divine,
And my heart like a boat
  Sails thither on wine!
 
 
"Can an evil thing
  Make beauty more?
Or a sinner bring
  To the heavenly door?
 
 
"The sun-rain fine
  Would sink and escape,
But is drunk by the vine,
  Is stored in the grape:
 
 
"And the prisoned light
  I free again:
It flows in might
  Through my shining brain
 
 
"I love and I know;
  The truth is mine;
I walk in the glow
  Of the sun-bred wine.
 
 
"I will not think
  That the Prophet said
Ye shall not drink
  Of the flowing red!
 
 
"For his promises, lo,
  Sevenfold they shine
When the channels o'erflow
  With the singing wine!
 
 
"But I care not, I!—'tis a small annoy
To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"
 
 
  Away went the song on the light wind borne;
His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn
Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip
As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.
 
 
  Sudden his forehead he lifted high:
A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by!
Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth:
A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north!
A noise and a smoke on the plain afar?
'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war!
He leapt aloft like a tiger snared;
The wine in his veins through his visage flared;
He tore at his fetters in bootless ire,
He called the Prophet, he named his sire;
From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst;
He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed;
And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun,
Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.
 
 
  The lady of Saad heard him shout,
Heard his fetters ring on the stones about
The heart of a warrior she understood,
And the rage of the thwarted battle-mood:
Her name, with the cry of an angry prayer,
He called but once, and the lady was there.
 
 
  "The Giaour!" he panted, "the Godless brute!
And me like a camel tied foot to foot!
Let me go, and I swear by Allah's fear
At sunset I don again this gear,
Or lie in a heaven of starry eyes,
Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise!
O lady, grant me the death of the just!
Hark to the hurtle! see the dust!"
 
 
  With ready fingers the noble dame
Unlocked her husband's iron blame;
Brought his second horse, his Abdon, out,
And his second hauberk, light and stout;
Harnessed the warrior, and hight him go
An angel of vengeance upon the foe.
 
 
  With clank of steel and thud of hoof
Away he galloped; she climbed the roof.
 
 
  She sees the cloud and the flashes that leap
From the scythe-shaped swords inside it that sweep
Down with back-stroke the disordered swath:
Thither he speeds, a bolt of wrath!
Straight as an arrow she sees him go,
Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe!
Like an eagle he vanishes in the cloud,
And the thunder of battle bursts more loud,
Mingled of crashes and blows and falls,
Of the whish that severs the throat that calls,
Of neighing and shouting and groaning grim:
Abu Midjan, she sees no more of him!
Northward the battle drifts afar
On the flowing tide of the holy war.
 
 
  Lonely across the desert sand,
From his wrist by its thong hung his clotted brand,
Red in the sunset's level flame
Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.
 
 
  "Lady, I swear your Saad's horse—
The Prophet himself might have rode a worse!
Like the knots of a serpent the play of his flesh
As he tore to the quarry in Allah's mesh!
I forgot him, and mowed at the traitor weeds,
Which fell before me like rushes and reeds,
Or like the tall poppies that sudden drop low
Their heads to an urchin's unstrung bow!
Fled the Giaour; the faithful flew after to kill;
I turned to surrender: beneath me still
Was Abdon unjaded, fresh in force,
Faithful and fearless—a heavenly horse!
Give him water, lady, and barley to eat;
Then haste thee and fetter the wine-bibber's feet."
 
 
  To the terrace he went, and she to the stall;
She tended the horse like guest in hall,
Then to the warrior unhasting returned.
The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned,
But he sat in a silence that might betoken
One ashamed that his heart had spoken—
Though where was the word to breed remorse?
He had lauded only his chief's brave horse!
Not a word she spoke, but his fetters locked;
He watched with a smile that himself bemocked;
She left him seated in caitiff-plight,
Like one that had feared and fled the fight.
 
 
  But what singer ever sat lonely long
Ere the hidden fountain burst in song!
The battle wine foamed in the warrior's veins,
And he sang sword-tempest who sat in chains.
 
 
  "Oh, the wine
Of the vine
  Is a feeble thing!
In the rattle
Of battle
  The true grapes spring!
 
 
"When on whir
Of Tecbir
  Allah's wrath flies,
And the power
Of the Giaour
  A blasted leaf lies!
 
 
"When on force
Of the horse
  The arm flung abroad
Is sweeping,
And reaping
  The harvest of God!
 
 
"Ha! they drop
From the top
  To the sear heap below!
Ha! deeper,
Down steeper,
 The infidels go!
 
 
"Azrael
Sheer to hell
 Shoots the foul shoals!
There Monker
And Nakir
  Torture their souls!
 
 
"But when drop
On their crop
  The scimitars red,
And under
War's thunder
  The faithful lie dead,
 
 
"Oh, bright
Is the light
  On hero slow breaking!
Rapturous faces
Bent for embraces
  Watch for his waking!
 
 
"And he hears
In his ears
  The voice of Life's river,
Like a song
Of the strong,
  Jubilant ever!
 
 
"Oh, the wine
Of the vine
  May lead to the gates,
But the rattle
Of battle
  Wakes the angel who waits!
 
 
"To the lord
Of the sword
  Open it must!
The drinker,
The thinker
  Sits in the dust!
 
 
"He dreams
Of the gleams
  Of their garments of white;
He misses
Their kisses,
  The maidens of light!
 
 
"They long
For the strong
  Who has burst through alarms—
Up, by the labour
Of stirrup and sabre,
  Up to their arms!
 
 
"Oh, the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost!
The wine of the fight is the joy of a host!"
 
 
  When Saad came home from the far pursuit,
An hour he sat, and an hour was mute.
Then he opened his mouth: "Ah, wife, the fight
Had been lost full sure, but an arm of might
Sudden rose up on the crest of the battle,
Flashed blue lightnings, thundered steel rattle,
Took up the fighting, and drove it on—
Enoch sure, or the good Saint John!
Wherever he leaped, like a lion he,
The battle was thickest, or soon to be!
Wherever he sprang with his lion roar,
In a minute the battle was there no more!
With a headlong fear, the sinners fled,
And we swept them down the steep of the dead:
Before us, not from us, did they flee,
They ceased in the depths of a new Red Sea!
But him who saved us we saw no more;
He went as he came, by a secret door!
And strangest of all—nor think I err
If a miracle I for truth aver—
I was close to him thrice—the holy Force
Wore my silver-ringed hauberk, rode Abdon my horse!"
 
 
  The lady rose up, withholding her word,
And led to the terrace her wondering lord,
Where, song-soothed, and weary with battle strain,
Abu Midjan sat counting the links of his chain:
"The battle was raging, he raging worse;
I freed him, harnessed him, gave him thy horse."
 
 
  "Abu Midjan! the singer of love and of wine!
The arm of the battle, it also was thine?
Rise up, shake the irons from off thy feet:
For the lord of the fight are fetters meet?
If thou wilt, then drink till thou be hoar:
Allah shall judge thee; I judge no more!"
 
 
  Abu Midjan arose; he flung aside
The clanking fetters, and thus he cried:
"If thou give me to God and his decrees,
Nor purge my sin with the shame of these,
Wrath against me I dare not store:
In the name of Allah, I drink no more!"
 

THE THANKLESS LADY

 
It is May, and the moon leans down at night
  Over a blossomy land;
Leans from her window a lady white,
  With her cheek upon her hand.
 
 
"Oh, why in the blue so misty, moon?
  Why so dull in the sky?
Thou look'st like one that is ready to swoon
  Because her tear-well is dry.
 
 
"Enough, enough of longing and wail!
  Oh, bird, I pray thee, be glad!
Sing to me once, dear nightingale,
  The old song, merry mad.
 
 
"Hold, hold with thy blossoming, colourless, cold,
  Apple-tree white as woe!
Blossom yet once with the blossom of old,
  Let the roses shine through the snow!"
 
 
The moon and the blossoms they gloomily gleam,
  The bird will not be glad:
The dead never speak when the mournful dream,
  They are too weak and sad.
 
 
Listened she listless till night grew late,
  Bound by a weary spell;
Then clanked the latch of the garden-gate,
  And a wondrous thing befell:
 
 
Out burst the gladness, up dawned the love.
  In the song, in the waiting show;
Grew silver the moon in the sky above.
  Blushed rosy the blossom below.
 
 
But the merry bird, nor the silvery moon,
  Nor the blossoms that flushed the night
Had one poor thanks for the granted boon:
  The lady forgot them quite!
 

LEGEND OF THE CORRIEVRECHAN

 
Prince Breacan of Denmark was lord of the strand
  And lord of the billowy sea;
Lord of the sea and lord of the land,
  He might have let maidens be!
 
 
A maiden he met with locks of gold,
  Straying beside the sea:
Maidens listened in days of old,
  And repented grievously.
 
 
Wiser he left her in evil wiles,
  Went sailing over the sea;
Came to the lord of the Western Isles:
  Give me thy daughter, said he.
 
 
The lord of the Isles he laughed, and said:
  Only a king of the sea
May think the Maid of the Isles to wed,
  And such, men call not thee!
 
 
Hold thine own three nights and days
  In yon whirlpool of the sea,
Or turn thy prow and go thy ways
  And let the isle-maiden be.
 
 
Prince Breacan he turned his dragon prow
  To Denmark over the sea:
Wise women, he said, now tell me how
  In yon whirlpool to anchor me.
 
 
Make a cable of hemp and a cable of wool
  And a cable of maidens' hair,
And hie thee back to the roaring pool
  And anchor in safety there.
 
 
The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule,
  Will forge three anchors rare;
The hemp thou shalt pull, thou shalt shear the wool,
  And the maidens will bring their hair.
 
 
Of the hair that is brown thou shalt twist one strand,
  Of the hair that is raven another;
Of the golden hair thou shalt twine a band
  To bind the one to the other!
 
 
The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule,
  They forged three anchors rare;
The hemp he did pull, and he shore the wool,
  And the maidens brought their hair.
 
 
He twisted the brown hair for one strand,
  The raven hair for another;
He twined the golden hair in a band
  To bind the one to the other.
 
 
He took the cables of hemp and wool.
  He took the cable of hair,
He hied him back to the roaring pool,
  He cast the three anchors there.
 
 
The whirlpool roared, and the day went by,
  And night came down on the sea;
But or ever the morning broke the sky
  The hemp was broken in three.
 
 
The night it came down, the whirlpool it ran,
  The wind it fiercely blew;
And or ever the second morning began
  The wool it parted in two.
 
 
The storm it roared all day the third,
  The whirlpool wallowed about,
The night came down like a wild black bird,
  But the cable of hair held out.
 
 
Round and round with a giddy swing
  Went the sea-king through the dark;
Round went the rope in the swivel-ring,
  Round reeled the straining bark.
 
 
Prince Breacan he stood on his dragon prow,
  A lantern in his hand:
Blest be the maidens of Denmark now,
  By them shall Denmark stand!
 
 
He watched the rope through the tempest black
  A lantern in his hold:
Out, out, alack! one strand will crack!
  It is the strand of gold!
 
 
The third morn clear and calm came out:
  No anchored ship was there!
The golden strand in the cable stout
  Was not all of maidens' hair.
 

THE DEAD HAND

 
The witch lady walked along the strand,
  Heard a roaring of the sea,
On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand,
  Good thing for a witch lady!
 
 
Lightly she stepped across the rocks,
  Came where the dead man lay:
Now pretty maid with your merry mocks,
  Now I shall have my way!
 
 
On a finger shone a sapphire blue
  In the heart of six rubies red:
Come back to me, my promise true,
  Come back, my ring, she said.
 
 
She took the dead hand in the live,
  And at the ring drew she;
The dead hand closed its fingers five,
  And it held the witch lady.
 
 
She swore the storm was not her deed,
  Dark spells she backward spoke;
If the dead man heard he took no heed,
  But held like a cloven oak.
 
 
Deathly cold, crept up the tide,
  Sure of her, made no haste;
Crept up to her knees, crept up each side,
  Crept up to her wicked waist.
 
 
Over the blue sea sailed the bride
  In her love's own sailing ship,
And the witch she saw them across the tide
  As it rose to her lying lip.
 
 
Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead
  Are strong hasps they to hold!
Fled the true dove with the kite's new love,
  And left the false kite with the old.