The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1. George MacDonald

       Nurse. My lord, the steward waits on you below.

        You have been standing till you're faint, my lady!

        Lie down a little. There!—I'll fetch you something.

        Julian.

        Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect

        To hear from you soon after my arrival.

        Is the boat ready?

        Steward.

                        Yes, my lord; afloat

        Where you directed.

        Julian.

                      A strange feeling haunts me,

        As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast

        The chain around the post. Muffle the oars.

        Steward.

        I will, directly.

        Julian.

                               How shall I manage it?

        I have her father's leave, but have not dared

        To tell her all; and she must know it first!

        She fears me half, even now: what will she think

        To see my shaven head? My heart is free—

        I know that God absolves mistaken vows.

        I looked for help in the high search from those

        Who knew the secret place of the Most High.

        If I had known, would I have bound myself

        Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds

        Never a lark springs to salute the day?

        The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best

        Content with goodness growing like moss on stones!

        It cannot be God's will I should be such.

        But there was more: they virtually condemned

        Me in my quest; would have had me content

        To kneel with them around a wayside post,

        Nor heed the pointing finger at its top?

        It was the dull abode of foolishness:

        Not such the house where God would train his children!

        My very birth into a world of men

        Shows me the school where he would have me learn;

        Shows me the place of penance; shows the field

        Where I must fight and die victorious,

        Or yield and perish. True, I know not how

        This will fall out: he must direct my way!

        But then for her—she cannot see all this;

        Words will not make it plain; and if they would,

        The time is shorter than the words would need:

        This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.—

        It may be only vapour, of the heat

        Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear

        That the fair gladness is too good to live:

        The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest,

        The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;

        But how will she receive it? Will she think

        I have been mocking her? How could I help it?

        Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,

        So strong was I in truth, I never thought

        Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.

        My love did make her so a part of me,

        I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,

        Until our talk of yesterday. And now

        Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me:

        To wed a monk will seem to her the worst

        Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.

        I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,

        Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.

        She loves me—not as I love her. But always

        —There's Robert for an instance—I have loved

        A life for what it might become, far more

        Than for its present: there's a germ in her

        Of something noble, much beyond her now:

        Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.

      This evening must decide it, come what will.

        Stephen.

        Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass;

        Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.

        Hostess.

        I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine;

        My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say

        I am a judge myself.

        Host.

                    I'm