George MacDonald

Rampolli George MacDonald

Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light, with itscolours, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the formof the wakening Day? The giant world of the unresting constellationsinhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its azureflood; the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibingplant, and the wild, burning, multiform beast-world inhales it; butmore than all, the lordly stranger with the meaning eyes, the swayingwalk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthlynature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds andunbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around everyearthly substance. Its presence alone reveals the marvellous splendourof the kingdoms of the world. Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies theworld, sunk in a deep grave; waste and lonely is its place. In the chordsof the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in dropsof dew, and mingle with the ashes.-The distances of memory, thewishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopesof a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapourafter the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents: what if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with thefaith of innocence?What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stillsthe soft air of sadness? Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, duskyNight? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden poweraffects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle ofpoppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden pinions of the sou