PHANTASTES (With All Original Illustrations). George MacDonald

are only a dull representation of a state whose very elevation precluded the possibility of remembrance; and in which I presume the words really employed were as far above these, as that state transcended this wherein I recall it:

      “Marble woman, vainly sleeping

      In the very death of dreams!

      Wilt thou — slumber from thee sweeping,

      All but what with vision teems —

      Hear my voice come through the golden

      Mist of memory and hope;

      And with shadowy smile embolden

      Me with primal Death to cope?

      “Thee the sculptors all pursuing,

      Have embodied but their own;

      Round their visions, form enduring,

      Marble vestments thou hast thrown;

      But thyself, in silence winding,

      Thou hast kept eternally;

      Thee they found not, many finding —

      I have found thee: wake for me.”

      As I sang, I looked earnestly at the face so vaguely revealed before me. I fancied, yet believed it to be but fancy, that through the dim veil of the alabaster, I saw a motion of the head as if caused by a sinking sigh. I gazed more earnestly, and concluded that it was but fancy. Neverthless I could not help singing again —

      “Rest is now filled full of beauty,

      And can give thee up, I ween;

      Come thou forth, for other duty

      Motion pineth for her queen.

      “Or, if needing years to wake thee

      From thy slumbrous solitudes,

      Come, sleep-walking, and betake thee

      To the friendly, sleeping woods.

      Sweeter dreams are in the forest,

      Round thee storms would never rave;

      And when need of rest is sorest,

      Glide thou then into thy cave.

      “Or, if still thou choosest rather

      Marble, be its spell on me;

      Let thy slumber round me gather,

      Let another dream with thee!”

      Again I paused, and gazed through the stony shroud, as if, by very force of penetrative sight, I would clear every lineament of the lovely face. And now I thought the hand that had lain under the cheek, had slipped a little downward. But then I could not be sure that I had at first observed its position accurately. So I sang again; for the longing had grown into a passionate need of seeing her alive —

      “Or art thou Death, O woman? for since I

      Have set me singing by thy side,

      Life hath forsook the upper sky,

      And all the outer world hath died.

      “Yea, I am dead; for thou hast drawn

      My life all downward unto thee.

      Dead moon of love! let twilight dawn:

      Awake! and let the darkness flee.

      “Cold lady of the lovely stone!

      Awake! or I shall perish here;

      And thou be never more alone,

      My form and I for ages near.

      “But words are vain; reject them all —

      They utter but a feeble part:

      Hear thou the depths from which they call,

      The voiceless longing of my heart.”

      There arose a slightly crashing sound. Like a sudden apparition that comes and is gone, a white form, veiled in a light robe of whiteness, burst upwards from the stone, stood, glided forth, and gleamed away towards the woods. For I followed to the mouth of the cave, as soon as the amazement and concentration of delight permitted the nerves of motion again to act; and saw the white form amidst the trees, as it crossed a little glade on the edge of the forest where the sunlight fell full, seeming to gather with intenser radiance on the one object that floated rather than flitted through its lake of beams. I gazed after her in a kind of despair; found, freed, lost! It seemed useless to follow, yet follow I must. I marked the direction she took; and without once looking round to the forsaken cave, I hastened towards the forest.