The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2 - George MacDonald (list of e readers TXT) 📗

his crime:-one breathing blown From thy spirit on his would all atone, Scatter the horror, and bring relief In an amber dawn of holy grief! God, give him sorrow; arise from within, His primal being, deeper than sin!

XI. Why do I tremble, a creature at bay? 'Tis but a dream-I drive it away. Back comes my breath, and my heart again Pumps the red blood to my fainting brain Released from the nightmare's nine-fold train: God is in heaven-yes, everywhere, And Love, the all-shining, will kill Despair!- To the wall's blank eyeless space I turn the picture's face.

XII. But why is the moon so bare, up there? And why is she so white? And why does the moon so stare, up there- Strangely stare, out of the night? Why stand up the poplars That still way? And why do those two of them Start astray? And out of the black why hangs the gray? Why does it hang down so, I say, Over that house, like a fringed pall Where the dead goes by in a funeral?- Soul of mine, Thou the reason canst divine: Into thee the moon doth stare With pallid, terror-smitten air! Thou, and the Horror lonely-stark, Outcast of eternal dark, Are in nature same and one, And thy story is not done! So let the picture face thee from the wall, And let its white moon stare!


IN THE WINTER .

In the winter, flowers are springing; In the winter, woods are green, Where our banished birds are singing, Where our summer sun is seen! Our cold midnights are coeval With an evening and a morn Where the forest-gods hold revel, And the spring is newly born!

While the earth is full of fighting, While men rise and curse their day, While the foolish strong are smiting, And the foolish weak betray- The true hearts beyond are growing, The brave spirits work alone, Where Love's summer-wind is blowing In a truth-irradiate zone!

While we cannot shape our living To the beauty of our skies, While man wants and earth is giving- Nature calls and man denies- How the old worlds round Him gather Where their Maker is their sun! How the children know the Father Where the will of God is done!

Daily woven with our story, Sounding far above our strife, Is a time-enclosing glory, Is a space-absorbing life. We can dream no dream Elysian, There is no good thing might be, But some angel has the vision, But some human soul shall see!

Is thy strait horizon dreary? Is thy foolish fancy chill? Change the feet that have grown weary For the wings that never will. Burst the flesh, and live the spirit; Haunt the beautiful and far; Thou hast all things to inherit, And a soul for every star.


CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1878 .

I think I might be weary of this day That comes inevitably every year, The same when I was young and strong and gay, The same when I am old and growing sere- I should grow weary of it every year But that thou comest to me every day.

I shall grow weary if thou every day But come to me, Lord of eternal life; I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray, For ever out of labour into strife; Take everlasting house with me, my life, And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day.

Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day, But ever he the Father, thou the Son; I am his child, but being born alway- How long, O Lord, how long till it be done? Be thou from endless years to years the Son- And I thy brother, new-born every day.


THE NEW YEAR .

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
Make poor the body, but make rich the heart: What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low- Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.


TWO RONDELS .

I.

When, in the mid-sea of the night,
I waken at thy call, O Lord,
The first that troop my bark aboard Are darksome imps that hate the light, Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight-
Of wraths and cares a pirate horde- Though on the mid-sea of the night
It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight-
Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
The words of him who is thy word- Nor cease till they are put to flight; Then in the mid-sea of the night
I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II.

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night!
I lift my voice and cry with might: If thou keep silent, soon a horde Of imps again will swarm aboard,
And I shall be in sorry plight If no voice come from thee, my Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night.

There comes no voice; I hear no word!
But in my soul dawns something bright:-
There is no sea, no foe to fight! Thy heart and mine beat one accord: I need no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night.


RONDEL .

Heart, thou must learn to do without-
That is the riches of the poor,
Their liberty is to endure; Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about, And carol loud and carol stout;
Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer; Thou too must learn to do without,
Must earn the riches of the poor!

Why should'st thou only wear no clout?
Thou only walk in love-robes pure?
Why should thy step alone be sure? Thou only free of fortune's flout? Nay, nay! but learn to go without,
And so be humbly, richly poor.


SONG .

Lighter and sweeter
Let your song be; And for sorrow-oh cheat her
With melody!


SMOKE .

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar
But cannot get the wood to burn; It hardly flares ere it begins to falter
And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel;
In vain my breath would flame provoke; Yet see-at every poor attempt's renewal
To thee ascends the smoke!

'Tis all I have-smoke, failure, foiled endeavour,
Coldness and doubt and palsied lack: Such as I have I send thee!-perfect Giver,
Send thou thy lightning back.


TO A CERTAIN CRITIC .

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind When I my homely dish with care designed; 'Twas certain humble souls I would have fed Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread: You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way, O'erturned the food, and trod it in the clay; Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt, Cried, "Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!"


SONG .

She loves thee, loves thee not! That, that is all, my heart. Why should she take a part In every selfish blot, In every greedy spot That now doth ache and smart Because she loves thee not- Not, not at all, poor heart!

Thou art no such dove-cot Of virtues-no such chart Of highways, though the dart Of love be through thee shot! Why should she not love not Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?


A CRY .

Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand, A mirror polished by thy hand; Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me- I cannot help it: here I stand, there he! To one of them I cannot say, Go, and on yonder water play; Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion- I do not make the words of this my limping passion! If I should say, Now I will think a thought, Lo, I must wait, unknowing What thought in me is growing, Until the thing to birth be brought! Nor know I then what next will come From out the gulf of silence dumb: I am the door the thing will find To pass into the general mind! I cannot say I think - I only stand upon the thought-well's brink: From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up- lift it in my cup. Thou only thinkest-I am thought; Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought Am I but as a fountain spout From which thy water welleth out. Thou art the only one, the all in all.- Yet when my soul on thee doth call And thou dost answer out of everywhere, I in thy allness have my perfect share.


FROM HOME .

Some men there are who cannot spare
A single tear until they feel
The last cold pressure, and the heel Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think
The clouds have borrowed winter's wing,
Sad winter, when the grasses spring No more about the fountain's brink.

And some would call me coward fool:
I lay a claim to better blood,
But yet a heap of idle mud Hath power to make me sorrowful.


TO MY MOTHER EARTH .

0 Earth, Earth, Earth,
I am dying for love of thee, For thou hast given me birth,
And thy hands have tended me.

I would fall asleep on thy breast
When its swelling folds are bare, When the thrush dreams of its nest
And the life of its joy in the air;

When thy life is a vanished ghost,
And the glory hath left thy waves, When thine eye is blind with frost,
And the fog sits on the graves;

When the blasts are shivering about,
And the rain thy branches beats, When the damps of death are out,
And the mourners are in the streets.

Oh my sleep should be deep
In the arms of thy swiftening motion, And my dirge the mystic sweep
Of the winds that nurse the ocean.

And my eye would slowly ope
With the voice that awakens thee, And runs like a glance of hope
Up through the quickening tree;

When the roots of the lonely fir
Are dipt in thy veining heat, And thy countless atoms stir
With the gather of mossy feet;

When the sun's great censer swings
In the hands that always be, And the mists from thy watery rings
Go up like dust from the sea;

When the midnight airs are assembling
With a gush in thy whispering halls, And the leafy air is trembling
Like a stream before it falls.

Thy shadowy hand hath found me
On the drifts of the Godhead's will, And thy dust hath risen around me
With a life that guards me still.

O Earth! I have caught from thine
The pulse of a mystic chase; O Earth!