The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2 - George MacDonald (list of e readers TXT) 📗
- Author: George MacDonald
Book online «The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2 - George MacDonald (list of e readers TXT) 📗». Author George MacDonald
full wast thou of eyes all round and round.
XI. And so thou neededst not our human skill To fix what thus were transient-there it grew Wedded to thy perfection; and anew With every coming vision rose there still Some living principle which did fulfil Thy most legitimate manhood; and unto Thy soul all Nature rendered up its due With not a contradiction; and each hill And mountain torrent and each wandering light Grew out divinely on thy countenance, Whereon, as we are told, by word and glance Thy hearers read an ever strange delight-So strange to them thy Truth, they could not tell What made thy message so unspeakable.
XII. And by such living witness didst thou preach: Not with blind hands of groping forward thrust Into the darkness, gathering only dust, But by this real sign-that thou didst reach, In natural order, rising each from each, Thy own ideals of the True and Just; And that as thou didst live, even so he must Who would aspire his fellow-men to teach, Looking perpetual from new heights of Thought On his old self. Of art no scorner thou! Instead of leafy chaplet, on thy brow Wearing the light of manhood, thou hast brought Death unto Life! Above all statues now, Immortal Artist, hail! thy work is wrought!
XIII. Solemn and icy stand ye in my eyes, Far up into the niches of the Past, Ye marble statues, dim and holden fast Within your stony homes! nor human cries Had shook you from your frozen phantasies Or sent the life-blood through you, till there passed Through all your chilly bulks a new life-blast From the Eternal Living, and ye rise From out your stiffened postures rosy-warm, Walking abroad a goodly company Of living virtues at that wondrous charm, As he with human heart and hand and eye Walked sorrowing upon our highways then, The Eternal Father's living gift to men!
XIV. As the pent torrent in uneasy rest Under the griping rocks, doth ever keep A monstrous working as it lies asleep In the round hollow of some mountain's breast, Till where it hideth in its sweltering nest Some earthquake finds it, and its waters leap Forth to the sunshine down the mighty steep, So in thee once was anguished forth the quest Whereby man sought for life-power as he lay Under his own proud heart and black despair Wedged fast and stifled up with loads of care, Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay; Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer, And he hath cried aloud since that same day!
XV. As he that parts in hatred from a friend Mixing with other men forgets the woe Which anguished him when he beheld and lo Two souls had fled asunder which did bend Under the same blue heaven! yet ere the end, When the loud world hath tossed him to and fro, Will often strangely reappear that glow At simplest memory which some chance may send, Although much stronger bonds have lost their power: So thou God-sent didst come in lowly guise, Striking on simple chords,-not with surprise Or mightiest recollectings in that hour, But like remembered fragrance of a flower A man with human heart and loving eyes.
March , 1852.
A SONG-SERMON:
Job xiv. 13-15.
RONDEL.
Would that thou hid me in the grave And kept me with death's gaoler-care; Until thy wrath away should wear A sentence fixed thy prisoner gave! I would endure with patience brave So thou remembered I was there! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!
To see thy creature thou wouldst crave- Desire thy handiwork so fair; Then wouldst thou call through death's dank air And I would answer from the cave! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!
WORDS IN THE NIGHT .
I woke at midnight, and my heart, My beating heart, said this to me: Thou seest the moon, how calm and bright! The world is fair by day and night, But what is that to thee? One touch to me, down dips the light Over the land and sea. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!
One little touch and all is dark- The winter with its sparkling moons, The spring with all her violets, The crimson dawns and rich sunsets, The autumn's yellowing noons! I only toss my purple jets, And thou art one that swoons Upon a night of gust and roar, Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems Across the purple hills to roam: Sweet odours touch him from the foam, And downward sinking still he dreams He walks the clover fields at home And hears the rattling teams. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!
Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout Full in the air, and in the downward spray A hovering Iris span the marble tank, Which, as the wind came, ever rose and sank, Violet and red; so my continual play Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank Of human excellence, while they, Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet, Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat. Let the world's fountain play! Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove; Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies He marks the dancing column with his eyes Celestial, and amid his inmost grove Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.
One heart beats in all nature, differing But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours Are but the waste and brunt of instruments Wherewith a work is done, or as the hammers On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape The hard and scattered ore; Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash Thy life go from thee in a night of pain; So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.
Hark, the cock crows loud! And without, all ghastly and ill, Like a man uplift in his shroud, The white, white morn is propped on the hill; And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill The icicles 'gin to glitter And the birds with a warble short and shrill Pass by the chamber-window still- With a quick, uneasy twitter! Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter; And wearily, wearily, one by one, Men awake with the weary sun! Life is a phantom shut in thee: I am the master and keep the key; So let me toss thee the days of old Crimson and orange and green and gold; So let me fill thee yet again With a rush of dreams from my spout amain; For all is mine, all is my own: Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone, And I am alive, I only, I!
CONSIDER THE RAVENS
Lord, according to thy words, I have considered thy birds; And I find their life good, And better the better understood: Sowing neither corn nor wheat They have all that they can eat; Reaping no more than they sow They have more than they could stow; Having neither barn nor store, Hungry again, they eat more.
Considering, I see too that they Have a busy life, and plenty of play; In the earth they dig their bills deep And work well though they do not heap; Then to play in the air they are not loath, And their nests between are better than both. But this is when there blow no storms, When berries are plenty in winter, and worms, When feathers are rife, with oil enough- To keep the cold out and send the rain off; If there come, indeed, a long hard frost Then it looks as thy birds were lost.
But I consider further, and find A hungry bird has a free mind; He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.
Thy bird has pain, but has no fear Which is the worst of any gear; When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day's ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot: Neither jumbles God's will With driblets from his own still.
But next I see, in my endeavour, Thy birds here do not live for ever; That cold or hunger, sickness or age Finishes their earthly stage; The rooks drop in cold nights, Leaving all their wrongs and rights; Birds lie here and birds lie there With their feathers all astare; And in thy own sermon, thou That the sparrow falls dost allow.
It shall not cause me any alarm, For neither so comes the bird to harm Seeing our father, thou hast said, Is by the sparrow's dying bed; Therefore it is a blessed place, And the sparrow in high grace.
It cometh therefore to this, Lord: I have considered thy word, And henceforth will be thy bird.
THE WIND OF THE WORLD .
Chained is the Spring. The Night-wind bold
Blows over the hard earth; Time is not more confused and cold,
Nor keeps more wintry mirth.
Yet blow, and roll the world about-
Blow, Time, blow, winter's Wind! Through chinks of time heaven peepeth out,
And Spring the frost behind.
SABBATH BELLS .
Oh holy Sabbath bells, Ye have a pleasant voice! Through all the land your music swells, And man with one commandment tells To rest and to rejoice.
As birds rejoice to flee From dark and stormy skies To brighter lands beyond the sea Where skies are calm, and wings are free To wander and to rise;
As thirsty travellers sing, Through desert paths that pass, To hear the welcome waters spring, And see, beyond the spray they fling Tall trees and waving grass;
So we rejoice to know Your melody begun; For when our paths are parched below Ye tell us where green pastures glow And living waters run.
LONDON, December 15, 1840.
FIGHTING .
Here is a temple strangely wrought:
Within it I can see Two spirits of a diverse thought
Contend for mastery.
One is an angel fair and bright,
Adown the aisle comes he, Adown the aisle in raiment white,
A creature fair to see.
The other wears an evil mien,
And he hath doubtless slipt, A fearful being dark and lean,
Up from the mouldy crypt.
* * * * *
Is that the roof that grows so black?
Did some one call my name? Was it the bursting thunder crack
That filled this place with flame?
I move-I wake from out my sleep:
Some one hath victor been! I see two radiant pinions sweep,
And I am borne between.
Beneath the clouds that under roll
XI. And so thou neededst not our human skill To fix what thus were transient-there it grew Wedded to thy perfection; and anew With every coming vision rose there still Some living principle which did fulfil Thy most legitimate manhood; and unto Thy soul all Nature rendered up its due With not a contradiction; and each hill And mountain torrent and each wandering light Grew out divinely on thy countenance, Whereon, as we are told, by word and glance Thy hearers read an ever strange delight-So strange to them thy Truth, they could not tell What made thy message so unspeakable.
XII. And by such living witness didst thou preach: Not with blind hands of groping forward thrust Into the darkness, gathering only dust, But by this real sign-that thou didst reach, In natural order, rising each from each, Thy own ideals of the True and Just; And that as thou didst live, even so he must Who would aspire his fellow-men to teach, Looking perpetual from new heights of Thought On his old self. Of art no scorner thou! Instead of leafy chaplet, on thy brow Wearing the light of manhood, thou hast brought Death unto Life! Above all statues now, Immortal Artist, hail! thy work is wrought!
XIII. Solemn and icy stand ye in my eyes, Far up into the niches of the Past, Ye marble statues, dim and holden fast Within your stony homes! nor human cries Had shook you from your frozen phantasies Or sent the life-blood through you, till there passed Through all your chilly bulks a new life-blast From the Eternal Living, and ye rise From out your stiffened postures rosy-warm, Walking abroad a goodly company Of living virtues at that wondrous charm, As he with human heart and hand and eye Walked sorrowing upon our highways then, The Eternal Father's living gift to men!
XIV. As the pent torrent in uneasy rest Under the griping rocks, doth ever keep A monstrous working as it lies asleep In the round hollow of some mountain's breast, Till where it hideth in its sweltering nest Some earthquake finds it, and its waters leap Forth to the sunshine down the mighty steep, So in thee once was anguished forth the quest Whereby man sought for life-power as he lay Under his own proud heart and black despair Wedged fast and stifled up with loads of care, Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay; Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer, And he hath cried aloud since that same day!
XV. As he that parts in hatred from a friend Mixing with other men forgets the woe Which anguished him when he beheld and lo Two souls had fled asunder which did bend Under the same blue heaven! yet ere the end, When the loud world hath tossed him to and fro, Will often strangely reappear that glow At simplest memory which some chance may send, Although much stronger bonds have lost their power: So thou God-sent didst come in lowly guise, Striking on simple chords,-not with surprise Or mightiest recollectings in that hour, But like remembered fragrance of a flower A man with human heart and loving eyes.
March , 1852.
A SONG-SERMON:
Job xiv. 13-15.
RONDEL.
Would that thou hid me in the grave And kept me with death's gaoler-care; Until thy wrath away should wear A sentence fixed thy prisoner gave! I would endure with patience brave So thou remembered I was there! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!
To see thy creature thou wouldst crave- Desire thy handiwork so fair; Then wouldst thou call through death's dank air And I would answer from the cave! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!
WORDS IN THE NIGHT .
I woke at midnight, and my heart, My beating heart, said this to me: Thou seest the moon, how calm and bright! The world is fair by day and night, But what is that to thee? One touch to me, down dips the light Over the land and sea. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!
One little touch and all is dark- The winter with its sparkling moons, The spring with all her violets, The crimson dawns and rich sunsets, The autumn's yellowing noons! I only toss my purple jets, And thou art one that swoons Upon a night of gust and roar, Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems Across the purple hills to roam: Sweet odours touch him from the foam, And downward sinking still he dreams He walks the clover fields at home And hears the rattling teams. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!
Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout Full in the air, and in the downward spray A hovering Iris span the marble tank, Which, as the wind came, ever rose and sank, Violet and red; so my continual play Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank Of human excellence, while they, Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet, Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat. Let the world's fountain play! Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove; Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies He marks the dancing column with his eyes Celestial, and amid his inmost grove Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.
One heart beats in all nature, differing But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours Are but the waste and brunt of instruments Wherewith a work is done, or as the hammers On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape The hard and scattered ore; Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash Thy life go from thee in a night of pain; So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.
Hark, the cock crows loud! And without, all ghastly and ill, Like a man uplift in his shroud, The white, white morn is propped on the hill; And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill The icicles 'gin to glitter And the birds with a warble short and shrill Pass by the chamber-window still- With a quick, uneasy twitter! Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter; And wearily, wearily, one by one, Men awake with the weary sun! Life is a phantom shut in thee: I am the master and keep the key; So let me toss thee the days of old Crimson and orange and green and gold; So let me fill thee yet again With a rush of dreams from my spout amain; For all is mine, all is my own: Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone, And I am alive, I only, I!
CONSIDER THE RAVENS
Lord, according to thy words, I have considered thy birds; And I find their life good, And better the better understood: Sowing neither corn nor wheat They have all that they can eat; Reaping no more than they sow They have more than they could stow; Having neither barn nor store, Hungry again, they eat more.
Considering, I see too that they Have a busy life, and plenty of play; In the earth they dig their bills deep And work well though they do not heap; Then to play in the air they are not loath, And their nests between are better than both. But this is when there blow no storms, When berries are plenty in winter, and worms, When feathers are rife, with oil enough- To keep the cold out and send the rain off; If there come, indeed, a long hard frost Then it looks as thy birds were lost.
But I consider further, and find A hungry bird has a free mind; He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.
Thy bird has pain, but has no fear Which is the worst of any gear; When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day's ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot: Neither jumbles God's will With driblets from his own still.
But next I see, in my endeavour, Thy birds here do not live for ever; That cold or hunger, sickness or age Finishes their earthly stage; The rooks drop in cold nights, Leaving all their wrongs and rights; Birds lie here and birds lie there With their feathers all astare; And in thy own sermon, thou That the sparrow falls dost allow.
It shall not cause me any alarm, For neither so comes the bird to harm Seeing our father, thou hast said, Is by the sparrow's dying bed; Therefore it is a blessed place, And the sparrow in high grace.
It cometh therefore to this, Lord: I have considered thy word, And henceforth will be thy bird.
THE WIND OF THE WORLD .
Chained is the Spring. The Night-wind bold
Blows over the hard earth; Time is not more confused and cold,
Nor keeps more wintry mirth.
Yet blow, and roll the world about-
Blow, Time, blow, winter's Wind! Through chinks of time heaven peepeth out,
And Spring the frost behind.
SABBATH BELLS .
Oh holy Sabbath bells, Ye have a pleasant voice! Through all the land your music swells, And man with one commandment tells To rest and to rejoice.
As birds rejoice to flee From dark and stormy skies To brighter lands beyond the sea Where skies are calm, and wings are free To wander and to rise;
As thirsty travellers sing, Through desert paths that pass, To hear the welcome waters spring, And see, beyond the spray they fling Tall trees and waving grass;
So we rejoice to know Your melody begun; For when our paths are parched below Ye tell us where green pastures glow And living waters run.
LONDON, December 15, 1840.
FIGHTING .
Here is a temple strangely wrought:
Within it I can see Two spirits of a diverse thought
Contend for mastery.
One is an angel fair and bright,
Adown the aisle comes he, Adown the aisle in raiment white,
A creature fair to see.
The other wears an evil mien,
And he hath doubtless slipt, A fearful being dark and lean,
Up from the mouldy crypt.
* * * * *
Is that the roof that grows so black?
Did some one call my name? Was it the bursting thunder crack
That filled this place with flame?
I move-I wake from out my sleep:
Some one hath victor been! I see two radiant pinions sweep,
And I am borne between.
Beneath the clouds that under roll
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