The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 1 - George MacDonald (digital book reader TXT) 📗

/> And that the hidden faith in her
May burst in soaring flame:
With childhood deeper, holier,
Is birthright not the same?

Ill names, of proud religion born-
She'll wear the worst that comes;
Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,
To share the healing crumbs!

"Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small
Under the table eat
The crumbs the little ones let fall-
That is not thought unmeet."

The prayer rebuff could not amate
Was not like water spilt:
"O woman, but thy faith is great!
Be it even as thou wilt."

Thrice happy she who yet will dare,
Who, baffled, prayeth still!
He, if he may, will grant her prayer
In fulness of her will!


V.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN .

Forth from the city, with the load
That makes the trampling low,
They walk along the dreary road
That dust and ashes go.

The other way, toward the gate
Their trampling strong and loud,
With hope of liberty elate,
Comes on another crowd.

Nearer and nearer draw the twain-
One with a wailing cry!
How could the Life let such a train
Of death and tears go by!

"Weep not," he said, and touched the bier:
They stand, the dead who bear;
The mother knows nor hope nor fear-
He waits not for her prayer.

"Young man, I say to thee, arise."
Who hears, he must obey:
Up starts the body; wide the eyes
Flash wonder and dismay.

The lips would speak, as if they caught
Some converse sudden broke
When the great word the dead man sought,
And Hades' silence woke.

The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare
Gives place to ordered sight;
The murmur dies upon the air;
The soul is dumb with light.

He brings no news; he has forgot,
Or saw with vision weak:
Thou sees! all our unseen lot,
And yet thou dost not speak.

Hold'st thou the news, as parent might
A too good gift, away,
Lest we should neither sleep at night,
Nor do our work by day?

The mother leaves us not a spark
Of her triumph over grief;
Her tears alone have left their mark
Upon the holy leaf:

Oft gratitude will thanks benumb,
Joy will our laughter quell:
May not Eternity be dumb
With things too good to tell?

Her straining arms her lost one hold;
Question she asketh none;
She trusts for all he leaves untold;
Enough, to clasp her son!

The ebb is checked, the flow begun,
Sent rushing to the gate:
Death turns him backward to the sun,
And life is yet our fate!


VI.

THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND .

For years eighteen she, patient soul,
Her eyes had graveward sent;
Her earthly life was lapt in dole,
She was so bowed and bent.

What words! To her? Who can be near?
What tenderness of hands!
Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere?
New hope, or breaking bands?

The pent life rushes swift along
Channels it used to know;
Up, up, amid the wondering throng,
She rises firm and slow-

To bend again in grateful awe-
For will is power at length-
In homage to the living Law
Who gives her back her strength.

Uplifter of the down-bent head!
Unbinder of the bound!
Who seest all the burdened
Who only see the ground!

Although they see thee not, nor cry,
Thou watchest for the hour
To lift the forward-beaming eye,
To wake the slumbering power!

Thy hand will wipe the stains of time
From off the withered face;
Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime
Of youthful manhood's grace!

Like summer days from winter's tomb,
Shall rise thy women fair;
Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom,
Lo, is not anywhere!

All ills of life shall melt away
As melts a cureless woe,
When, by the dawning of the day
Surprised, the dream must go.

I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too,
Whate'er the needful cure;
The great best only thou wilt do,
And hoping I endure.


VII.

THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD .

Near him she stole, rank after rank;
She feared approach too loud;
She touched his garment's hem, and shrank
Back in the sheltering crowd.

A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame:
Her twelve years' fainting prayer
Is heard at last! she is the same
As other women there!

She hears his voice. He looks about.
Ah! is it kind or good
To drag her secret sorrow out
Before that multitude?

The eyes of men she dares not meet-
On her they straight must fall!-
Forward she sped, and at his feet
Fell down, and told him all.

To the one refuge she hath flown,
The Godhead's burning flame!
Of all earth's women she alone
Hears there the tenderest name:

"Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer;
Thy faith hath made thee whole:"
With plenteous love, not healing mere,
He comforteth her soul.


VIII.

THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES .

Here much and little shift and change,
With scale of need and time;
There more and less have meanings strange,
Which the world cannot rime.

Sickness may be more hale than health,
And service kingdom high;
Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth,
To give like God thereby.

Bring forth your riches; let them go,
Nor mourn the lost control;
For if ye hoard them, surely so
Their rust will reach your soul.

Cast in your coins, for God delights
When from wide hands they fall;
But here is one who brings two mites,
And thus gives more than all.

I think she did not hear the praise-
Went home content with need;
Walked in her old poor generous ways,
Nor knew her heavenly meed.


IX.

THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM .

Enough he labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
But powers that wear and waste and tire,
Need help to toil again.

They give him freely all they can,
They give him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the man
Is not ashamed they should.

High love takes form in lowly thing;
He knows the offering such;
To them 'tis little that they bring,
To him 'tis very much.


X.

PILATE'S WIFE .

Why came in dreams the low-born man
Between thee and thy rest?
In vain thy whispered message ran,
Though justice was its quest!

Did some young ignorant angel dare-
Not knowing what must be,
Or blind with agony of care-
To fly for help to thee?

I know not. Rather I believe,
Thou, nobler than thy spouse,
His rumoured grandeur didst receive,
And sit with pondering brows,

Until thy maidens' gathered tale
With possible marvel teems:
Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale
Returneth in thy dreams.

Well mightst thou suffer things not few
For his sake all the night!
In pale eclipse he suffers, who
Is of the world the light.

Precious it were to know thy dream