The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

XIV

 
  I kneel. But all my soul is dumb
      With hopeless misery:
  Is he a friend who will not come,
      Whose face I must not see?
 
 
  I do not think of broken laws,
      Of judge's damning word;
  My heart is all one ache, because
      I call and am not heard.
 
 
  A cry where there is none to hear,
      Doubles the lonely pain;
  Returns in silence on the ear,
      In torture on the brain.
 
 
  No look of love a smile can bring,
      No kiss wile back the breath
  To cold lips: I no answer wring
      From this great face of death.
 

XV

 
  Yet sometimes when the agony
      Dies of its own excess,
  A dew-like calm descends on me,
      A shadow of tenderness;
 
 
  A sense of bounty and of grace,
      A cool air in my breast,
  As if my soul were yet a place
      Where peace might one day rest.
 
 
  God! God! I say, and cry no more,
      But rise, and think to stand
  Unwearied at the closed door
      Till comes the opening hand.
 

XVI

 
  But is it God?—Once more the fear
      Of No God loads my breath:
  Amid a sunless atmosphere
      I fight again with death.
 
 
  Such rest may be like that which lulls
      The man who fainting lies:
  His bloodless brain his spirit dulls,
      Draws darkness o'er his eyes.
 
 
  But even such sleep, my heart responds,
      May be the ancient rest
  Rising released from bodily bonds,
      And flowing unreprest.
 
 
  The o'ertasked will falls down aghast
      In individual death;
  God puts aside the severed past,
      Breathes-in a primal breath.
 
 
  For how should torture breed a calm?
      Can death to life give birth?
  No labour can create the balm
      That soothes the sleeping earth!
 
 
  I yet will hope the very One
      Whose love is life in me,
  Did, when my strength was overdone,
      Inspire serenity.
 

XVII

 
  When the hot sun's too urgent might
      Hath shrunk the tender leaf,
  Water comes sliding down the night,
      And makes its sorrow brief.
 
 
  When poet's heart is in eclipse,
      A glance from childhood's eye,
  A smile from passing maiden's lips,
      Will clear a glowing sky.
 
 
  Might not from God such influence come
      A dying hope to lift?
  Might he not send to poor heart some
      Unmediated gift?
 
 
  My child lies moaning, lost in dreams,
      Abandoned, sore dismayed;
  Her fancy's world with horror teems,
      Her soul is much afraid:
 
 
  I lay my hand upon her breast,
      Her moaning dies away;
  She does not wake, but, lost in rest,
      Sleeps on into the day.
 
 
  And when my heart with soft release
      Grows calm as summer-sea,
  Shall I not hope the God of peace
      Hath laid his hand on me?
 

XVIII

 
  But why from thought should fresh doubt start—
      An ever-lengthening cord?
  Might he not make my troubled heart
      Right sure it was the Lord?
 
 
  God will not let a smaller boon
      Hinder the coming best;
  A granted sign might all too soon
      Rejoice thee into rest.
 
 
  Yet could not any sign, though grand
      As hosts of fire about,
  Though lovely as a sunset-land,
      Secure thy soul from doubt.
 
 
  A smile from one thou lovedst well
      Gladdened thee all the day;
  The doubt which all day far did dwell
      Came home with twilight gray.
 
 
  For doubt will come, will ever come,
      Though signs be perfect good,
  Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb,
      And both are understood.
 

XIX

 
  I shall behold him, one day, nigh.
      Assailed with glory keen,
  My eyes will open wide, and I
      Shall see as I am seen.
 
 
  Of nothing can my heart be sure
      Except the highest, best
  When God I see with vision pure,
      That sight will be my rest.
 
 
  Forward I look with longing eye,
      And still my hope renew;
  Backward, and think that from the sky
      Did come that falling dew.
 

XX

 
  But if a vision should unfold
      That I might banish fear;
  That I, the chosen, might be bold,
      And walk with upright cheer;
 
 
  My heart would cry: But shares my race
      In this great love of thine?
  I pray, put me not in good case
      Where others lack and pine.
 
 
  Nor claim I thus a loving heart
      That for itself is mute:
  In such love I desire no part
      As reaches not my root.
 
 
  But if my brothers thou dost call
      As children to thy knee,
  Thou givest me my being's all,
      Thou sayest child to me.
 
 
  If thou to me alone shouldst give,
      My heart were all beguiled:
  It would not be because I live,
      And am my Father's child!
 

XXI

 
  As little comfort would it bring,
      Amid a throng to pass;
  To stand with thousands worshipping
      Upon the sea of glass;
 
 
  To know that, of a sinful world,
      I one was saved as well;
  My roll of ill with theirs upfurled,
      And cast in deepest hell;
 
 
  That God looked bounteously on one,
      Because on many men;
  As shone Judea's earthly sun
      On all the healed ten.
 
 
  No; thou must be a God to me
      As if but me were none;
  I such a perfect child to thee
      As if thou hadst but one.
 

XXII

 
  Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not
      A blessing just for me?
  Shall I be, barely, not forgot?—
      Never come home to thee?
 
 
  Hast thou no care for this one child,
      This thinking, living need?
  Or is thy countenance only mild,
      Thy heart not love indeed?
 
 
  For some eternal joy I pray,
      To make me strong and free;
  Yea, such a friend I need alway
      As thou alone canst be.
 
 
  Is not creative infinitude
      Able, in every man,
  To turn itself to every mood
      Since God man's life began?
 
 
  Art thou not each man's God—his own,
      With secret words between,
  As thou and he lived all alone,
      Insphered in silence keen?
 
 
  Ah, God, my heart is not the same
      As any heart beside;
  My pain is different, and my blame,
      My pity and my pride!
 
 
  My history thou know'st, my thoughts
      Different from other men's;
  Thou knowest all the sheep and goats
      That mingle in my pens.
 
 
  Thou knowest I a love might bring
      By none beside me due;
  One praiseful song at least might sing
      Which could not but be new.
 

XXIII

 
  Nor seek I thus to stand apart,
      In aught my kind above;
  My neighbour, ah, my troubled heart
      Must rest ere thee it love!
 
 
  If God love not, I have no care,
      No power to love, no hope.
  What is life here or anywhere?
      Or why with darkness cope?
 
 
  I scorn my own love's every sign,
      So feeble, selfish, low,
  If his love give no pledge that mine
      Shall one day perfect grow.
 
 
  But if I knew Thy love even such,
      As tender and intense
  As, tested by its human touch,
      Would satisfy my sense
 
 
  Of what a father never was
     But should be to his son,
  My heart would leap for joy, because
      My rescue was begun.
 
 
  Oh then my love, by thine set free,
      Would overflow thy men;
  In every face my heart would see
      God shining out again!
 
 
  There are who hold high festival
      And at the board crown Death:
  I am too weak to live at all
      Except I breathe thy breath.
 
 
  Show me a love that nothing bates,
      Absolute, self-severe—
  Even at Gehenna's prayerless gates
      I should not "taint with fear."
 

XXIV

 
  I cannot brook that men should say—
      Nor this for gospel take—
  That thou wilt hear me if I pray
      Asking for Jesus' sake.
 
 
  For love to him is not to me,
      And cannot lift my fate;
  The love is not that is not free,
      Perfect, immediate.
 
 
  Love is salvation: life without
      No moment can endure.
  Those sheep alone go in and out
      Who know thy love is pure.
 

XXV

 
  But what if God requires indeed,
      For cause yet unrevealed,
  Assent to one fixed form of creed,
      Such as I cannot yield?
 
 
  Has God made for Christ's sake a test—
      To take or leave the crust,
  That only he may have the best
      Who licks the serpent-dust?
 
 
  No, no; the words I will not say
      With the responding folk;
  I at his feet a heart would lay,
      Not shoulders for a yoke.
 
 
  He were no lord of righteousness
      Who subjects such would gain
  As yield their birthright for a mess
      Of liberty from pain!
 
 
  "And wilt thou bargain then with Him?"
      The priest makes answer high.
  'Tis thou, priest, makest the sky dim:
      My hope is in the sky.
 

XXVI

 
  But is my will alive, awake?
      The one God will not heed
  If in my lips or hands I take
      A half-word or half-deed.
 
 
  Hour after hour I sit and dream,
      Amazed in outwardness;
  The powers of things that only seem
      The things that are oppress;
 
 
  Till in my soul some discord sounds,
      Till sinks some yawning lack;
  Then turn I from life's rippling rounds,
      And unto thee come back.
 
 
  Thou seest how poor a thing am I,
      Yet hear, whate'er I be;
  Despairing of my will, I cry,
      Be God enough to me.
 
 
  My spirit, low, irresolute,
      I cast before thy feet;
  And wait, while even prayer is mute,
      For what thou judgest meet.
 

XXVII

 
  My safety lies not, any hour,
      In what I generate,
  But in the living, healing power
      Of that which doth create.
 
 
  If he is God to the incomplete,
      Fulfilling lack and need,
  Then I may cast before his feet
      A half-word or half-deed.
 
 
  I bring, Lord, to thy altar-stair,
      To thee, love-glorious,
  My very lack of will and prayer,
      And cry—Thou seest me thus!
 
 
  From some old well of life they flow!
      The words my being fill!—
  "Of me that man the truth shall know
      Who wills the Father's will."
 

XXVIII

 
  What is his will?—that I may go
      And do it, in the hope
  That light will rise and spread and grow,
      As deed enlarges scope.
 
 
  I need not search the sacred book
      To find my duty clear;
  Scarce in my bosom need I look,
      It lies so very near.
 
 
  Henceforward I must watch the door
      Of word and action too;
  There's one thing I must do no more,
      Another I must do.
 
 
  Alas, these are such little things!
      No glory in their birth!
  Doubt from their common aspect springs—
      If God will count them worth.
 
 
  But here I am not left to choose,
      My duty is my lot;
  And weighty things will glory lose
      If small ones are forgot.
 
 
  I am not worthy high things yet;
      I'll humbly do my own;
  Good care of sheep may so beget
      A fitness for the throne.
 
 
  Ah fool! why dost thou reason thus?
      Ambition's very fool!
  Through high and low, each glorious,
      Shines God's all-perfect rule.
 
 
  'Tis God I need, not rank in good:
      'Tis Life, not honour's meed;
  With him to fill my every mood,
      I am content indeed.
 

XXIX

 
  Will do: shall know: I feel the force,
      The fullness of the word;
  His holy boldness held its course,
      Claiming divine accord.
 
 
  What if, as yet, I have never seen
      The true face of the Man!
  The named notion may have been
      A likeness vague and wan;
 
 
  A thing of such unblended hues
      As, on his chamber wall,
  The humble peasant gladly views,
      And Jesus Christ doth call.
 
 
  The story I did never scan
      With vision calm and strong;
  Have never tried to see the Man,
      The many words among.
 
 
  Pictures there are that do not please
      With any sweet surprise,
  But gain the heart by slow degrees
      Until they feast the eyes;
 
 
  And if I ponder what they call
      The gospel of God's grace,
  Through mists that slowly melt and fall
      May dawn a human face.
 
 
  What face? Oh, heart-uplifting thought,
      That face may dawn on me
  Which Moses on the mountain sought,
      God would not let him see!
 

XXX

 
  All faint at first, as wrapt in veil
      Of Sinai's cloudy dark,
  But dawning as I read the tale,
      I slow discern and mark
 
 
  A gracious, simple, truthful man,
      Who walks the earth erect,
  Nor stoops his noble head to one
      From fear or false respect;
 
 
  Who seeks to climb no high estate,
      No low consent secure,
  With high and low serenely great,
      Because his love is pure.
 
 
  Oh not alone, high o'er our reach,
      Our joys and griefs beyond!
  To him 'tis joy divine to teach
      Where human hearts respond;
 
 
  And grief divine it was to him
      To see the souls that slept:
  "How often, O Jerusalem!"
      He said, and gazed, and wept.
 
 
  Love was his very being's root,
      And healing was its flower;
  Love, human love, its stem and fruit,
      Its gladness and its power.
 
 
  Life of high God, till then unseen!
      Undreamt-of glorious show!
  Glad, faithful, childlike, love-serene!—
      How poor am I! how low!
 

XXXI

 
  As in a living well I gaze,
      Kneeling upon its brink:
  What are the very words he says?
      What did the one man think?
 
 
  I find his heart was all above;
      Obedience his one thought;
  Reposing in his father's love,
      His father's will he sought.
 

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