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

MORNING HYMN

 
  O Lord of life, thy quickening voice
      Awakes my morning song!
  In gladsome words I would rejoice
      That I to thee belong.
 
 
  I see thy light, I feel thy wind;
      The world, it is thy word;
  Whatever wakes my heart and mind,
      Thy presence is, my Lord.
 
 
  The living soul which I call me
      Doth love, and long to know;
  It is a thought of living thee,
      Nor forth of thee can go.
 
 
  Therefore I choose my highest part,
      And turn my face to thee;
  Therefore I stir my inmost heart
      To worship fervently.
 
 
  Lord, let me live and will this day—
      Keep rising from the dead;
  Lord, make my spirit good and gay—
      Give me my daily bread.
 
 
  Within my heart, speak, Lord, speak on,
      My heart alive to keep,
  Till comes the night, and, labour done,
      In thee I fall asleep.
 

NOONTIDE HYMN

 
  I love thy skies, thy sunny mists,
      Thy fields, thy mountains hoar,
  Thy wind that bloweth where it lists—
      Thy will, I love it more.
 
 
  I love thy hidden truth to seek
      All round, in sea, on shore;
  The arts whereby like gods we speak—
      Thy will to me is more.
 
 
  I love thy men and women, Lord,
      The children round thy door;
  Calm thoughts that inward strength afford—
      Thy will than these is more.
 
 
  But when thy will my life doth hold
      Thine to the very core,
  The world, which that same will doth mould,
      I love, then, ten times more!
 

EVENING HYMN

 
  O God, whose daylight leadeth down
      Into the sunless way,
  Who with restoring sleep dost crown
      The labour of the day!
 
 
  What I have done, Lord, make it clean
      With thy forgiveness dear;
  That so to-day what might have been,
      To-morrow may appear.
 
 
  And when my thought is all astray,
      Yet think thou on in me;
  That with the new-born innocent day
      My soul rise fresh and free.
 
 
  Nor let me wander all in vain
      Through dreams that mock and flee;
  But even in visions of the brain,
      Go wandering toward thee.
 

THE HOLY MIDNIGHT

 
  Ah, holy midnight of the soul,
      When stars alone are high;
  When winds are resting at their goal,
      And sea-waves only sigh!
 
 
  Ambition faints from out the will;
      Asleep sad longing lies;
  All hope of good, all fear of ill,
      All need of action dies;
 
 
  Because God is, and claims the life
      He kindled in thy brain;
  And thou in him, rapt far from strife,
      Diest and liv'st again.
 

RONDEL

 
  I follow, tottering, in the funeral train
  That bears my body to the welcoming grave.
  As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave,
  But smile as those that lay aside the vain;
 
 
  To me it is a thing of poor disdain,
      A clod I would not give a sigh to save!
  I follow, careless, in the funeral train,
      My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave.
 
 
  I follow to the grave with growing pain—
      Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave!
      And turn in gladness from the yawning cave—
  Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain:
  They also follow, in their funeral train,
      Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave!
 

A PRAYER

 
  When I look back upon my life nigh spent,
      Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on,
  I more of follies than of sins repent,
      Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan.
      With self, O Father, leave me not alone—
  Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled;
      Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own:
  A fool I bring thee to be made a child.
 

HOME FROM THE WARS

 
  A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss,
      With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee,
  Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:
      I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
 

GOD; NOT GIFT

 
  Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
      My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
  Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
      Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.
 
 
  'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
      Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
  Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
      Yea, life itself to wait for thee!
 
 
  Lord, here I am, empty enough!
      My music but a soundless moan!
  Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
      Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!
 
 
  Shall hope too go, that I may trust
      Purely in thee, and spite of all?
  Then turn my very heart to dust—
      On thee, on thee, I yet will call.
 
 
  List! list! his wind among the pines
      Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's!
  O Father, these are but thy signs!—
      For thee I hunger, not for these!
 
 
  Not joy itself, though pure and high—
      No gift will do instead of thee!
  Let but my spirit know thee nigh,
      And all the world may sleep for me!
 

TO ANY FRIEND

 
  If I did seem to you no more
      Than to myself I seem,
  Not thus you would fling wide the door,
      And on the beggar beam!
 
 
  You would not don your radiant best,
      Or dole me more than half!
  Poor palmer I, no angel guest;
      A shaking reed my staff!
 
 
  At home, no rich fruit, hanging low,
      Have I for Love to pull;
  Only unripe things that must grow
      Till Autumn's maund be full!
 
 
  But I forsake my niggard leas,
      My orchard, too late hoar,
  And wander over lands and seas
      To find the Father's door.
 
 
  When I have reached the ancestral farm,
      Have clomb the steepy hill,
  And round me rests the Father's arm,
      Then think me what you will.
 

VIOLIN SONGS

HOPE DEFERRED.

 
  Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
  And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy
  Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light
  My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ
  Shall be to revel in unlikely things,
  In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings,
  And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk
  Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea;
  Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk,
  Has grown a paradise for you and me.
 
 
  But ah, those leaves!—it was not summer's mouth
  Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there—
  That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare,
  How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!—
  The sweetness is but one pined memory flown
  Back from our summer, wandering alone!
  See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart,
  Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow,
  Takes in the changing world its changing part,
  Return a sigh, an echo sad and low,
  To the faint, scarcely audible sound
  With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground!
  O love, sad winter lieth at the door—
  Behind sad winter, age—we know no more.
 
 
  Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold
  Each of us compassed: we are growing old;
  And if we be not as a ring enchanted,
  Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay,
  The young, who claim the joy that haunted
  Our visions once, will push us far away
  Into the desolate regions, dim and gray,
  Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry,
  The clouds hang low, and have no tears,
  Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years,
  And hopes and songs all careless pass us by.
  But if all each do keep,
  The rising tide of youth will sweep
  Around us with its laughter-joyous waves,
  As ocean fair some palmy island laves,
  To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep;
  And our youth hover round us like the breath
  Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.
 
 
  Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves,
  The sundered doors into one palace home,
  Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go,
  Faltering but faithful—willing to lie low,
  Willing to part, not willing to deny
  The lovely past, where all the futures lie.
 
 
  Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord,
  Not of the dead—Lo, by that self-same word,
  Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth—
  Because there is no age, in sooth,
  Beyond its passing shows!
  A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows;
  Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light
  That knows not youth nor age,
  That fears no darkness nor the rage
  Of windy tempests—burning still more bright
  Than when glad youth was all about,
  And summer winds were out!
 

1845.

DEATH

 
    When in the bosom of the eldest night
  This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest;
  When through its shaded windows comes no light,
  And its pale hands are folded on its breast—
 
 
      How shall I fare, who had to wander out,
  And of the unknown land the frontier cross,
  Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about,
  Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss?
 
 
      Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist,
  Over the city murmuring beneath;
  Over the trees and fields, where'er I list,
  Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath?
 
 
      Or will a darkness, o'er material shows
  Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight;
  As from the sun a blotting radiance flows
  Athwart the stars all glorious through the night;
 
 
      And the still spirit hang entranced, alone,
  Like one in an exalted opium-dream—
  Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown,
  With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam,
 
 
      Thought only waking—thought that may not own
  The lapse of ages, or the change of spot;
  Its doubt all cast on what it counted known,
  Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not?
 
 
      Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until,
  Our life restored by long and dreamless rest,
  Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill,
  And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest?
 
 
      I nothing know, and nothing need to know.
  God is; I shall be ever in his sight!
  Give thou me strength to labour well, and so
  Do my day's work ere fall my coming night.
 

HARD TIMES

 
  I am weary, and very lonely,
      And can but think—think.
  If there were some water only
      That a spirit might drink—drink,
        And arise,
        With light in the eyes
  And a crown of hope on the brow,
      To walk abroad in the strength of gladness,
      Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness—
        As now!
 
 
  But, Lord, thy child will be sad—
      As sad as it pleases thee;
  Will sit, not seeking to be glad,
      Till thou bid sadness flee,
        And, drawing near,
        With thy good cheer
      Awake thy life in me.
 

IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN

 
  If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,
          Pacing it wearily, wearily,
  Twixt chapel and cell till day were done—
          Wearily, wearily—
  How would it fare with these hearts of ours
  That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?
 
 
  To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call,
          Morning foul or fair!—
  Such prayer as from weary lips might fall—
          Words, but hardly prayer—
  The chapel's roof, like the law in stone,
  Caging the lark that up had flown!
 
 
  Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,
          The God-revealing,
  Turning thy face from the boundless boon—
          Painfully kneeling;
  Or, in brown-shadowy solitude,
  Bending thy head o'er the legend rude!
 
 
  I, in a bare and lonely nook,
          Gloomily, gloomily,
  Poring over some musty book,
          Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;
  Or painting pictures of things of old
  On parchment-margin in purple and gold!
 
 
  Perchance in slow procession to meet,
          Wearily, wearily,
  In antique, narrow, high-gabled street,
          Wearily, wearily;
  Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then
  Heavily sinking to earth again!
 
 
  Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring!
          Merrily, merrily!—
  Back to its cell each weary thing,
          Wearily, wearily!
  Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old,
  Most at home in the cloister cold!
 
 
  Thou slow rising at vespers' call,
          Wearily, wearily;
  I looking up on the darkening wall,
          Wearily, wearily;
  The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,
  Listless and dead to thee and me!
 
 
  At length for sleep a weary assay,
          On the lone couch wearily!
  Rising at midnight again to pray,
          Wearily, wearily!
  And if through the dark dear eyes looked in,
  Sending them far as a thought of sin!
 
 
  And at last, thy tired soul passing away,
          Dreamily, dreamily—
  Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay,
          Sleepily, sleepily—
  Over thee held the crucified Best,
  But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed!
 
 
  And then my passing from cell to clay,
          Dreamily, dreamily!
  My gray head lying on ashes gray,
          Sleepily, sleepily!
  But no woman-angel hovering above,
  Ready to clasp me in deathless love!
 
 
  Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine,
          Peacefully, peacefully;
  My arm round thee, and my lips on thine,
          Lovingly, lovingly—
  Oh! is not a better thing to us given
  Than wearily going alone to heaven?
 

MY HEART

I

 
  Night, with her power to silence day,
      Filled up my lonely room,
  Quenching all sounds but one that lay
      Beyond her passing doom,
  Where in his shed a workman gay
      Went on despite the gloom.
 
 
  I listened, and I knew the sound,
      And the trade that he was plying;
  For backwards, forwards, bound on bound,
      A shuttle was flying, flying—
  Weaving ever—till, all unwound,
      The weft go out a sighing.
 

II

 
  As hidden in thy chamber lowest
      As in the sky the lark,
  Thou, mystic thing, on working goest
      Without the poorest spark,
  And yet light's garment round me throwest,
      Who else, as thou, were dark.
 
 
  With body ever clothing me,
      Thou mak'st me child of light;
  I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea,
      The sky's rejoicing height,
  A woven glory, globed by thee,
      Unknowing of thy might!
 
 
  And when thy darkling labours fail,
      And thy shuttle moveless lies,
  My world will drop, like untied veil
      From before a lady's eyes;
  Or, all night read, a finished tale
      That in the morning dies.
 

III

 
  Yet not in vain dost thou unroll
      The stars, the world, the seas—
  A mighty, wonder-painted scroll
      Of Patmos mysteries,
  Thou mediator 'twixt my soul
      And higher things than these!
 
 
  Thy holy ephod bound on me,
      I pass into a seer;
  For still in things thou mak'st me see,
      The unseen grows more clear;
  Still their indwelling Deity
      Speaks plainer in mine ear.
 
 
  Divinely taught the craftsman is
      Who waketh wonderings;
  Whose web, the nursing chrysalis
      Round Psyche's folded wings,
  To them transfers the loveliness
      Of its inwoven things.
 
 
  Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!—
      For a greater heart beats on,
  Whose better texture follows fleet
      On thy last thread outrun,
  With a seamless-woven garment, meet
      To clothe a death-born son.