The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

IN BONDS

 
Of the poor bird that cannot fly
Kindly you think and mournfully;
For prisoners and for exiles all
You let the tears of pity fall;
And very true the grief should be
That mourns the bondage of the free.
 
 
The soul—she has a fatherland;
Binds her not many a tyrant's hand?
And the winged spirit has a home,
But can she always homeward come?
Poor souls, with all their wounds and foes,
Will you not also pity those?
 

HUNGER

 
Father, I cry to thee for bread
  With hungred longing, eager prayer;
Thou hear'st, and givest me instead
  More hunger and a half-despair.
 
 
O Lord, how long? My days decline,
  My youth is lapped in memories old;
I need not bread alone, but wine—
  See, cup and hand to thee I hold!
 
 
And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord,
  That still my heart with hunger faints!
The day will come when at thy board
  I sit, forgetting all my plaints.
 
 
If rain must come and winds must blow,
  And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart,
Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go,
  And keep the faintness at my heart.
 

NEW YEAR'S EVE: A WAKING DREAM

 
I have not any fearful tale to tell
Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw,
Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell
To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw;
But what in yonder hamlet there befell,
Or rather what in it my fancy saw,
I will declare, albeit it may seem
Too simple and too common for a dream.
 
 
Two brothers were they, and they sat alone
Without a word, beside the winter's glow;
For it was many years since they had known
The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow
Of age had frozen it, and it had grown
An icy-withered stream that would not flow;
And so they sat with warmth about their feet
And ice about their hearts that would not beat.
 
 
And yet it was a night for quiet hope:—
A night the very last of all the year
To many a youthful heart did seem to ope
An eye within the future, round and clear;
And age itself, that travels down the slope,
Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near,
The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime,
Jerking our souls into the coming time.
 
 
But they!—alas for age when it is old!
The silly calendar they did not heed;
Alas for age when in its bosom cold
There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed!
They thought not of the morrow, but did hold
A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed
Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute
As if they were a-cold from head to foot.
 
 
O solemn kindly night, she looketh still
With all her moon upon us now and then!
And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill,
She hath an eye unto the hearts of men!
So past a corner of the window-sill
She thrust a long bright finger just as ten
Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came,
Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.
 
 
There is a something in the winds of heaven
That stirreth purposely and maketh men;
And unto every little wind is given
A thing to do ere it is still again;
So when the little clock had struck eleven,
The edging moon had drawn her silver pen
Across a mirror, making them aware
Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.
 
 
Therefore they drew aside the window-blind
And looked upon the sleeping town below,
And on the little church which sat behind
As keeping watch upon the scanty row
Of steady tombstones—some of which inclined
And others upright, in the moon did show
Like to a village down below the waves—
It was so still and cool among the graves.
 
 
But not a word from either mouth did fall,
Except it were some very plain remark.
Ah! why should such as they be glad at all?
For years they had not listened to the lark!
The child was dead in them!—yet did there crawl
A wish about their hearts; and as the bark
Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware
Of a strange longing for the open air.
 
 
Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun
A web of heavy cloud about their brain!
And many a sun and moon had come and gone
Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain!
But now with timéd pace their feet did stun
The village echoes into quiet pain:
The street appearéd very short and white,
And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.
 
 
"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say
—I knew not which was elder of the two—
"Right through the churchyard is our better way."
"Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew.
I have not seen her grave for many a day;
And it is in me that with moonlight too
It might be pleasant thinking of old faces,
And yet I seldom go into such places."
 
 
Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan
Sitting about a solitary stone!
Stranger than many tales it is to scan
The earthy fragment of a human bone;
But stranger still to see a grey old man
Apart from all his fellows, and alone
With the pale night and all its giant quiet;
Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.
 
 
It was their mother's grave, and here were hid
The priceless pulses of a mother's soul.
Full sixty years it was since she had slid
Into the other world through that deep hole.
But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid
Grew deaf with sudden hammers!—'twas the mole
Niddering about its roots.—Be still, old men,
Be very still and ye will hear again.
 
 
Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away,
But it will stay with you till ye are dead!
It is but earthy mould and quiet clay,
But it hath power to turn the oldest head.
Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say
More than a hundred tongues had ever said.
So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket
Into the centre of a firry thicket.
 
 
It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life,
An inquest held upon the death of things;
And in the naked north full thick and rife
The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings
Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife;
And the trees seemed to gather into rings,
Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail
Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.
 
 
Many strange noises are there among trees,
And most within the quiet moony light,
Therefore those aged men are on their knees
As if they listened somewhat:—Ye are right—
Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees!
Although ye never heard it till to-night,
The mighty mother calleth ever so
To all her pale-eyed children from below.
 
 
Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways,
And heard her voices in the market-place,
But ye have never listened what she says
When the snow-moon is pressing on her face!
One night like this is more than many days
To him who hears the music and the bass
Of deep immortal lullabies which calm
His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.
 
 
I know not whether there is power in sleep
To dim the eyelids of the shining moon,
But so it seemed then, for still more deep
She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon
Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep
A pressure on her; so there came a swoon
Among the shadows, which still lay together
But in their slumber knew not one another.
 
 
But while the midnight gropéd for the chime
As she were heavy with excess of dreams,
She from the cloud's thick web a second time
Made many shadows, though with minished beams;
And as she lookéd eastward through the rime
Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams,
There fell a little snow upon the crown
Of a near hillock very bald and brown.
 
 
And on its top they found a little spring,
A very helpful little spring indeed,
Which evermore unwound a tiny string
Of earnest water with continual speed—
And so the brothers stood and heard it sing;
For all was snowy-still, and not a seed
Had struck, and nothing came but noises light
Of the continual whitening of the night.
 
 
There is a kindness in the falling snow—
It is a grey head to the spring time mild;
So as the creamy vapour bowéd low
Crowning the earth with honour undefiled,
Within each withered man arose a glow
As if he fain would turn into a child:
There was a gladness somewhere in the ground
Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!
 
 
Not through the purple summer or the blush
Of red voluptuous roses did it come
That silent speaking voice, but through the slush
And snowy quiet of the winter numb!
It was a barren mound that heard the gush
Of living water from two fountains dumb—
Two rocky human hearts which long had striven
To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!
 
 
Now from the village came the onward shout
Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer;
It was a youthful group that wandered out
To do obeisance to the glad new year;
And as they passed they sang with voices stout
A song which I was very fain to hear,
But as they darkened on, away it died,
And the two men walked homewards side by side.
 

FROM NORTH WALES: TO THE MOTHER

 
When the summer gave us a longer day,
And the leaves were thickest, I went away:
Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue,
Was that summer-ramble from London and you.
 
 
It was but one burst into life and air,
One backward glance on the skirts of care,
A height on the hills with the smoke below—
And the joy that came quickly was quick to go.
 
 
But I know and I cannot forget so soon
How the Earth is shone on by Sun and Moon;
How the clouds hide the mountains, and how they move
When the morning sunshine lies warm above.
 
 
I know how the waters fall and run
In the rocks and the heather, away from the sun;
How they hang like garlands on all hill-sides,
And are the land's music, those crystal tides.
 
 
I know how they gather in valleys fair,
Meet valleys those beautiful waves to bear;
How they dance through the rocks, how they rest in the pool,
How they darken, how sparkle, and how they are cool.
 
 
I know how the rocks from their kisses climb
To keep the storms off with a front sublime;
And how on their platforms and sloping walls
The shadow of oak-tree and fir-tree falls.
 
 
I know how the valleys are bright from far,
Rocks, meadows, and waters, the wood and the scaur;
And how the roadside and the nearest hill
The foxglove and heather and harebell fill.
 
 
I know—but the joy that was quick to go
Gave more knowledge to me than words can shew;
And you know the story, and how they fare
Who love the green earth and the heavenly air.
 

COME TO ME

 
Come to me, come to me, O my God;
  Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
  And the water and the air!
 
 
For thou art so far that I often doubt,
  As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
  If thou canst be anywhere.
 
 
How did men find thee in days of old?
  How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
  They suffered, and kept themselves pure!
 
 
But now they say—neither above the sphere
  Nor down in the heart of man,
But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
  The thought of thee began.
 
 
If only that perfect tale were true
  Which ages have not made old,
Which of endless many makes one anew,
  And simplicity manifold!
 
 
But he taught that they who did his word
  The truth of it sure would know:
I will try to do it: if he be lord
  Again the old faith will glow;
 
 
Again the old spirit-wind will blow
  That he promised to their prayer;
And obeying the Son, I too shall know
  His father everywhere!
 

A FEAR

 
O Mother Earth, I have a fear
Which I would tell to thee—
Softly and gently in thine ear
When the moon and we are three.
 
 
Thy grass and flowers are beautiful;
Among thy trees I hide;
And underneath the moonlight cool
Thy sea looks broad and wide;
 
 
But this I fear—lest thou shouldst grow
To me so small and strange,
So distant I should never know
On thee a shade of change,
 
 
Although great earthquakes should uplift
Deep mountains from their base,
And thy continual motion shift
The lands upon thy face;—
 
 
The grass, the flowers, the dews that lie
Upon them as before—
Driven upwards evermore, lest I
Should love these things no more.
 
 
Even now thou dimly hast a place
In deep star galaxies!
And I, driven ever on through space,
Have lost thee in the skies!
 

THE LOST HOUSE

 
Out of thy door I run to do the thing
  That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words
Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing
About their work, "My God, my father-king!"
 
 
I turn in haste to see thy blessed door,
  But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds,
  And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds
    Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!
 
 
Ah me! the house of peace is there no more.
Was it a dream then?—Walls, fireside, and floor,
  And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free,
    Are vanished—gone as they had never been!
 
 
  I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!—
And I am kneeling at my father's knee,
Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.
 

THE TALK OF THE ECHOES

A FRAGMENT

 
When the cock crows loud from the glen,
And the moor-cock chirrs from the heather,
What hear ye and see ye then,
Ye children of air and ether?
 
 
1st Echo.
          A thunder as of waves at the rising of the moon,
          And a darkness on the graves though the day is at its noon.
 
 
2nd Echo. A springing as of grass though the air is damp and chill,
  And a glimmer from the river that winds about the hill.
 
 
1st Echo. A lapse of crags that leant from the mountain's earthen sheath, And a shock of ruin sent on the river underneath.
 
 
2nd Echo. A sound as of a building that groweth fair and good,
  And a piping of the thrushes from the hollow of the wood.
 
 
1st Echo. A wailing as of lambs that have wandered from the flock,
  And a bleating of their dams that was answered from the rock.
 
 
2nd Echo. A breathing as of cattle in the shadow where they dream,
  And a sound of children playing with the pebbles in the stream.
 
 
1st Echo. A driving as of clouds in the kingdom of the air,
  And a tumult as of crowds that mingle everywhere.
 
 
2nd Echo. A waving of the grass, and a passing o'er the lakes,
  And a shred of tempest-cloud in the glory when it breaks.