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

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH

  A quiet heart, submissive, meek,       Father, do thou bestow,   Which more than granted, will not seek       To have, or give, or know.   Each little hill then holds its gift       Forth to my joying eyes;   Each mighty mountain then doth lift       My spirit to the skies.   Lo, then the running water sounds       With gladsome, secret things!   The silent water more abounds,       And more the hidden springs.   Live murmurs then the trees will blend       With all the feathered song;   The waving grass low tribute lend       Earth's music to prolong.   The sun will cast great crowns of light       On waves that anthems roar;   The dusky billows break at night       In flashes on the shore.   Each harebell, each white lily's cup,       The hum of hidden bee,   Yea, every odour floating up,       The insect revelry—   Each hue, each harmony divine       The holy world about,   Its soul will send forth into mine,       My soul to widen out.   And thus the great earth I shall hold,       A perfect gift of thine;   Richer by these, a thousandfold,       Than if broad lands were mine.

HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL

  Father, in the dark I lay,       Thirsting for the light,   Helpless, but for hope alway       In thy father-might.   Out of darkness came the morn,       Out of death came life,   I, and faith, and hope, new-born,       Out of moaning strife!   So, one morning yet more fair,       I shall, joyous-brave,   Sudden breathing loftier air,       Triumph o'er the grave.   Though this feeble body lie       Underneath the ground,   Wide awake, not sleeping, I       Shall in him be found.   But a morn yet fairer must       Quell this inner gloom—   Resurrection from the dust       Of a deeper tomb!   Father, wake thy little child;       Give me bread and wine   Till my spirit undefiled       Rise and live in thine.

WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN

  Shepherd, on before thy sheep,       Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!   Scarce the track I stumbling keep!       Through my thin fleece blows the wind!   Turn and see me, Son of Man!       Turn and lift thy Father's child;   Scarce I walk where once I ran:       Carry me—the wind is wild!   Thou art strong—thy strength wilt share;       My poor weight thou wilt not feel;   Weakness made thee strong to bear,       Suffering made thee strong to heal!   I were still a wandering sheep       But for thee, O Shepherd-man!   Following now, I faint, I weep,       Yet I follow as I can!   Shepherd, if I fall and lie       Moaning in the frosty wind,   Yet, I know, I shall not die—       Thou wilt miss me—and wilt find!

A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862,

THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE

  The skies are pale, the trees are stiff,       The earth is dull and old;   The frost is glittering as if       The very sun were cold.   And hunger fell is joined with frost,       To make men thin and wan:   Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost;       Be born, O child of man.   The children cry, the women shake,       The strong men stare about;   They sleep when they should be awake,       They wake ere night is out.   For they have lost their heritage—       No sweat is on their brow:   Come, babe, and bring them work and wage;       Be born, and save us now.   Across the sea, beyond our sight,       Roars on the fierce debate;   The men go down in bloody fight,       The women weep and hate;   And in the right be which that may,       Surely the strife is long!   Come, son of man, thy righteous way,       And right will have no wrong.   Good men speak lies against thine own—       Tongue quick, and hearing slow;   They will not let thee walk alone,       And think to serve thee so:   If they the children's freedom saw       In thee, the children's king,   They would be still with holy awe,       Or only speak to sing.   Some neither lie nor starve nor fight,       Nor yet the poor deny;   But in their hearts all is not right,—       They often sit and sigh.   We need thee every day and hour,       In sunshine and in snow:   Child-king, we pray with all our power—       Be born, and save us so.   We are but men and women, Lord;       Thou art a gracious child!   O fill our hearts, and heap our board,       Pray thee—the winter's wild!   The sky is sad, the trees are bare,       Hunger and hate about:   Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare       Will soon be driven out.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

  Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap,       The sun shone in his hair;   And this was how she saw, mayhap,       The crown already there.   For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king;       Bad Herod dares not come;   Before thee sleeping, holy thing,       The wild winds would be dumb."   "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet,       My child, so long desired;   Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet;       Thy feet will never be tired."   "For thou art the king of men, my son;       Thy crown I see it plain!   And men shall worship thee, every one,       And cry, Glory! Amen!"   Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide—       At Mary looked her lord.   Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed;       Babe Jesus said never a word.

THE SLEEPLESS JESUS

  'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:       Why gaze thy bright eyes so?   At night our children, for new joy       Home to thy father go,   But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child;       The moon and stars are gone;   The wind is up and raving wild,       But thou art smiling on!   My child, thou hast immortal eyes       That see by their own light;   They see the children's blood—it lies       Red-glowing through the night!   Thou hast an ever-open ear       For sob or cry or moan:   Thou seemest not to see or hear,       Thou only smilest on!   When first thou camest to the earth,       All sounds of strife were still;   A silence lay about thy birth,       And thou didst sleep thy fill:   Thou wakest now—why weep'st thou not?       Thy earth is woe-begone;   Both babes and mothers wail their lot,       But still thou smilest on!   I read thy face like holy book;       No hurt is pictured there;   Deep in thine eyes I see the look       Of one who answers prayer.   Beyond pale grief and wild uproars,       Thou seest God's will well done;   Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors,       Thou hear'st—and smilest on.   Men say: "I will arise and go;"       God says: "I will go meet:"   Thou seest them gather, weeping low,       About the Father's feet;   And each for each begin to bear,       And standing lonely none:   Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer!       Smile, Son of God, smile on.

CHRISTMAS, 1873

  Christmas-Days are still in store:—       Will they change—steal faded hither?   Or come fresh as heretofore,       Summering all our winter weather?   Surely they will keep their bloom       All the countless pacing ages:   In the country whence they come       Children only are the sages!   Hither, every hour and year,       Children come to cure our oldness—   Oft, alas, to gather sear       Unbelief, and earthy boldness!   Men they grow and women cold,       Selfish, passionate, and plaining!   Ever faster they grow old:—       On the world, ah, eld is gaining!   Child, whose childhood ne'er departs!       Jesus, with the perfect father!   Drive the age from parents' hearts;       To thy heart the children gather.   Send thy birth into our souls,       With its grand and tender story.   Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!—       News to men! to God old glory!

CHRISTMAS, 1884

  Though in my heart no Christmas glee,       Though my song-bird be dumb,   Jesus, it is enough for me       That thou art come.   What though the loved be scattered far,       Few at the board appear,   In thee, O Lord, they gathered are,       And thou art here.   And if our hearts be low with lack,       They are not therefore numb;   Not always will thy day come back—       Thyself will come!

AN OLD STORY

I

  In the ancient house of ages,       See, they cannot rest!   With a hope, which awe assuages,       Tremble all the blest.   For the son and heir eternal,       To be son yet more,   Leaves his stately chair supernal       For the earth's low floor;   Leaves the room so high and old,       Leaves the all-world hearth,   Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold,       Of the twilight earth—   To be throned in newer glory       In a mother's lap,   Gather up our broken story,       And right every hap.

II

  There Earth's foster-baby lies,       Sleep-dimmed all his graces,   'Neath four stars of parents' eyes,       And two heavens of faces!   See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring,       Feel the skirts of good   Fold them in dull-blessed sharing       Of infinitude.   Make a little room betwixt you,       Pray you, Ass and Cow!   Sure we shall, if I kneel next you,       Know each other now!   To the pit-fallen comes salvation—       Love is never loath!   Here we are, thy whole creation,       Waiting, Lord, thy growth!

III

  On the slopes of Bethlehem,       Round their resting sheep,   Shepherds sat, and went and came,       Guarding holy sleep;   But the silent, high dome-spaces,       Airy galleries,   Thronged they were with watching faces,       Thronged with open eyes.   Far across the desert floor,       Come, slow-drawing nigher,   Sages deep in starry lore,       Priests of burning Fire.   In the sky they read his story,       And, through starlight cool,   They come riding to the Glory,       To the Wonderful.

IV

  Babe and mother, coming Mage,       Shepherd, ass, and cow!   Angels watching the new age,       Time's intensest Now!   Heaven down-brooding, Earth upstraining,       Far ends closing in!   Sure the eternal tide is gaining       On the strand of sin!   See! but see! Heaven's chapel-master       Signs with lifted hand;   Winds divine blow fast and faster,       Swelling bosoms grand.   Hark the torrent-joy let slip!       Hark the great throats ring!   Glory! Peace! Good-fellowship!       And a Child for king!

A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS

  Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging       Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death!   Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing!       Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith!   Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining—       Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!"   Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining,       Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer!   Toll for the burying, sexton tolling!       Sing for the second birth, angel Lark!   Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling!       Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark!

II

  Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow;       I will give freedom to mine in song!   Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow;       I will go watch in the dawning long!   For I shall see them, and know their faces—       Tenderer, sweeter, and shining more;   Clasp the old self in the new embraces;       Gaze through their eyes' wide open door.   Loved ones, I come to you: see my sadness;       I am ashamed—but you pardon wrong!   Smile the old smile, and my soul's new gladness       Straight will arise in sorrow and song!

TO MY AGING FRIENDS

  It is no winter night comes down       Upon our hearts, dear friends of old;   But a May evening, softly brown,       Whose wind is rather cold.   We are not, like yon sad-eyed West,       Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard,   We are like yon Moon—in mourning drest,       But gazing on her lord.   Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends,       Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair;   Ours is a love that never ends,       For God is dearest there!   We will not talk about the past,       We will not ponder ancient pain;   Those are but deep foundations cast       For peaks of soaring gain!   We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones       At our poor smouldering earthly fire;   And talk of wide-eyed living ones       Who have what we desire.   O Living, ye know what is death—       We, by and by, shall know it too!   Humble, with bated, hoping breath,       We are coming fast to you!

CHRISTMAS SONG OF THE OLD CHILDREN

  Well for youth to seek the strong,       Beautiful, and brave!   We, the old, who walk along       Gently to the grave,   Only pay our court to thee,   Child of all Eternity!   We are old who once were young,       And we grow more old;   Songs we are that have been sung,       Tales that have been told;   Yellow leaves, wind-blown to thee,   Childhood of Eternity!   If we come too sudden near,       Lo, Earth's infant cries,   For our faces wan and drear       Have such withered eyes!   Thou, Heaven's child, turn'st not away   From the wrinkled ones who pray!   Smile upon us with thy mouth       And thine eyes of grace;   On our cold north breathe thy south.       Thaw the frozen face:   Childhood all from thee doth flow—   Melt to song our age's snow.   Gray-haired children come in crowds,       Thee, their Hope, to greet:   Is it swaddling clothes or shrouds       Hampering so our feet?   Eldest child, the shadows gloom:   Take the aged children home.   We have had enough of play,       And the wood grows drear;   Many who at break of day       Companied us here—   They have vanished out of sight,   Gone and met the coming light!   Fair is this out-world of thine,       But its nights are cold;   And the sun that makes it fine       Makes us soon so old!   Long its shadows grow and dim—   Father, take us back with him! 1891.

CHRISTMAS MEDITATION

  He who by a mother's love       Made the wandering world his own,   Every year comes from above,       Comes the parted to atone,       Binding Earth to the Father's throne.   Nay, thou comest every day!       No, thou never didst depart!   Never hour hast been away!       Always with us, Lord, thou art,       Binding, binding heart to heart!

THE OLD CASTLE

  The brother knew well the castle old,       Every closet, each outlook fair,   Every turret and bartizan bold,       Every chamber, garnished or bare.       The brother was out in the heavenly air;   Little ones lost the starry way,       Wandered down the dungeon stair.   The brother missed them, and on the clay       Of the dungeon-floor he found them all.       Up they jumped when they heard him call!   He led the little ones into the day—   Out and up to the sunshine gay,       Up to the father's own door-sill—         In at the father's own room door,   There to be merry and work and play,       There to come and go at their will,         Good boys and girls to be lost no more!

CHRISTMAS PRAYER

  Cold my heart, and poor, and low,       Like thy stable in the rock;   Do not let it orphan go,       It is of thy parent stock!   Come thou in, and it will grow       High and wide, a fane divine;   Like the ruby it will glow,       Like the diamond shine!

SONG OF THE INNOCENTS

  Merry, merry we well may be,   For Jesus Christ is come down to see:   Long before, at the top of the stair,   He set our angels a waiting there,   Waiting hither and thither to fly,   Tending the children of the sky,   Lest they dash little feet against big stones,   And tumble down and break little bones;   For the path is rough, and we must not roam;   We have learned to walk, and must follow him home!

CHRISTMAS DAY AND EVERY DAY

  Star high,   Baby low:   'Twixt the two   Wise men go;   Find the baby,   Grasp the star—   Heirs of all things   Near and far!

THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN

  The infant lies in blessed ease       Upon his mother's breast;   No storm, no dark, the baby sees       Invade his heaven of rest.   He nothing knows of change or death—       Her face his holy skies;   The air he breathes, his mother's breath;       His stars, his mother's eyes!   Yet half the soft winds wandering there       Are sighs that come of fears;   The dew slow falling through that air—       It is the dew of tears;   And ah, my child, thy heavenly home       Hath storms as well as dew;   Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome,       And quench the starry blue!   "My smile would win no smile again,       If baby saw the things   That ache across his mother's brain       The while to him she sings!   Thy faith in me is faith in vain—       I am not what I seem:   O dreary day, O cruel pain,       That wakes thee from thy dream!"   Nay, pity not his dreams so fair,       Fear thou no waking grief;   Oh, safer he than though thou were       Good as his vague belief!   There is a heaven that heaven above       Whereon he gazes now;   A truer love than in thy kiss;       A better friend than thou!   The Father's arms fold like a nest       Both thee and him about;   His face looks down, a heaven of rest,       Where comes no dark, no doubt.   Its mists are clouds of stars that move       On, on, with progress rife;   Its winds, the goings of his love;       Its dew, the dew of life.   We for our children seek thy heart,       For them we lift our eyes:   Lord, should their faith in us depart,       Let faith in thee arise.   When childhood's visions them forsake,       To women grown and men,   Back to thy heart their hearts oh take,       And bid them dream again.