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

REJOICE

  "Rejoice," said the Sun; "I will make thee gay   With glory and gladness and holiday;   I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice!"   But man would not rejoice.   "Rejoice in thyself," said he, "O Sun,   For thy daily course is a lordly one;   In thy lofty place rejoice if thou can:   For me, I am only a man."   "Rejoice," said the Wind; "I am free and strong,   And will wake in thy heart an ancient song;   Hear the roaring woods, my organ noise!"   But man would not rejoice.   "Rejoice, O Wind, in thy strength," said he,   "For thou fulfillest thy destiny;   Shake the forest, the faint flowers fan;   For me, I am only a man."   "Rejoice," said the Night, "with moon and star,   For the Sun and the Wind are gone afar;   I am here with rest and dreaming choice!"   But man would not rejoice;   For he said—"What is rest to me, I pray,   Whose labour leads to no gladsome day?   He only can dream who has hope behind:   Alas for me and my kind!"   Then a voice that came not from moon or star,   From the sun, or the wind that roved afar,   Said, "Man, I am with thee—hear my voice!"   And man said, "I rejoice."

THE GRACE OF GRACE

  Had I the grace to win the grace       Of some old man in lore complete,   My face would worship at his face,       And I sit lowly at his feet.   Had I the grace to win the grace       Of childhood, loving shy, apart,   The child should find a nearer place,       And teach me resting on my heart.   Had I the grace to win the grace       Of maiden living all above,   My soul would trample down the base,       That she might have a man to love.   A grace I had no grace to win       Knocks now at my half open door:   Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in!—       Thy grace divine is all, and more.

ANTIPHON

  Daylight fades away.       Is the Lord at hand   In the shadows gray       Stealing on the land?         Gently from the east           Come the shadows gray;         But our lowly priest           Nearer is than they.   It is darkness quite.       Is the Lord at hand,   In the cloak of night       Stolen upon the land?         But I see no night,           For my Lord is here         With him dark is light,           With him far is near.   List! the cock's awake.       Is the Lord at hand?   Cometh he to make       Light in all the land?         Long ago he made           Morning in my heart;         Long ago he bade           Shadowy things depart.   Lo, the dawning hill!       Is the Lord at hand,   Come to scatter ill,       Ruling in the land?         He hath scattered ill,           Ruling in my mind;         Growing to his will,           Freedom comes, I find.   We will watch all day,       Lest the Lord should come;   All night waking stay       In the darkness dumb.         I will work all day,           For the Lord hath come;         Down my head will lay           All night, glad and dumb.   For we know not when       Christ may be at hand;   But we know that then       Joy is in the land.         For I know that where           Christ hath come again,         Quietness without care           Dwelleth in his men.

DORCAS

  If I might guess, then guess I would       That, mid the gathered folk,   This gentle Dorcas one day stood,       And heard when Jesus spoke.   She saw the woven seamless coat—       Half envious, for his sake:   "Oh, happy hands," she said, "that wrought       The honoured thing to make!"   Her eyes with longing tears grow dim:       She never can come nigh   To work one service poor for him       For whom she glad would die!   But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word!       And she has heard indeed!   "When did we see thee naked, Lord,       And clothed thee in thy need?"   "The King shall answer, Inasmuch       As to my brethren ye   Did it—even to the least of such—       Ye did it unto me."   Home, home she went, and plied the loom,       And Jesus' poor arrayed.   She died—they wept about the room,       And showed the coats she made.

MARRIAGE SONG

  "They have no more wine!" she said.   But they had enough of bread;   And the vessels by the door   Held for thirst a plenteous store:   Yes, enough; but Love divine   Turned the water into wine!   When should wine like water flow,   But when home two glad hearts go!   When, in sacred bondage bound,   Soul in soul hath freedom found!   Such the time when, holy sign,   Jesus turned the water wine.   Good is all the feasting then;   Good the merry words of men;   Good the laughter and the smiles;   Good the wine that grief beguiles;—   Crowning good, the Word divine   Turning water into wine!   Friends, the Master with you dwell!   Daily work this miracle!   When fair things too common grow,   Bring again their heavenly show!   Ever at your table dine,   Turning water into wine!   So at last you shall descry   All the patterns of the sky:   Earth a heaven of short abode;   Houses temples unto God;   Water-pots, to vision fine,   Brimming full of heavenly wine.

BLIND BARTIMEUS

  As Jesus went into Jericho town,   Twas darkness all, from toe to crown,         About blind Bartimeus.   He said, "My eyes are more than dim,   They are no use for seeing him:         No matter—he can see us!"   "Cry out, cry out, blind brother—cry;   Let not salvation dear go by.—         Have mercy, Son of David."   Though they were blind, they both could hear—   They heard, and cried, and he drew near;         And so the blind were saved.   O Jesus Christ, I am very blind;   Nothing comes through into my mind;         'Tis well I am not dumb:   Although I see thee not, nor hear,   I cry because thou may'st be near:         O son of Mary, come!   I hear it through the all things blind:   Is it thy voice, so gentle and kind—         "Poor eyes, no more be dim"?   A hand is laid upon mine eyes;   I hear, and hearken, see, and rise;—         'Tis He! I follow him!

COME UNTO ME

  Come unto me, the Master says:—       But how? I am not good;   No thankful song my heart will raise,       Nor even wish it could.   I am not sorry for the past,       Nor able not to sin;   The weary strife would ever last       If once I should begin!   Hast thou no burden then to bear?       No action to repent?   Is all around so very fair?       Is thy heart quite content?   Hast thou no sickness in thy soul?       No labour to endure?   Then go in peace, for thou art whole;       Thou needest not his cure.   Ah, mock me not! I often sigh;       I have a nameless grief,   A faint sad pain—but such that I       Can look for no relief.   Come, come to him who made thy heart;       Come weary and oppressed;   To come to Jesus is thy part,       His part to give thee rest.   New grief, new hope he will bestow,       Thy grief and pain to quell;   Into thy heart himself will go,       And that will make thee well.

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?