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

SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS

I

  Back shining from the pane, the fire     Seems outside in the snow:   So love set free from love's desire     Lights grief of long ago.   The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine,     The earth bedecked with moon;   Out on the worlds we surely shine     More radiant than in June!   In the white garden lies a heap     As brown as deep-dug mould:   A hundred partridges that keep     Each other from the cold.   My father gives them sheaves of corn,     For shelter both and food:   High hope in me was early born,     My father was so good.

II

  The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms     Across my clouded pane;   Weaves melodies of ancient psalms     All through my passive brain.   Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head:     My father is in the room;   The very curtains of my bed     Are from Love's sheltering loom!   The lovely vision melts away;     I am a child no more;   Work rises from the floor of play;     Duty is at the door.   But if I face with courage stout     The labour and the din,   Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out     My heart with thee stay in.

III

  Up to my ear my soul doth run—     Her other door is dark;   There she can see without the sun,     And there she sits to mark.   I hear the dull unheeding wind     Mumble o'er heath and wold;   My fancy leaves my brain behind,     And floats into the cold.   Like a forgotten face that lies     One of the speechless crowd,   The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,     White-folded in her shroud.   O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,     Dead rivers, fireless thorps,   I brood, the heart still throbbing warm     In Nature's wintered corpse.

IV

  To all the world mine eyes are blind:     Their drop serene is—night,   With stores of snow piled up the wind     An awful airy height.   And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye:     The simple faithful stars   Beyond are shining, careless high,     Nor heed our storms and jars.   And when o'er storm and jar I climb—     Beyond life's atmosphere,   I shall behold the lord of time     And space—of world and year.   Oh vain, far quest!—not thus my heart     Shall ever find its goal!   I turn me home—and there thou art,     My Father, in my soul!

SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS

I

  A gentle wind, of western birth     On some far summer sea,   Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,     Wakes hopes in wintry me.   The sun is low; the paths are wet,     And dance with frolic hail;   The trees—their spring-time is not yet—     Swing sighing in the gale.   Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;     Clouds shoulder in between;   I scarce believe one coming day     The earth will all be green.   The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,     And flaps his snowy wing:   Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;     Thou canst not bar our spring.

II

  Up comes the primrose, wondering;     The snowdrop droopeth by;   The holy spirit of the spring     Is working silently.   Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile     The later children out;   O'er woods and farms a sunny smile     Is flickering about.   The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull;     To death almost she slept:   Over her, heaven grew beautiful,     And forth her beauty crept.   Showers yet must fall, and waters grow     Dark-wan with furrowing blast;   But suns will shine, and soft winds blow,     Till the year flowers at last.

III

  The sky is smiling over me,     Hath smiled away the frost;   White daisies star the sky-like lea,     With buds the wood's embossed.   Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky     Up through the latticed boughs;   Till comes the green cloud by and by,     It is not time to house.   Yours is the day, sweet bird—sing on;     The winter is forgot;   Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone:     Pain that is past, is not.   Joy that was past is yet the same:     If care the summer brings,   'Twill only be another name     For love that broods, not sings.

IV

  Blow on me, wind, from west and south;     Sweet summer-spirit, blow!   Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth,     Who knows not what I know.   The earth's perfection dawneth soon;     Ours lingereth alway;   We have a morning, not a noon;     Spring, but no summer gay.   Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn     Crown soon the swift year's life:   In us a higher hope is born,     And claims a longer strife.   Will heaven be an eternal spring     With summer at the door?   Or shall we one day tell its king     That we desire no more?

SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS

I

  The flush of green that dyed the day     Hath vanished in the moon;   Flower-scents float stronger out, and play     An unborn, coming tune.   One southern eve like this, the dew     Had cooled and left the ground;   The moon hung half-way from the blue,     No disc, but conglobed round;   Light-leaved acacias, by the door,     Bathed in the balmy air,   Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore,     And breathed a perfume rare;   Great gold-flakes from the starry sky     Fell flashing on the deep:   One scent of moist earth floating by,     Almost it made me weep.

II

  Those gorgeous stars were not my own,     They made me alien go!   The mother o'er her head had thrown     A veil I did not know!   The moon-blanched fields that seaward went,     The palm-flung, dusky shades,   Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent,     No slender, spear-like blades.   I longed to see the starry host     Afar in fainter blue;   But plenteous grass I missed the most,     With daisies glimmering through.   The common things were not the same!     I longed across the foam:   From dew-damp earth that odour came—     I knew the world my home.

III

  The stars are glad in gulfy space—     Friendly the dark to them!   From day's deep mine, their hiding-place,     Night wooeth every gem.   A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar,     When up the day is furled,   Shines in the sky a light afar,     Mayhap a home-filled world.   Sometimes upon the inner sky     We catch a doubtful shine:   A mote or star? A flash in the eye     Or jewel of God's mine?   A star to us, all glimmer and glance,     May teem with seraphim:   A fancy to our ignorance     May be a truth to Him.

IV

  The night is damp and warm and still,     And soft with summer dreams;   The buds are bursting at their will,     And shy the half moon gleams.   My soul is cool, as bathed within     By dews that silent weep—   Like child that has confessed his sin,     And now will go to sleep.   My body ages, form and hue;     But when the spring winds blow,   My spirit stirs and buds anew,     Younger than long ago.   Lord, make me more a child, and more,     Till Time his own end bring,   And out of every winter sore     I pass into thy spring.

A BOOK OF DREAMS

PART I

I

  I lay and dreamed. The Master came,     In seamless garment drest;   I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame,     Not ready to be blest.   He stretched his arms, and gently sought     To clasp me to his heart;   I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought     He knew me but in part.   I did not love him as I would!     Embraces were not meet!   I dared not ev'n stand where he stood—     I fell and kissed his feet.   Years, years have passed away since then;     Oft hast thou come to me;   The question scarce will rise again     Whether I care for thee.   In thee lies hid my unknown heart,     In thee my perfect mind;   In all my joys, my Lord, thou art     The deeper joy behind.   But when fresh light and visions bold     My heart and hope expand,   Up comes the vanity of old     That now I understand:   Away, away from thee I drift,     Forgetting, not forgot;   Till sudden yawns a downward rift—     I start—and see thee not.   Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours!     All in the dark I stray,   Until my spirit fainting cowers     On the threshold of the day.   Hence not even yet I child-like dare     Nestle unto thy breast,   Though well I know that only there     Lies hid the secret rest.   But now I shrink not from thy will,     Nor, guilty, judge my guilt;   Thy good shall meet and slay my ill—     Do with me as thou wilt.   If I should dream that dream once more,     Me in my dreaming meet;   Embrace me, Master, I implore,     And let me kiss thy feet.

II

  I stood before my childhood's home,     Outside its belt of trees;   All round my glances flit and roam     O'er well-known hills and leas;   When sudden rushed across the plain     A host of hurrying waves,   Loosed by some witchery of the brain     From far, dream-hidden caves.   And up the hill they clomb and came,     A wild, fast-flowing sea:   Careless I looked as on a game;     No terror woke in me.   For, just the belting trees within,     I saw my father wait;   And should the waves the summit win,     There was the open gate!   With him beside, all doubt was dumb;     There let the waters foam!   No mightiest flood would dare to come     And drown his holy home!   Two days passed by. With restless toss,     The red flood brake its doors;   Prostrate I lay, and looked across     To the eternal shores.   The world was fair, and hope was high;     My friends had all been true;   Life burned in me, and Death and I     Would have a hard ado.   Sudden came back the dream so good,     My trouble to abate:   At his own door my Father stood—     I just without the gate!   "Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"     I said; "mine eyes to thine   Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears,     But also hear'st with mine:"   "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay,     How trembles my life's node;   Thou art the potter, I am the clay—     'Tis thine to bear the load."

III

  A piece of gold had left my purse,     Which I had guarded ill;   I feared a lack, but feared yet worse     Regret returning still.   I lifted up my feeble prayer     To him who maketh strong,   That thence no haunting thoughts of care     Might do my spirit wrong.   And even before my body slept,     Such visions fair I had,   That seldom soul with chamber swept     Was more serenely glad.   No white-robed angel floated by     On slow, reposing wings;   I only saw, with inward eye,     Some very common things.   First rose the scarlet pimpernel     With burning purple heart;   I saw within it, and could spell     The lesson of its art.   Then came the primrose, child-like flower,     And looked me in the face;   It bore a message full of power,     And confidence, and grace.   And breezes rose on pastures trim     And bathed me all about;   Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim,     Or only half spoke out.   Sudden it closed, some door of heaven,     But what came out remained:   The poorest man my loss had given     For that which I had gained!   Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup     Where I bemoaned a sip;   How easily thou didst make up    For that my fault let slip!   What said the flowers? what message new     Embalmed my soul with rest?   I scarce can tell—only they grew     Right out of God's own breast.   They said, to every flower he made     God's thought was root and stem—   Perhaps said what the lilies said     When Jesus looked at them.

IV

  Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake,     Our souls with visions teem   Which to the slumbering brain would take     The form of wondrous dream.   Once, with my thought-sight, I descried     A plain with hills around;   A lordly company on each side     Leaves bare the middle ground.   Great terrace-steps at one end rise     To something like a throne,   And thither all the radiant eyes,     As to a centre, shone.   A snow-white glory, dim-defined,     Those seeking eyes beseech—   Him who was not in fire or wind,     But in the gentle speech.   They see his eyes far-fixed wait:     Adown the widening vale   They, turning, look; their breath they bate,     With dread-filled wonder pale.   In raiment worn and blood-bedewed,     With faltering step and numb,   Toward the shining multitude     A weary man did come.   His face was white, and still-composed,     As of a man nigh dead;   The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed,     A faint, wan splendour shed.   Drops on his hair disordered hung     Like rubies dull of hue;   His hands were pitifully wrung,     And stricken through and through.   Silent they stood with tender awe:     Between their ranks he came;   Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw     What made his feet so lame.   He reached the steps below the throne,     There sank upon his knees;   Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan,     And spake in words like these:—   "Father, I am come back. Thy will     Is sometimes hard to do."   From all that multitude so still     A sound of weeping grew.   Then mournful-glad came down the One;     He kneeled and clasped his child;   Lay on his breast the outworn man,     And wept until he smiled.   The people, who, in bitter woe     And love, had sobbed and cried,   Raised aweful eyes at length—and, Lo,     The two sat side by side!

V

  Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood     High in the gloomy air;   One bore a thief, and one the Good;     The other waited bare.   A soldier came up to the place,     And took me for the third;   My eyes they sought the Master's face,     My will the Master's word.   He bent his head; I took the sign,     And gave the error way;   Gesture nor look nor word of mine     The secret should betray.   The soldier from the cross's foot     Turned. I stood waiting there:   That grim, expectant tree, for fruit     My dying form must bear.   Up rose the steaming mists of doubt     And chilled both heart and brain;   They shut the world of vision out,     And fear saw only pain.   "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow!     The nails that rend and pierce!   The shock may stun, but, slow and slow,     The torture will grow fierce."   "Alas, the awful fight with death!     The hours to hang and die!   The thirsting gasp for common breath!     The weakness that would cry!"   My soul returned: "A faintness soon     Will shroud thee in its fold;   The hours will bring the fearful noon;     'Twill pass—and thou art cold."   "'Tis his to care that thou endure,     To curb or loose the pain;   With bleeding hands hang on thy cure—     It shall not be in vain."   But, ah, the will, which thus could quail,     Might yield—oh, horror drear!   Then, more than love, the fear to fail     Kept down the other fear.   I stood, nor moved. But inward strife     The bonds of slumber broke:   Oh! had I fled, and lost the life     Of which the Master spoke?

VI

  Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial     The last shades darken, friends say, "He was good;"   I struggling fail to speak my faint denial—     They whisper, "His humility withstood."   I, knowing better, part with love unspoken;     And find the unknown world not all unknown:   The bonds that held me from my centre broken,     I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.   How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder;     I think I know what I will say to him;   I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder,     I fear no passing vision great and dim.   But he knows all my weary sinful story:     How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair?   I come to him in all his conquered glory,     Won from the life that I went dreaming there!   I come; I fall before him, faintly saying:     "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win?   Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying;     I have no honour—but may I come in?"   I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable;     To me the earth was very lovely too:   Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able     To love it greatly!—but thou hast got through."