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

It is neither hard to hear,   Nor hard to understand; It is very low, but very near,   A still, small, strong command.

Willie answers.

I do not hear it at all;   I am only hearing you!

The Father speaks.

Think: is there nothing, great or small,   You ought to go and do?

Willie answers.

Let me think:—I ought to feed   My rabbits. I went away In such a hurry this morning! Indeed   They've not had enough to-day!

The Father speaks.

That is his whisper low!   That is his very word! You had only to stop and listen, and so   Very plainly you heard! That duty's the little door:   You must open it and go in; There is nothing else to do before,   There is nowhere else to begin.

Willie speaks.

But that's so easily done!   It's such a trifling affair! So nearly over as soon as begun.   For that he can hardly care!

The Father answers.

You are turning from his call   If you let that duty wait; You would not think any duty small   If you yourself were great. The nearest is at life's core;   With the first, you all begin: What matter how little the little door   If it only let you in? V

Willie speaks.

Papa, I am come again:   It is now three months and more That I've tried to do the thing that was plain,   And I feel as small as before.

The Father answers.

Your honour comes too slow?   How much then have you done? One foot on a mole-heap, would you crow   As if you had reached the sun?

Willie speaks.

But I cannot help a doubt   Whether this way be the true: The more I do to work it out   The more there comes to do; And yet, were all done and past,   I should feel just as small, For when I had tried to the very last—   'Twas my duty, after all! It is only much the same   As not being liar or thief!

The Father answers.

One who tried it found even, with shame,   That of sinners he was the chief! My boy, I am glad indeed   You have been finding the truth!

Willie speaks.

But where's the good? I shall never speed—   Be one whit greater, in sooth! If duty itself must fail,   And that be the only plan, How shall my scarce begun duty prevail   To make me a mighty man?

The Father answers.

Ah, Willie! what if it were   Quite another way to fall? What if the greatness itself lie there—   In knowing that you are small? In seeing the good so good   That you feel poor, weak, and low; And hungrily long for it as for food,   With an endless need to grow? The man who was lord of fate,   Born in an ox's stall, Was great because he was much too great   To care about greatness at all. Ever and only he sought   The will of his Father good; Never of what was high he thought,   But of what his Father would. You long to be great; you try;   You feel yourself smaller still: In the name of God let ambition die;   Let him make you what he will. Who does the truth, is one   With the living Truth above: Be God's obedient little son,   Let ambition die in love.

KING COLE

King Cole he reigned in Aureoland, But the sceptre was seldom in his hand Far oftener was there his golden cup— He ate too much, but he drank all up! To be called a king and to be a king, That is one thing and another thing! So his majesty's head began to shake, And his hands and his feet to swell and ache, The doctors were called, but they dared not say Your majesty drinks too much Tokay; So out of the king's heart died all mirth, And he thought there was nothing good on earth. Then up rose the fool, whose every word Was three parts wise and one part absurd. Nuncle, he said, never mind the gout; I will make you laugh till you laugh it out. King Cole pushed away his full gold plate: The jester he opened the palace gate, Brought in a cold man, with hunger grim, And on the dais-edge seated him; Then caught up the king's own golden plate, And set it beside him: oh, how he ate! And the king took note, with a pleased surprise, That he ate with his mouth and his cheeks and his eyes, With his arms and his legs and his body whole, And laughed aloud from his heart and soul. Then from his lordly chair got up, And carried the man his own gold cup; The goblet was deep and wide and full, The poor man drank like a cow at a pool. Said the king to the jester—I call it well done To drink with two mouths instead of one! Said the king to himself, as he took his seat, It is quite as good to feed as to eat! It is better, I do begin to think, To give to the thirsty than to drink! And now I have thought of it, said the king, There might be more of this kind of thing! The fool heard. The king had not long to wait: The fool cried aloud at the palace-gate; The ragged and wretched, the hungry and thin, Loose in their clothes and tight in their skin, Gathered in shoals till they filled the hall, And the king and the fool they fed them all; And as with good things their plates they piled The king grew merry as a little child. On the morrow, early, he went abroad And sought poor folk in their own abode— Sought them till evening foggy and dim, Did not wait till they came to him; And every day after did what he could, Gave them work and gave them food. Thus he made war on the wintry weather, And his health and the spring came back together. But, lo, a change had passed on the king, Like the change of the world in that same spring! His face had grown noble and good to see, And the crown sat well on his majesty. Now he ate enough, and ate no more, He drank about half what he drank before, He reigned a real king in Aureoland, Reigned with his head and his heart and his hand. All this through the fool did come to pass. And every Christmas-eve that was, The palace-gates stood open wide And the poor came in from every side, And the king rose up and served them duly, And his people loved him very truly.

SAID AND DID

Said the boy as he read, "I too will be bold,   I will fight for the truth and its glory!" He went to the playground, and soon had told   A very cowardly story! Said the girl as she read, "That was grand, I declare!   What a true, what a lovely, sweet soul!" In half-an-hour she went up the stair,   Looking as black as a coal! "The mean little wretch, I wish I could fling   This book at his head!" said another; Then he went and did the same ugly thing   To his own little trusting brother! Alas for him who sees a thing grand   And does not fit himself to it! But the meanest act, on sea or on land,   Is to find a fault, and then do it!

DR. DODDRIDGE'S DOG

"What! you Dr. Doddridge's dog, and not know who made you?"

My little dog, who blessed you   With such white toothy-pegs? And who was it that dressed you   In such a lot of legs? Perhaps he never told you!   Perhaps you know quite well, And beg me not to scold you   For you can't speak to tell! I'll tell you, little brother,   In case you do not know:— One only, not another,   Could make us two just so. You love me?—Quiet!—I'm proving!—   It must be God above That filled those eyes with loving:   He was the first to love! One day he'll stop all sadness—   Hark to the nightingale! Oh blessed God of gladness!—   Come, doggie, wag your tail! That's—Thank you, God!—He gave you   Of life this little taste; And with more life he'll save you,   Not let you go to waste! He says now, Live together,   And share your bite and sup; And then he'll say, Come hither—   And lift us both high up.

THE GIRL THAT LOST THINGS

There was a girl that lost things—   Nor only from her hand; She lost, indeed—why, most things,   As if they had been sand! She said, "But I must use them,   And can't look after all! Indeed I did not lose them,   I only let them fall!" That's how she lost her thimble,   It fell upon the floor: Her eyes were very nimble   But she never saw it more. And then she lost her dolly,   Her very doll of all! That loss was far from jolly,   But worse things did befall. She lost a ring of pearls   With a ruby in them set; But the dearest girl of girls   Cried only, did not fret. And then she lost her robin;   Ah, that was sorrow dire! He hopped along, and—bob in—   Hopped bob into the fire! And once she lost a kiss   As she came down the stair; But that she did not miss,   For sure it was somewhere! Just then she lost her heart too,   But did so well without it She took that in good part too,   And said—not much about it. But when she lost her health   She did feel rather poor, Till in came loads of wealth   By quite another door! And soon she lost a dimple   That was upon her cheek, But that was very simple—   She was so thin and weak! And then she lost her mother,   And thought that she was dead; Sure there was not another   On whom to lay her head! And then she lost her self—   But that she threw away; And God upon his shelf   It carefully did lay. And then she lost her sight,   And lost all hope to find it; But a fountain-well of light   Came flashing up behind it. At last she lost the world:   In a black and stormy wind Away from her it whirled—   But the loss how could she mind? For with it she lost her losses,   Her aching and her weeping, Her pains and griefs and crosses,   And all things not worth keeping; It left her with the lost things   Her heart had still been craving; 'Mong them she found—why, most things,   And all things worth the saving. She found her precious mother,   Who not the least had died; And then she found that other   Whose heart had hers inside. And next she found the kiss   She lost upon the stair; 'Twas sweeter far, I guess,   For ripening in that air. She found her self, all mended,   New-drest, and strong, and white; She found her health, new-blended   With a radiant delight. She found her little robin:   He made his wings go flap, Came fluttering, and went bob in,   Went bob into her lap. So, girls that cannot keep things,   Be patient till to-morrow; And mind you don't beweep things   That are not worth such sorrow; For the Father great of fathers,   Of mothers, girls, and boys, In his arms his children gathers,   And sees to all their toys.

A MAKE-BELIEVE

I will think as thinks the rabbit:—    Oh, delight    In the night    When the moon    Sets the tune    To the woods!    And the broods    All run out,    Frisk about,    Go and come,    Beat the drum—    Here in groups,    There in troops!    Now there's one!    Now it's gone!    There are none! And now they are dancing like chaff! I look, and I laugh, But sit by my door, and keep to my habit— A wise, respectable, clean-furred old rabbit!    Now I'm going,       Business calls me out—    Going, going,    Very knowing,       Slow, long-heeled, and stout,       Loping, lumbering,    Nipping, numbering,    Head on this side and on that,    Along the pathway footed flat,    Through the meadow, through the heather,    Through the rich dusky weather—       Big stars and little moon!   Dews are lighting down in crowds,   Odours rising in thin clouds,     Night has all her chords in tune—   The very night for us, God's rabbits,   Suiting all our little habits! Wind not loud, but playful with our fur, Just a cool, a sweet, a gentle stir! And all the way not one rough bur, But the dewiest, freshest grasses, That whisper thanks to every foot that passes!   I, the king the rest call Mappy,   Canter on, composed and happy,   Till I come where there is plenty   For a varied meal and dainty.   Is it cabbage, I grab it;   Is it parsley, I nab it;   Is it carrot, I mar it;   The turnip I turn up   And hollow and swallow;   A lettuce? Let us eat it!   A beetroot? Let's beat it!   If you are juicy,   Sweet sir, I will use you!   For all kinds of corn-crop   I have a born crop!   Are you a green top?   You shall be gleaned up!   Sucking and feazing,   Crushing and squeezing   All that is feathery,   Crisp, not leathery,   Juicy and bruisy—   All comes proper   To my little hopper   Still on the dance,     Driven by hunger and drouth! All is welcome to my crunching, Finding, grinding, Milling, munching, Gobbling, lunching, Fore-toothed, three-lipped mouth— Eating side way, round way, flat way, Eating this way, eating that way, Every way at once! Hark to the rain!— Pattering, clattering, The cabbage leaves battering, Down it comes amain!— Home we hurry Hop and scurry, And in with a flurry! Hustling, jostling Out of the airy land Into the dry warm sand; Our family white tails, The last of our vitals, Following hard with a whisk to them, And with a great sense of risk to them! Hear to it pouring! Hear the thunder roaring Far off and up high, While we all lie So warm and so dry In the mellow dark, Where never a spark, White or rosy or blue, Of the sheeting, fleeting, Forking, frightening, Lashing lightning Ever can come through! Let the wind chafe In the trees overhead, We are quite safe In our dark, yellow bed! Let the rain pour! It never can bore A hole in our roof— It is waterproof! So is the cloak We always carry, We furry folk, In sandhole or quarry! It is perfect bliss To lie in a nest So soft as this, All so warmly drest! No one to flurry you! No one to hurry you! No one to scurry you! Holes plenty to creep in! All day to sleep in! All night to roam in! Gray dawn to run home in! And all the days and nights to come after— All the to-morrows for hind-legs and laughter! Now the rain is over, We are out again, Every merry, leaping rover, On his right leg and his wrong leg, On his doubled, shortened long leg, Floundering amain! Oh, it is merry And jolly—yes, very! But what—what is that? What can he be at? Is it a cat? Ah, my poor little brother, He's caught in the trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me! there was never, Nor will be for ever— There was never such another, Such a funny, funny bunny, Such a frisking, such a whisking, Such a frolicking brother! He's screeching, beseeching! They're going to— Ah, my poor foot, It is caught in a root! No, no! 'tis a trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me, I'm forsaken! Ah me, I am taken! I am screeching, beseeching! They are going to— No more! no more! I must stop this play, Be a boy again, and kneel down and pray To the God of sparrows and rabbits and men, Who never lets any one out of his ken— It must be so, though it be bewild'ring— To save his dear beasts from his cruel children!

THE CHRISTMAS CHILD

"Little one, who straight hast come Down the heavenly stair, Tell us all about your home, And the father there." "He is such a one as I, Like as like can be. Do his will, and, by and by, Home and him you'll see."

A CHRISTMAS PRAYER

Loving looks the large-eyed cow, Loving stares the long-eared ass At Heaven's glory in the grass! Child, with added human birth Come to bring the child of earth Glad repentance, tearful mirth, And a seat beside the hearth At the Father's knee— Make us peaceful as thy cow; Make us patient as thine ass; Make us quiet as thou art now; Make us strong as thou wilt be. Make us always know and see We are his as well as thou.

NO END OF NO-STORY

There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows and the nests they make with the clay they cake with the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the shallows or out of the hollows will hold together in any weather and the swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and are built very narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing and each so narrow like the head of an arrow is a wonderful barrow to carry the mud he makes for his children's sakes from the wet water flowing and the dry dust blowing to build his nest for her he loves best and the wind cakes it the sun bakes it into a nest for the rest of her he loves best and all their merry children each little fellow with a beak as yellow as the buttercups growing beside the flowing of the singing river always and ever growing and blowing as fast as the sheep awake or asleep crop them and crop and cannot stop their yellowness blowing nor yet the growing of the obstinate daisies the little white praises they grow and they blow they spread out their crown and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done they fold up their crown and sleep every one till over the plain he is shining amain and they're at it again praising and praising such low songs raising that no one can hear them but the sun so near them and the sheep that bite them but do not fright them are the quietest sheep awake or asleep with the merriest bleat and the little lambs are the merriest lambs forgetting to eat for the frolic in their feet and the lambs and their dams are the whitest sheep with the woolliest wool for the swallow to pull when he makes his nest for her he loves best and they shine like snow in the grasses that grow by the singing river that sings for ever and the sheep and the lambs are merry for ever because the river sings and they drink it and the lambs and their dams would any one think it are bright and white because of their diet which gladdens them quiet for what they bite is buttercups yellow and daisies white and grass as green as the river can make it with wind as mellow to kiss it and shake it as never was known but here in the hollows beside the river where all the swallows are the merriest fellows and the nests they make with the clay they cake in the sunshine bake till they are like bone and as dry in the wind as a marble stone dried in the wind the sweetest wind that blows by the river flowing for ever and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows on the hollows and over the shallows where dip the swallows and comes and goes and the sweet life blows into the river that sings as it flows and the sweet life blows into the sheep awake or asleep with the woolliest wool and the trailingest tails and never fails gentle and cool to wave the wool and to toss the grass as the lambs and the sheep over it pass and tug and bite with their teeth so white and then with the sweep of their trailing tails smooth it again and it grows amain and amain it grows and the wind that blows tosses the swallows over the hollows and over the shallows and blows the sweet life and the joy so rife into the swallows that skim the shallows and have the yellowest children and the wind that blows is the life of the river that flows for ever and washes the grasses still as it passes and feeds the daisies the little white praises and buttercups sunny with butter and honey that whiten the sheep awake or asleep that nibble and bite and grow whiter than white and merry and quiet on such good diet watered by the river and tossed for ever by the wind that tosses the wool and the grasses and the swallow that crosses with all the swallows over the shallows dipping their wings to gather the water and bake the cake for the wind to make as hard as a bone and as dry as a stone and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows from behind and ripples the river that flows for ever and still as it passes waves the grasses and cools the daisies the white sun praises that feed the sheep awake or asleep and give them their wool for the swallows to pull a little away to mix with the clay that cakes to a nest for those they love best and all the yellow children soon to go trying their wings at the flying over the hollows and over the shallows with all the swallows that do not know whence the wind doth blow that comes from behind a blowing wind.