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

THY HEART

Make not of thy heart a casket, Opening seldom, quick to close; But of bread a wide-mouthed basket, Or a cup that overflows.

O LORD, HOW HAPPY!

From the German of Dessler.

O Lord, how happy is the time   When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb   Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there—   Thou art brighter than the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care   The heaven of heaven is won. Let the world call herself my foe,   Or let the world allure— I care not for the world; I go   To this dear friend and sure. And when life's fiercest storms are sent   Upon life's wildest sea, My little bark is confident   Because it holds by thee. When the law threatens endless death   Upon the dreadful hill, Straightway from her consuming breath   My soul goeth higher still— Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain,   And maketh him her home, Whence she will not go out again,   And where death cannot come. I do not fear the wilderness   Where thou hast been before; Nay rather will I daily press   After thee, near thee, more! Thou art my food; on thee I lean,   Thou makest my heart sing; And to thy heavenly pastures green   All thy dear flock dost bring. And if the gate that opens there   Be dark to other men, It is not dark to those who share   The heart of Jesus then: That is not losing much of life   Which is not losing thee, Who art as present in the strife   As in the victory. Therefore how happy is the time   When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb   Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there—   Thou art brighter than the sun! And in thy pardon and thy care   The heaven of heaven is won!

NO SIGN

O Lord, if on the wind, at cool of day,   I heard one whispered word of mighty grace; If through the darkness, as in bed I lay,   But once had come a hand upon my face; If but one sign that might not be mistook   Had ever been, since first thy face I sought, I should not now be doubting o'er a book,   But serving thee with burning heart and thought. So dreams that heart. But to my heart I say,   Turning my face to front the dark and wind: Such signs had only barred anew his way   Into thee, longing heart, thee, wildered mind. They asked the very Way, where lies the way?   The very Son, where is the Father's face? How he could show himself, if not in clay,   Who was the lord of spirit, form, and space! My being, Lord, will nevermore be whole   Until thou come behind mine ears and eyes, Enter and fill the temple of my soul   With perfect contact—such a sweet surprise, Such presence as, before it met the view,   The prophet-fancy could not once foresee, Though every corner of the temple knew   By very emptiness its need of thee. When I keep all thy words, no favoured some,   Heedless of worldly winds or judgment's tide, Then, Jesus, thou wilt with thy father come—   Oh, ended prayers!—and in my soul abide. Ah, long delay! ah, cunning, creeping sin!   I shall but fail, and cease at length to try: O Jesus, though thou wilt not yet come in,   Knock at my window as thou passest by!

NOVEMBER, 1851

  What dost thou here, O soul, Beyond thy own control, Under the strange wild sky? 0 stars, reach down your hands, And clasp me in your silver bands, I tremble with this mystery!— Flung hither by a chance Of restless circumstance, Thou art but here, and wast not sent; Yet once more mayest thou draw By thy own mystic law To the centre of thy wonderment.   Why wilt thou stop and start? Draw nearer, oh my heart, And I will question thee most wistfully; Gather thy last clear resolution To look upon thy dissolution.   The great God's life throbs far and free, And thou art but a spark Known only in thy dark, Or a foam-fleck upon the awful ocean, Thyself thy slender dignity, Thy own thy vexing mystery, In the vast change that is not change but motion.   'Tis not so hard as it would seem; Thy life is but a dream— And yet thou hast some thoughts about the past; Let go, let go thy memories, They are not things but wandering cries— Wave them each one a long farewell at last: I hear thee say—"Take them, O tide, And I will turn aside, Gazing with heedlessness, nay, even with laughter! Bind me, ye winds and storms, Among the things that once had forms, And carry me clean out of sight thereafter!"   Thou hast lived long enough To know thy own weak stuff, Laughing thy fondest joys to utter scorn; Give up the idle strife— It is but mockery of life; The fates had need of thee and thou wast born! They are, in sooth, but thou shalt die. O wandering spark! O homeless cry! O empty will, still lacking self-intent! Look up among the autumn trees: The ripened fruits fall through the breeze, And they will shake thee even like these Into the lap of an Accomplishment!   Thou hadst a faith, and voices said:— "Doubt not that truth, but bend thy head Unto the God who drew thee from the night:" Thou liftedst up thy eyes—and, lo! A host of voices answered—"No; A thousand things as good have seen the light!" Look how the swarms arise From every clod before thy eyes! Are thine the only hopes that fade and fall When to the centre of its action One purpose draws each separate fraction, And nothing but effects are left at all? Aha, thy faith! what is thy faith? The sleep that waits on coming death— A blind delirious swoon that follows pain. "True to thy nature!"—well! right well! But what that nature is thou canst not tell— It has a thousand voices in thy brain. Danced all the leaflets to and fro? —Thy feet have trod them long ago! Sprung the glad music up the blue? —The hawk hath cut the song in two. All the mountains crumble, All the forests fall, All thy brethren stumble, And rise no more at all! In the dim woods there is a sound When the winds begin to moan; It is not of joy or yet of mirth, But the mournful cry of our mother Earth, As she calleth back her own. Through the rosy air to-night The living creatures play Up and down through the rich faint light— None so happy as they! But the blast is here, and noises fall Like the sound of steps in a ruined hall, An icy touch is upon them all, And they sicken and fade away.   The child awoke with an eye of gladness, With a light on his head and a matchless grace, And laughed at the passing shades of sadness That chased the smiles on his mother's face; And life with its lightsome load of youth Swam like a boat on a shining lake— Freighted with hopes enough, in sooth, But he lived to trample on joy and truth, And change his crown for a murder-stake!   Oh, a ruddy light went through the room, Till the dark ran out to his mother Night! And that little chamber showed through the gloom Like a Noah's ark with its nest of light! Right glad was the maiden there, I wis, With the youth that held her hand in his! Oh, sweet were the words that went and came Through the light and shade of the leaping flame That glowed on the cheerful faces! So human the speech, so sunny and kind, That the darkness danced on the wall behind, And even the wail of the winter wind Sang sweet through the window-cases!   But a mournful wail crept round and round, And a voice cried:—"Come!" with a dreary sound, And the circle wider grew; The light flame sank, and sorrow fell On the faces of those that loved so well; Darker and wilder grew the tone; Fainter and fainter the faces shone; The wild night clasped them, and they were gone— And thou art passing too!   Lo, the morning slowly springs Like a meek white babe from the womb of night! One golden planet sits and stings The shifting gloom with his point of light! Lo, the sun on its throne of flame! —Wouldst thou climb and win a crown? Oh, many a heart that pants for the same Falls to the earth ere he goes down! Thy heart is a flower with an open cup— Sit and watch, if it pleaseth thee, Till the melting twilight fill it up With a crystal of tender sympathy; So, gently will it tremble The silent midnight through, And flocks of stars assemble By turns in its depths of dew;— But look! oh, look again! After the driving wind and rain! When the day is up and the sun is strong, And the voices of men are loud and long, When the flower hath slunk to its rest again, And love is lost in the strife of men!   Let the morning break with thoughts of love, And the evening fall with dreams of bliss— So vainly panteth the prisoned dove For the depths of her sweet wilderness; So stoops the eagle in his pride From his rocky nest ere the bow is bent; So sleeps the deer on the mountain-side Ere the howling pack hath caught the scent!   The fire climbs high till its work is done; The stalk falls down when the flower is gone; And the stars of heaven when their course is run Melt silently away! There was a footfall on the snow, A line of light on the ocean-flow, And a billow's dash on the rocks below That stand by the wintry bay:— The snow was gone on the coming night; Another wave arose in his might, Uplifted his foaming breast of white, And died like the rest for aye!   Oh, the stars were bright! and thyself in thee Yearned for an immortality! And the thoughts that drew from thy busy brain Clasped the worlds like an endless chain— When a moon arose, and her moving chime Smote on thy soul, like a word in time, Or a breathless wish, or a thought in rime, And the truth that looked so gloomy and high Leapt to thy arms with a joyful cry! But what wert thou when a soulless Cause Opened the book of its barren laws, And thy spirit that was so glad and free Was caught in the gin of necessity, And a howl arose from the strife of things Vexing each other with scorpion stings? What wert thou but an orphan child Thrust from the door when the night was wild? Or a sailor on the toiling main Looking blindly up through the wind and rain As the hull of the vessel fell in twain!   Seals are on the book of fate, Hands may not unbind it; Eyes may search for truth till late, But will never find it—! Rising on the brow of night Like a portent of dismay, As the worlds in wild affright Track it on its direful way; Resting like a rainbow bar Where the curve and level meet, As the children chase it far O'er the sands with blistered feet; Sadly through the mist of ages Gazing on this life of fear, Doubtful shining on its pages, Only seen to disappear! Sit thee by the sounding shore —Winds and waves of human breath!— Learn a lesson from their roar, Swelling, bursting evermore: Live thy life and die thy death! Die not like the writhing worm, Rise and win thy highest stake; Better perish in the storm Than sit rotting on the lake! Triumph in thy present youth, Pulse of fire and heart of glee; Leap at once into the truth, If there is a truth for thee.   Shapeless thoughts and dull opinions, Slow distinctions and degrees,— Vex not thou thy weary pinions With such leaden weights as these— Through this mystic jurisdiction Reaching out a hand by chance, Resting on a dull conviction Whetted but by ignorance; Living ever to behold Mournful eyes that watch and weep; Spirit suns that flashed in gold Failing from the vasty deep; Starry lights that glowed like Truth Gazing with unnumbered eyes, Melting from the skies of youth, Swallowed up of mysteries; Cords of love that sweetly bound thee; Faded writing on thy brow; Presences that came around thee; Hands of faith that fail thee now!   Groping hands will ever find thee In the night with loads of chains! Lift thy fetters and unbind thee, Cast thee on the midnight plains: Shapes of vision all-providing— Famished cheeks and hungry cries! Sound of crystal waters sliding— Thirsty lips and bloodshot eyes! Empty forms that send no gleaming Through the mystery of this strife!— Oh, in such a life of seeming, Death were worth an endless life!   Hark the trumpet of the ocean Where glad lands were wont to be! Many voices of commotion Break in tumult over thee! Lo, they climb the frowning ages, Marching o'er their level lands! Far behind the strife that rages Silence sits with clasped hands; Undivided Purpose, freeing His own steps from hindrances, Sending out great floods of being, Bathes thy steps in silentness. Sit thee down in mirth and laughter— One there is that waits for thee; If there is a true hereafter He will lend thee eyes to see.   Like a snowflake gently falling On a quiet fountain, Or a weary echo calling From a distant mountain, Drop thy hands in peace,— Fail—falter—cease.

OF ONE WHO DIED IN SPRING

Loosener of springs, he died by thee! Softness, not hardness, sent him home; He loved thee—and thou mad'st him free Of all the place thou comest from!

AN AUTUMN SONG

Are the leaves falling round about   The churchyard on the hill? Is the glow of autumn going out?   Is that the winter chill? And yet through winter's noise, no doubt   The graves are very still! Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare?   On sodden leaves do you tread? Is nothing left of all those fair?   Is the whole summer fled? Well, so from this unwholesome air   Have gone away these dead! The seasons pierce me; like a leaf   I feel the autumn blow, And tremble between nature's grief   And the silent death below. O Summer, thou art very brief!   Where do these exiles go? Gilesgate, Durham.

TRIOLET

Few in joy's sweet riot Able are to listen: Thou, to make me quiet, Quenchest the sweet riot, Tak'st away my diet, Puttest me in prison— Quenchest joy's sweet riot That the heart may listen.

I SEE THEE NOT

Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find   A little faith on earth, if I am here! Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind.   How sad I wait until thy face appear! Hast thou not ploughed my thorny ground full sore,   And from it gathered many stones and sherds? Plough, plough and harrow till it needs no more—   Then sow thy mustard-seed, and send thy birds. I love thee, Lord; and if I yield to fears,   Nor trust with triumph that pale doubt defies, Remember, Lord, 'tis nigh two thousand years,   And I have never seen thee with mine eyes! And when I lift them from the wondrous tale,   See, all about me hath so strange a show! Is that thy river running down the vale?   Is that thy wind that through the pines doth blow? Could'st thou right verily appear again,   The same who walked the paths of Palestine, And here in England teach thy trusting men   In church and field and house, with word and sign? Here are but lilies, sparrows, and the rest!   My hands on some dear proof would light and stay! But my heart sees John leaning on thy breast,   And sends them forth to do what thou dost say.

A BROKEN PRAYER

O Lord, my God, how long Shall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy? How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hear The murmur of Truth's crystal waters slide From the deep caverns of their endless being, But my lips taste not, and the grosser air Choke each pure inspiration of thy will? I am a denseness 'twixt me and the light; I cannot round myself; my purest thought, Ere it is thought, hath caught the taint of earth, And mocked me with hard thoughts beyond my will. I would be a wind Whose smallest atom is a viewless wing, All busy with the pulsing life that throbs To do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thing That has relation to a changeless truth, Could I but be instinct with thee—each thought The lightning of a pure intelligence, And every act as the loud thunder-clap Of currents warring for a vacuum. Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe; Purge me with sorrow; I will bend my head And let the nations of thy waves pass over, Bathing me in thy consecrated strength; And let thy many-voiced and silver winds Pass through my frame with their clear influence, O save me; I am blind; lo, thwarting shapes Wall up the void before, and thrusting out Lean arms of unshaped expectation, beckon Down to the night of all unholy thoughts. Oh, when at midnight one of thy strong angels Stems back the waves of earthly influence That shape unsteady continents around me, And they draw off with the devouring gush Of exile billows that have found a home, Leaving me islanded on unseen points, Hanging 'twixt thee and chaos—I have seen Unholy shapes lop off my shining thoughts, And they have lent me leathern wings of fear, Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust; And Godhead, with its crown of many stars, Its pinnacles of flaming holiness, And voice of leaves in the green summer-time, Has seemed the shadowed image of a self! Then my soul blackened; and I rose to find And grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deeps Of desolation. O Lord, my soul is a forgotten well Clad round with its own rank luxuriance; A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for, Sinking the lustre of its arrowy finger Through the long grass its own strange virtue Hath blinded up its crystal eye withal: Make me a broad strong river coming down With shouts from its high hills, whose rocky hearts Throb forth the joy of their stability In watery pulses from their inmost deeps; And I shall be a vein upon thy world, Circling perpetual from the parent deep. Most mighty One, Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good; Help me to wall each sacred treasure round With the firm battlements of special action. Alas, my holy happy thoughts of thee Make not perpetual nest within my soul, But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoop The trailing glories of their sunward speed For one glad moment, filling my blasted boughs With the sunshine of their wings. Make me a forest Of gladdest life wherein perpetual spring Lifts up her leafy tresses in the wind. Lo, now I see Thy trembling starlight sit among my pines, And thy young moon slide down my arching boughs With a soft sound of restless eloquence! And I can feel a joy as when thy hosts Of trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands, Roar upward through the blue and flashing day Round my still depths of uncleft solitude. Hear me, O Lord, When the black night draws down upon my soul, And voices of temptation darken down The misty wind, slamming thy starry doors With bitter jests:—"Thou fool!" they seem to say, "Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; all Thy nature hath been stung right through and through; Thy sin hath blasted thee and made thee old; Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it dead, And with the fulsome garniture of life Built out the loathsome corpse; thou art a child Of night and death, even lower than a worm; Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self, And with what resolution thou hast left Fall on the damned spikes of doom!" Oh, take me like a child, If thou hast made me for thyself, my God, And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear, So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sin With the terrors of thine eye: it fears me not As once it might have feared thine own good image, But lays bold siege at my heart's doors. Oh, I have seen a thing of beauty stand In the young moonlight of its upward thoughts, And the old earth came round it with its gifts Of gladness, whispering leaves, and odorous plants, Until its large and spiritual eye Burned with intensest love: my God, I could Have watched it evermore with Argus-eyes, Lest when the noontide of the summer's sun Let down the tented sunlight on the plain, His flaming beams should scorch my darling flower; And through the fruitless nights of leaden gloom, Of plashing rains, and knotted winds of cold, Yea, when thy lightnings ran across the sky, And the loud stumbling blasts fell from the hills Upon the mounds of death, I could have watched Guarding such beauty like another life! But, O my God, it changed!— Yet methinks I know not if it was not I! Its beauty turned to ghastly loathsomeness! Then a hand spurned me backwards from the clouds, And with the gather of a mighty whirlwind, Drew in the glittering gifts of life. How long, O Lord, how long? I am a man lost in a rocky place! Lo, all thy echoes smite me with confusion Of varied speech,—the cry of vanished Life Rolled upon nations' sighs—of hearts uplifted Against despair—the stifled sounds of Woe Sitting perpetual by its grey cold well— Or wasted Toil climbing its endless hills With quickening gasps—or the thin winds of Joy That beat about the voices of the crowd! Lord, hast thou sent Thy moons to mock us with perpetual hope? Lighted within our breasts the love of love To make us ripen for despair, my God? Oh, dost thou hold each individual soul Strung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose? Or does thine inextinguishable will Stand on the steeps of night with lifted hand Filling the yawning wells of monstrous space With mixing thought—drinking up single life As in a cup? and from the rending folds Of glimmering purpose, do all thy navied stars Slide through the gloom with mystic melody, Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul, Hung like a dewdrop in thy grassy ways, Drawn up again into the rack of change Even through the lustre which created it? —O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me through With scorching wrath, because my spirit stands Bewildered in thy circling mysteries! Oh lift the burdened gloom that chokes my soul With dews of darkness; smite the lean winds of death That run with howls around the ruined temples, Blowing the souls of men about like leaves. Lo, the broad life-lands widen overhead, Star-galaxies arise like drifting snow, And happy life goes whitening down the stream Of boundless action, whilst my fettered soul Sits, as a captive in a noisome dungeon Watches the pulses of his withered heart Lave out the sparkling minutes of his life On the idle flags! Come in the glory of thine excellence, Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light, And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels Burn through the cracks of night! So slowly, Lord, To lift myself to thee with hands of toil, Climbing the slippery cliffs of unheard prayer! Lift up a hand among my idle days— One beckoning finger: I will cast aside The clogs of earthly circumstance and run Up the broad highways where the countless worlds Sit ripening in the summer of thy love. Send a clear meaning sparkling through the years; Burst all the prison-doors, and make men's hearts Gush up like fountains with thy melody; Brighten the hollow eyes; fill with life's fruits The hands that grope and scramble down the wastes; And let the ghastly troops of withered ones Come shining o'er the mountains of thy love. Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening down Upon my head like snowflakes, shutting out The happy upper fields with chilly vapour. Shall I content my soul with a weak sense Of safety? or feed my ravenous hunger with Sore purged hopes, that are not hopes but fears Clad in white raiment? The creeds lie in the hollow of men's hearts Like festering pools glassing their own corruption; The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval, And answer not when thy bright starry feet Move on the watery floors: oh, shake men's souls Together like the gathering of all oceans Rent from their hidden chambers, till the waves Lift up their million voices of high joy Along the echoing cliffs! come thus, O Lord, With nightly gifts of stars, and lay a hand Of mighty peace upon the quivering flood. O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee? I am a child lost in a mighty forest; The air is thick with voices, and strange hands Reach through the dusk, and pluck me by the skirts. There is a voice which sounds like words from home, But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems To leap from rock to rock: oh, if it is Willing obliquity of sense, descend, Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand, And lead me homeward through the shadows. Let me not by my wilful acts of pride Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth And leaden confidence.