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

COME DOWN

Still am I haunting   Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting   Up thy steep stairs! Wouldst thou not rather   Come down to my heart, And there, O my Father,   Be what thou art?

A MOOD

My thoughts are like fire-flies, pulsing in moonlight;   My heart like a silver cup, filled with red wine; My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light   Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.

THE CARPENTER

O Lord, at Joseph's humble bench Thy hands did handle saw and plane; Thy hammer nails did drive and clench, Avoiding knot and humouring grain. That thou didst seem, thou wast indeed, In sport thy tools thou didst not use; Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need, The labourer's hire, too nice, refuse. Lord, might I be but as a saw, A plane, a chisel, in thy hand!— No, Lord! I take it back in awe, Such prayer for me is far too grand. I pray, O Master, let me lie, As on thy bench the favoured wood; Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply, And work me into something good. No, no; ambition, holy-high, Urges for more than both to pray: Come in, O gracious Force, I cry— O workman, share my shed of clay. Then I, at bench, or desk, or oar, With knife or needle, voice or pen, As thou in Nazareth of yore, Shall do the Father's will again. Thus fashioning a workman rare, O Master, this shall be thy fee: Home to thy father thou shall bear Another child made like to thee.

THE OLD GARDEN

I I stood in an ancient garden With high red walls around; Over them grey and green lichens In shadowy arabesque wound. The topmost climbing blossoms On fields kine-haunted looked out; But within were shelter and shadow, With daintiest odours about. There were alleys and lurking arbours, Deep glooms into which to dive. The lawns were as soft as fleeces, Of daisies I counted but five. The sun-dial was so aged It had gathered a thoughtful grace; 'Twas the round-about of the shadow That so had furrowed its face. The flowers were all of the oldest That ever in garden sprung; Red, and blood-red, and dark purple The rose-lamps flaming hung. Along the borders fringed With broad thick edges of box Stood foxgloves and gorgeous poppies And great-eyed hollyhocks. There were junipers trimmed into castles, And ash-trees bowed into tents; For the garden, though ancient and pensive, Still wore quaint ornaments. It was all so stately fantastic Its old wind hardly would stir; Young Spring, when she merrily entered, Scarce felt it a place for her. II I stood in the summer morning Under a cavernous yew; The sun was gently climbing, And the scents rose after the dew. I saw the wise old mansion, Like a cow in the noon-day heat, Stand in a lake of shadows That rippled about its feet. Its windows were oriel and latticed, Lowly and wide and fair; And its chimneys like clustered pillars Stood up in the thin blue air. White doves, like the thoughts of a lady, Haunted it all about; With a train of green and blue comets The peacock went marching stout. The birds in the trees were singing A song as old as the world, Of love and green leaves and sunshine, And winter folded and furled. They sang that never was sadness But it melted and passed away; They sang that never was darkness But in came the conquering day. And I knew that a maiden somewhere, In a low oak-panelled room, In a nimbus of shining garments, An aureole of white-browed bloom, Looked out on the garden dreamy, And knew not it was old; Looked past the gray and the sombre, Saw but the green and the gold, III I stood in the gathering twilight, In a gently blowing wind; Then the house looked half uneasy, Like one that was left behind. The roses had lost their redness, And cold the grass had grown; At roost were the pigeons and peacock, The sun-dial seemed a head-stone. The world by the gathering twilight In a gauzy dusk was clad; Something went into my spirit And made me a little sad. Grew and gathered the twilight, It filled my heart and brain; The sadness grew more than sadness, It turned to a gentle pain. Browned and brooded the twilight, Pervaded, absorbed the calm, Till it seemed for some human sorrows There could not be any balm. IV Then I knew that, up a staircase Which untrod will yet creak and shake, Deep in a distant chamber A ghost was coming awake— In the growing darkness growing, Growing till her eyes appear Like spots of a deeper twilight, But more transparent clear: Thin as hot air up-trembling, Thin as sun-molten crape, An ethereal shadow of something Is taking a certain shape; A shape whose hands hang listless, Let hang its disordered hair; A shape whose bosom is heaving But draws not in the air. And I know, what time the moonlight On her nest of shadows will sit, Out on the dim lawn gliding That shadowy shadow will flit. V The moon is dreaming upward From a sea of cloud and gleam; She looks as if she had seen me Never but in a dream. Down the stair I know she is coming, Bare-footed, lifting her train; It creaks not—she hears it creaking Where once there was a brain. Out at yon side-door she's coming, With a timid glance right and left; Her look is hopeless yet eager, The look of a heart bereft. Across the lawn she is flitting, Her thin gown feels the wind; Are her white feet bending the grasses? Her hair is lifted behind! VI Shall I stay to look on her nearer? Would she start and vanish away? Oh, no, she will never see me, Stand I near as I may! It is not this wind she is feeling, Not this cool grass below; 'Tis the wind and the grass of an evening A hundred years ago. She sees no roses darkling, No stately hollyhocks dim; She is only thinking and dreaming The garden, the night, and him, The unlit windows behind her, The timeless dial-stone, The trees, and the moon, and the shadows A hundred years agone! 'Tis a night for a ghostly lover To haunt the best-loved spot: Is he come in his dreams to this garden? I gaze, but I see him not. VII I will not look on her nearer, My heart would be torn in twain; From my eyes the garden would vanish In the falling of their rain. I will not look on a sorrow That darkens into despair, On the surge of a heart that cannot Yet cannot cease to bear. My soul to hers would be calling: She would hear no word it said! If I cried aloud in the stillness She would never turn her head! She is dreaming the sky above her, She is dreaming the earth below:— This night she lost her lover A hundred years ago.

A NOONDAY MELODY

Everything goes to its rest;   The hills are asleep in the noon; And life is as still in its nest   As the moon when she looks on a moon In the depth of a calm river's breast   As it steals through a midnight in June. The streams have forgotten the sea   In the dream of their musical sound; The sunlight is thick on the tree,   And the shadows lie warm on the ground,— So still, you may watch them and see   Every breath that awakens around. The churchyard lies still in the heat,   With its handful of mouldering bone, As still as the long stalk of wheat   In the shadow that sits by the stone, As still as the grass at my feet   When I walk in the meadows alone. The waves are asleep on the main,   And the ships are asleep on the wave; And the thoughts are as still in my brain   As the echo that sleeps in the cave; All rest from their labour and pain—   Then why should not I in my grave?

WHO LIGHTS THE FIRE?

Who lights the fire—that forth so gracefully   And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke?   Some pretty one who never felt the yoke— Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she. Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be!   Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke;   But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke, Nor kitchen-maid has done it certainly! Ha, ha! you cannot find the lighter out   For all the blue smoke's pantomimic gesture—   His name or nature, sex or age or vesture! The fire was lit by human care, no doubt—   But now the smoke is Nature's tributary,   Dancing 'twixt man and nothing like a fairy.

WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?

Who would have thought that even an idle song   Were such a holy and celestial thing   That wickedness and envy cannot sing— That music for no moment lives with wrong? I know this, for a very grievous throng,   Dark thoughts, low wishes, round my bosom cling,   And, underneath, the hidden holy spring Stagnates because of their enchantment strong. Blow, breath of heaven, on all this poison blow!   And, heart, glow upward to this gracious breath!   Between them, vanish, mist of sin and death, And let the life of life within me flow!   Love is the green earth, the celestial air,   And music runs like dews and rivers there!

ON A DECEMBER DAY

I This is the sweetness of an April day;   The softness of the spring is on the face   Of the old year. She has no natural grace, But something comes to her from far away Out of the Past, and on her old decay   The beauty of her childhood you can trace.—   And yet she moveth with a stormy pace, And goeth quickly.—Stay, old year, oh, stay! We do not like new friends, we love the old;   With young, fierce, hopeful hearts we ill agree; But thou art patient, stagnant, calm, and cold,   And not like that new year that is to be;—     Life, promise, love, her eyes may fill, fair child!     We know the past, and will not be beguiled. II Yet the free heart will not be captive long;   And if she changes often, she is free.   But if she changes: One has mastery Who makes the joy the last in every song. And so to-day I blessed the breezes strong   That swept the blue; I blessed the breezes free   That rolled wet leaves like rivers shiningly; I blessed the purple woods I stood among. "And yet the spring is better!" Bitterness   Came with the words, but did not stay with them.   "Accomplishment and promise! field and stem New green fresh growing in a fragrant dress!   And we behind with death and memory!"   —Nay, prophet-spring! but I will follow thee.

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1850

Beautiful stories wed with lovely days   Like words and music:—what shall be the tale   Of love and nobleness that might avail To express in action what this sweetness says— The sweetness of a day of airs and rays   That are strange glories on the winter pale?   Alas, O beauty, all my fancies fail! I cannot tell a story in thy praise! Thou hast, thou hast one—set, and sure to chime   With thee, as with the days of "winter wild;"     For Joy like Sorrow loves his blessed feet Who shone from Heaven on Earth this Christmas-time   A Brother and a Saviour, Mary's child!—     And so, fair day, thou hast thy story sweet.

TO A FEBRUARY PRIMROSE

I know not what among the grass thou art,   Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower,   Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power To send thine image through them to the heart; But when I push the frosty leaves apart   And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower   Thou growest up within me from that hour, And through the snow I with the spring depart. I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,   Pale beauty, of thy second life within. There is a wind that cometh for thy death,   But thou a life immortal dost begin, Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!

IN FEBRUARY

Now in the dark of February rains,   Poor lovers of the sunshine, spring is born,   The earthy fields are full of hidden corn, And March's violets bud along the lanes; Therefore with joy believe in what remains.   And thou who dost not feel them, do not scorn   Our early songs for winter overworn, And faith in God's handwriting on the plains. "Hope" writes he, "Love" in the first violet,   "Joy," even from Heaven, in songs and winds and trees;   And having caught the happy words in these While Nature labours with the letters yet,   Spring cannot cheat us, though her hopes be broken,   Nor leave us, for we know what God hath spoken.

THE TRUE

I envy the tree-tops that shake so high   In winds that fill them full of heavenly airs;   I envy every little cloud that shares With unseen angels evening in the sky; I envy most the youngest stars that lie   Sky-nested, and the loving heaven that bears,   And night that makes strong worlds of them unawares; And all God's other beautiful and nigh! Nay, nay, I envy not! And these are dreams,   Fancies and images of real heaven!   My longings, all my longing prayers are given For that which is, and not for that which seems.   Draw me, O Lord, to thy true heaven above,   The Heaven of thy Thought, thy Rest, thy Love.

THE DWELLERS THEREIN

Down a warm alley, early in the year,   Among the woods, with all the sunshine in   And all the winds outside it, I begin To think that something gracious will appear, If anything of grace inhabit here,   Or there be friendship in the woods to win.   Might one but find companions more akin To trees and grass and happy daylight clear, And in this wood spend one long hour at home!   The fairies do not love so bright a place, And angels to the forest never come,   But I have dreamed of some harmonious race, The kindred of the shapes that haunt the shore Of Music's flow and flow for evermore.

AUTUMN'S GOLD

Along the tops of all the yellow trees,   The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies;   And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses; And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze,   Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes—   Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies, And shining houses and blue distances. By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore   That make the western river-beds so bright,   The briar and the furze are all alight! Perhaps the year will be so fair no more,   But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay,   And autumn old has shone into a Day!

PUNISHMENT

Mourner, that dost deserve thy mournfulness,   Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell;   Say, "God is angry, and I earned it well— I would not have him smile on wickedness:" Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less:—   "God rules at least, I find as prophets tell,   And proves it in this prison!"—then thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness. —"A prison—and yet from door and window-bar   I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air!   Even to me his days and nights are fair! He shows me many a flower and many a star! And though I mourn and he is very far,   He does not kill the hope that reaches there!"

SHEW US THE FATHER

"Shew us the Father." Chiming stars of space,   And lives that fit the worlds, and means and powers,   A Thought that holds them up reveal to ours— A Wisdom we have been made wise to trace. And, looking out from sweetest Nature's face,   From sunsets, moonlights, rivers, hills, and flowers,   Infinite love and beauty, all the hours, Woo men that love them with divinest grace; And to the depths of all the answering soul   High Justice speaks, and calls the world her own;   And yet we long, and yet we have not known The very Father's face who means the whole!   Shew us the Father! Nature, conscience, love   Revealed in beauty, is there One above?

THE PINAFORE

When peevish flaws his soul have stirred   To fretful tears for crossed desires, Obedient to his mother's word   My child to banishment retires. As disappears the moon, when wind   Heaps miles of mist her visage o'er, So vanisheth his face behind   The cloud of his white pinafore. I cannot then come near my child—   A gulf between of gainful loss; He to the infinite exiled—   I waiting, for I cannot cross. Ah then, what wonder, passing show,   The Isis-veil behind it brings— Like that self-coffined creatures know,   Remembering legs, foreseeing wings! Mysterious moment! When or how   Is the bewildering change begun? Hid in far deeps the awful now   When turns his being to the sun! A light goes up behind his eyes,   A still small voice behind his ears; A listing wind about him sighs,   And lo the inner landscape clears! Hid by that screen, a wondrous shine   Is gathering for a sweet surprise; As Moses grew, in dark divine,   Too radiant for his people's eyes. For when the garment sinks again,   Outbeams a brow of heavenly wile, Clear as a morning after rain,   And sunny with a perfect smile. Oh, would that I the secret knew   Of hiding from my evil part, And turning to the lovely true   The open windows of my heart! Lord, in thy skirt, love's tender gaol,   Hide thou my selfish heart's disgrace; Fill me with light, and then unveil   To friend and foe a friendly face.