The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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IV.

Who

dwelleth in that secret place, Where tumult enters not,

Is never cold with terror base,

Never with anger hot.

For

if an evil host should dare His very heart invest,

God

is his deeper heart, and there He enters in to rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow,

And tear the scattered waves,

Peaceful as summer woods, below

Lie darkling ocean caves:

The

wind of words may toss my heart, But what is that to me!

Tis

but a surface storm--thou art My deep, still, resting sea.

O DO NOT LEAVE ME.

O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; Till I forget, be near me in that chair. The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- Leaves her contented there.

O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, Till I am dead, and resting in my place. Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends, And leaves a raptured face.

Leave me not, God, until--nay, until when? Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; Not till the Life is Light in me, and then Leaving is left behind.

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

A quiet heart, submissive, meek,

Father, do thou bestow,

Which more than granted, will not seek

To have, or give, or know.

Each little hill then holds its gift

Forth to my joying eyes;

Each mighty mountain then doth lift

My spirit to the skies.

Lo,

then the running water sounds With gladsome, secret things!

The

silent water more abounds, And more the hidden springs.

Live murmurs then the trees will blend

With all the feathered song;

The

waving grass low tribute lend Earth's music to prolong.

The

sun will cast great crowns of light On waves that anthems roar;

The

dusky billows break at night In flashes on the shore.

Each harebell, each white lily's cup,

The hum of hidden bee,

Yea, every odour floating up,

The insect revelry--

Each hue, each harmony divine

The holy world about,

Its

soul will send forth into mine, My soul to widen out.

And

thus the great earth I shall hold, A perfect gift of thine;

Richer by these, a thousandfold,

Than if broad lands were mine.

HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL.

Father, in the dark I lay,

Thirsting for the light,

Helpless, but for hope alway

In thy father-might.

Out

of darkness came the morn, Out of death came life,

I, and faith, and hope, new-born,

Out of moaning strife!

So,

one morning yet more fair, I shall, joyous-brave,

Sudden breathing loftier air,

Triumph o'er the grave.

Though this feeble body lie

Underneath the ground,

Wide awake, not sleeping, I

Shall in him be found.

But

a morn yet fairer must
Quell this inner gloom--

Resurrection from the dust

Of a deeper tomb!

Father, wake thy little child;

Give me bread and wine

Till my spirit undefiled

Rise and live in thine.

WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN.

Shepherd, on before thy sheep,

Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!

Scarce the track I stumbling keep!

Through my thin fleece blows the wind!

Turn and see me, Son of Man!

Turn and lift thy Father's child;

Scarce I walk where once I ran:

Carry me--the wind is wild!

Thou art strong--thy strength wilt share;

My poor weight thou wilt not feel;

Weakness made thee strong to bear,

Suffering made thee strong to heal!

I were still a wandering sheep

But for thee, O Shepherd-man!

Following now, I faint, I weep,

Yet I follow as I can!

Shepherd, if I fall and lie

Moaning in the frosty wind,

Yet, I know, I shall not die--

Thou wilt miss me--and wilt find!

A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862,

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