The Poetical Works of George MacDonald
Home - George MacDonald - The Poetical Works of George MacDonaldVIOLIN SONGS.
HOPE DEFERRED.
Summer is come again. The sun is bright, And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ Shall be to revel in unlikely things, In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings, And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea; Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk, Has grown a paradise for you and me.
But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there-- That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare, How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!-- The sweetness is but one pined memory flown Back from our summer, wandering alone! See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart, Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow, Takes in the changing world its changing part, Return a sigh, an echo sad and low, To the faint, scarcely audible sound With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground! O love, sad winter lieth at the door-- Behind sad winter, age--we know no more.
Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold Each of us compassed: we are growing old; And if we be not as a ring enchanted, Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay, The young, who claim the joy that haunted Our visions once, will push us far away Into the desolate regions, dim and gray, Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry, The clouds hang low, and have no tears, Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years, And hopes and songs all careless pass us by. But if all each do keep,
The rising tide of youth will sweep Around us with its laughter-joyous waves, As ocean fair some palmy island laves, To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep; And our youth hover round us like the breath Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves, The sundered doors into one palace home, Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go, Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low, Willing to part, not willing to deny The lovely past, where all the futures lie.
Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord, Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word, Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth-- Because there is no age, in sooth, Beyond its passing shows!
A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows; Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light That knows not youth nor age, That fears no darkness nor the rage Of windy tempests--burning still more bright Than when glad youth was all about, And summer winds were out!
1845.
DEATH.
When in the bosom of the eldest night
This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest; When through its shaded windows comes no light, And its pale hands are folded on its breast--
How shall I fare, who had to wander out,
And of the unknown land the frontier cross, Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about, Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss?
Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist,
Over the city murmuring beneath; Over the trees and fields, where'er I list, Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath?
Or will a darkness, o'er material shows
Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight; As from the sun a blotting radiance flows Athwart the stars all glorious through the night;
And the still spirit hang entranced, alone,
Like one in an exalted opium-dream-- Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown, With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam,
Thought only waking--thought that may not own
The lapse of ages, or the change of spot; Its doubt all cast on what it counted known, Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not?
Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until,
Our life restored by long and dreamless rest, Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill, And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest?
I nothing know, and nothing need to know.
God is; I shall be ever in his sight! Give thou me strength to labour well, and so Do my day's work ere fall my coming night.
HARD TIMES.
I am weary, and very lonely,
And can but think--think.
If there were some water only
That a spirit might drink--drink, And arise,
With light in the eyes
- And
- a crown of hope on the brow, To walk abroad in the strength of gladness, Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness--
As now!
But, Lord, thy child will be sad--
As sad as it pleases thee;
Will sit, not seeking to be glad,
Till thou bid sadness flee, And, drawing near,
With thy good cheer
Awake thy life in me.
IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN.
If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,
Pacing it wearily, wearily,
Twixt chapel and cell till day were done--
Wearily, wearily--
How would it fare with these hearts of ours That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?
To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call,
Morning foul or fair!--
Such prayer as from weary lips might fall--
Words, but hardly prayer--
The chapel's roof, like the law in stone, Caging the lark that up had flown!
Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,
The God-revealing,
- Turning
- thy face from the boundless boon-- Painfully kneeling;
Or, in brown-shadowy solitude, Bending thy head o'er the legend rude!
I, in a bare and lonely nook,
Gloomily, gloomily,
Poring over some musty book,
Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;
Or painting pictures of things of old On parchment-margin in purple and gold!
Perchance in slow procession to meet,
Wearily, wearily,
In antique, narrow, high-gabled street,
Wearily, wearily;
Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then Heavily sinking to earth again!
Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring!
Merrily, merrily!--
Back to its cell each weary thing,
Wearily, wearily!
Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old, Most at home in the cloister cold!
Thou slow rising at vespers' call,
Wearily, wearily;
I looking up on the darkening wall,
Wearily, wearily;
The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, Listless and dead to thee and me!
At length for sleep a weary assay,
On the lone couch wearily!
Rising at midnight again to pray,
Wearily, wearily!
And if through the dark dear eyes looked in, Sending them far as a thought of sin!
And at last, thy tired soul passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily--
Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay,
Sleepily, sleepily--
Over thee held the crucified Best, But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed!
And then my passing from cell to clay,
Dreamily, dreamily!
My gray head lying on ashes gray,
Sleepily, sleepily!
But no woman-angel hovering above, Ready to clasp me in deathless love!
Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine,
Peacefully, peacefully;
My arm round thee, and my lips on thine,
Lovingly, lovingly--
Oh! is not a better thing to us given Than wearily going alone to heaven?
MY HEART.