The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)
Home - George MacDonald - The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)II.
How oft have I laid fold from fold
And peered into my mind-- To see of all the purple and gold
Not one gleam left behind!
The best of gifts will not be stored:
The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-hoard
To keep new need away.
Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself;
Thy presence is thy light; I cannot lay it on my shelf,
Or take it from thy sight.
For daily bread we daily pray--
The want still breeds the cry; And so we meet, day after day,
Thou, Father in heaven, and I.
Is my house dreary, wall and floor,
Will not the darkness flit, I go outside my shadowy door
And in thy rainbow sit.
SLEEP.
Oh! is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole?
To-night the planets and the stars Will glimmer through my window-bars
But will not shine upon my soul!
For I shall lie as dead
Though yet I am above the ground;
All passionless, with scarce a breath, With hands of rest and eyes of death,
I shall be carried swiftly round.
Or if my life should break
The idle night with doubtful gleams,
Through mossy arches will I go, Through arches ruinous and low,
And chase the true and false in dreams.
Why should I fall asleep?
When I am still upon my bed
The moon will shine, the winds will rise And all around and through the skies
The light clouds travel o'er my head!
O busy, busy things,
Ye mock me with your ceaseless life!
For all the hidden springs will flow And all the blades of grass will grow
When I have neither peace nor strife.
And all the long night through The restless streams will hurry by;
And round the lands, with endless roar, The white waves fall upon the shore,
And bit by bit devour the dry.
Even thus, but silently,
Eternity, thy tide shall flow,
And side by side with every star Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far,
An idle boat with none to row.
My senses fail with sleep;
My heart beats thick; the night is noon;
And faintly through its misty folds I hear a drowsy clock that holds
Its converse with the waning moon.
Oh, solemn mystery
That I should be so closely bound
With neither terror nor constraint, Without a murmur of complaint,
And lose myself upon such ground!
SHARING.
On the far horizon there
Heaps of cloudy darkness rest;
Though the wind is in the air
There is stupor east and west.
For the sky no change is making, Scarce we know it from the plain; Droop its eyelids never waking, Blinded by the misty rain;
Save on high one little spot, Round the baffled moon a space Where the tumult ceaseth not: Wildly goes the midnight race!
And a joy doth rise in me
Upward gazing on the sight,
When I think that others see
In yon clouds a like delight;
How perchance an aged man
Struggling with the wind and rain,
In the moonlight cold and wan
Feels his heart grow young again;
As the cloudy rack goes by, How the life-blood mantles up Till the fountain deep and dry Yields once more a sparkling cup.
Or upon the gazing child
Cometh down a thought of glory
Which will keep him undefiled
Till his head is old and hoary.
For it may be he hath woke
And hath raised his fair young form;
Strangely on his eyes have broke
All the splendours of the storm;
And his young soul forth doth leap With the storm-clouds in the moon; And his heart the light will keep Though the vision passeth soon.
Thus a joy hath often laughed On my soul from other skies, Bearing on its wings a draught From the wells of Paradise,
For that not to me alone
Comes a splendour out of fear;
Where the light of heaven hath shone
There is glory far and near.
IN BONDS.
Of the poor bird that cannot fly Kindly you think and mournfully; For prisoners and for exiles all You let the tears of pity fall; And very true the grief should be That mourns the bondage of the free.
The soul--she has a fatherland; Binds her not many a tyrant's hand? And the winged spirit has a home, But can she always homeward come? Poor souls, with all their wounds and foes, Will you not also pity those?
HUNGER.
Father, I cry to thee for bread
With hungred longing, eager prayer; Thou hear'st, and givest me instead
More hunger and a half-despair.
0 Lord, how long? My days decline,
My youth is lapped in memories old; I need not bread alone, but wine--
See, cup and hand to thee I hold!
And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord,
That still my heart with hunger faints! The day will come when at thy board
I sit, forgetting all my plaints.
If rain must come and winds must blow,
And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart, Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go,
And keep the faintness at my heart.
NEW YEAR'S EVE: A WAKING DREAM.
I have not any fearful tale to tell Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw, Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw; But what in yonder hamlet there befell, Or rather what in it my fancy saw, I will declare, albeit it may seem Too simple and too common for a dream.
Two brothers were they, and they sat alone Without a word, beside the winter's glow; For it was many years since they had known The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow Of age had frozen it, and it had grown An icy-withered stream that would not flow; And so they sat with warmth about their feet And ice about their hearts that would not beat.
And yet it was a night for quiet hope:-- A night the very last of all the year To many a youthful heart did seem to ope An eye within the future, round and clear; And age itself, that travels down the slope, Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near, The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime, Jerking our souls into the coming time.
But they!--alas for age when it is old! The silly calendar they did not heed; Alas for age when in its bosom cold There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed! They thought not of the morrow, but did hold A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute As if they were a-cold from head to foot.
O solemn kindly night, she looketh still With all her moon upon us now and then! And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill, She hath an eye unto the hearts of men! So past a corner of the window-sill She thrust a long bright finger just as ten Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came, Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.
There is a something in the winds of heaven That stirreth purposely and maketh men; And unto every little wind is given A thing to do ere it is still again; So when the little clock had struck eleven, The edging moon had drawn her silver pen Across a mirror, making them aware Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.
Therefore they drew aside the window-blind And looked upon the sleeping town below, And on the little church which sat behind As keeping watch upon the scanty row Of steady tombstones--some of which inclined And others upright, in the moon did show Like to a village down below the waves-- It was so still and cool among the graves.
But not a word from either mouth did fall, Except it were some very plain remark. Ah! why should such as they be glad at all? For years they had not listened to the lark! The child was dead in them!--yet did there crawl A wish about their hearts; and as the bark Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware Of a strange longing for the open air.
Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun A web of heavy cloud about their brain! And many a sun and moon had come and gone Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain! But now with timéd pace their feet did stun The village echoes into quiet pain: The street appearéd very short and white, And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.
"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say --I knew not which was elder of the two-- "Right through the churchyard is our better way." "Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew. I have not seen her grave for many a day; And it is in me that with moonlight too It might be pleasant thinking of old faces, And yet I seldom go into such places."
Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan Sitting about a solitary stone! Stranger than many tales it is to scan The earthy fragment of a human bone; But stranger still to see a grey old man Apart from all his fellows, and alone With the pale night and all its giant quiet; Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.
It was their mother's grave, and here were hid The priceless pulses of a mother's soul. Full sixty years it was since she had slid Into the other world through that deep hole. But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid Grew deaf with sudden hammers!--'twas the mole Niddering about its roots.--Be still, old men, Be very still and ye will hear again.
Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away, But it will stay with you till ye are dead! It is but earthy mould and quiet clay, But it hath power to turn the oldest head. Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say More than a hundred tongues had ever said. So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket Into the centre of a firry thicket.
It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life, An inquest held upon the death of things; And in the naked north full thick and rife The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife; And the trees seemed to gather into rings, Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.
Many strange noises are there among trees, And most within the quiet moony light, Therefore those aged men are on their knees As if they listened somewhat:--Ye are right-- Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees! Although ye never heard it till to-night, The mighty mother calleth ever so To all her pale-eyed children from below.
Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways, And heard her voices in the market-place, But ye have never listened what she says When the snow-moon is pressing on her face! One night like this is more than many days To him who hears the music and the bass Of deep immortal lullabies which calm His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.
I know not whether there is power in sleep To dim the eyelids of the shining moon, But so it seemed then, for still more deep She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep A pressure on her; so there came a swoon Among the shadows, which still lay together But in their slumber knew not one another.
But while the midnight gropéd for the chime As she were heavy with excess of dreams, She from the cloud's thick web a second time Made many shadows, though with minished beams; And as she lookéd eastward through the rime Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams, There fell a little snow upon the crown Of a near hillock very bald and brown.
And on its top they found a little spring, A very helpful little spring indeed, Which evermore unwound a tiny string Of earnest water with continual speed-- And so the brothers stood and heard it sing; For all was snowy-still, and not a seed Had struck, and nothing came but noises light Of the continual whitening of the night.
There is a kindness in the falling snow-- It is a grey head to the spring time mild; So as the creamy vapour bowéd low Crowning the earth with honour undefiled, Within each withered man arose a glow As if he fain would turn into a child: There was a gladness somewhere in the ground Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!
Not through the purple summer or the blush Of red voluptuous roses did it come That silent speaking voice, but through the slush And snowy quiet of the winter numb! It was a barren mound that heard the gush Of living water from two fountains dumb-- Two rocky human hearts which long had striven To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!
Now from the village came the onward shout Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer; It was a youthful group that wandered out To do obeisance to the glad new year; And as they passed they sang with voices stout A song which I was very fain to hear, But as they darkened on, away it died, And the two men walked homewards side by side.
FROM NORTH WALES: TO THE MOTHER.
When the summer gave us a longer day, And the leaves were thickest, I went away: Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue, Was that summer-ramble from London and you.
It was but one burst into life and air, One backward glance on the skirts of care, A height on the hills with the smoke below-- And the joy that came quickly was quick to go.
But I know and I cannot forget so soon How the Earth is shone on by Sun and Moon; How the clouds hide the mountains, and how they move When the morning sunshine lies warm above.
I know how the waters fall and run In the rocks and the heather, away from the sun; How they hang like garlands on all hill-sides, And are the land's music, those crystal tides.
I know how they gather in valleys fair, Meet valleys those beautiful waves to bear; How they dance through the rocks, how they rest in the pool, How they darken, how sparkle, and how they are cool.
I know how the rocks from their kisses climb To keep the storms off with a front sublime; And how on their platforms and sloping walls The shadow of oak-tree and fir-tree falls.
I know how the valleys are bright from far, Rocks, meadows, and waters, the wood and the scaur; And how the roadside and the nearest hill The foxglove and heather and harebell fill.
I know--but the joy that was quick to go Gave more knowledge to me than words can shew; And you know the story, and how they fare Who love the green earth and the heavenly air.
COME TO ME.
Come to me, come to me, O my God;
Come to me everywhere! Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
And the water and the air!
For thou art so far that I often doubt,
As on every side I stare, Searching within, and looking without,
If thou canst be anywhere.
How did men find thee in days of old?
How did they grow so sure? They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
They suffered, and kept themselves pure!
But now they say--neither above the sphere
Nor down in the heart of man, But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
The thought of thee began.
If only that perfect tale were true
Which ages have not made old, Which of endless many makes one anew,
And simplicity manifold!
But he taught that they who did his word
The truth of it sure would know: I will try to do it: if he be lord
Again the old faith will glow;
Again the old spirit-wind will blow
That he promised to their prayer; And obeying the Son, I too shall know
His father everywhere!
A FEAR.
O Mother Earth, I have a fear Which I would tell to thee-- Softly and gently in thine ear When the moon and we are three.
Thy grass and flowers are beautiful;
Among thy trees I hide;
And underneath the moonlight cool
Thy sea looks broad and wide;
But this I fear--lest thou shouldst grow To me so small and strange, So distant I should never know On thee a shade of change,
Although great earthquakes should uplift Deep mountains from their base, And thy continual motion shift The lands upon thy face;--
The grass, the flowers, the dews that lie
Upon them as before--
Driven upwards evermore, lest I
Should love these things no more.
Even now thou dimly hast a place
In deep star galaxies!
And I, driven ever on through space,
Have lost thee in the skies!
THE LOST HOUSE.
Out of thy door I run to do the thing
That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing About their work, "My God, my father-king!"
I turn in haste to see thy blessed door,
But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds, And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds
Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!
Ah me! the house of peace is there no more. Was it a dream then?--Walls, fireside, and floor,
And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free,
Are vanished--gone as they had never been!
I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!-- And I am kneeling at my father's knee, Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.
THE TALK OF THE ECHOES.