The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)
Home - George MacDonald - The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)III.
Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go? Alas, I may not; thou art likewise dear! I am but human, and thou hast a tear When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow Of a wild energy that mocks the flow Of the poor sympathies which keep us here: Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near, And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow; And thou shalt walk with me in open day Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace; And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way, Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace As her great orbs turn ever on thy face, Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.
SUDDEN CALM.
There is a bellowing in me, as of might Unfleshed and visionless, mangling the air With horrible convulse, as if it bare The cruel weight of worlds, but could not fight With the thick-dropping clods, and could but bite A vapour-cloud! Oh, I will climb the stair Of the great universe, and lay me there Even at the threshold of his gate, despite The tempest, and the weakness, and the rush Of this quick crowding on me!--Oh, I dream! Now I am sailing swiftly, as we seem To do in sleep! and I can hear the gush Of a melodious wave that carries me On, on for ever to eternity!
THOU ALSO.
Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track The bloody secret; let the welkin crack Reverberating, while ye dance and skip About the horrid blaze! or else ye strip, More secretly, for the avenging rack, Him who hath done the deed, till, oozing black Ye watch the anguish from his nostrils drip, And all the knotted limbs lie quivering! Or, if your hearts disdain such banqueting, With wide and tearless eyes go staring through The murder cells! but think--that, if your knees Bow not to holiness, then even in you Lie deeper gulfs and blacker crimes than these.
THE AURORA BOREALIS.
Now have I grown a sharpness and an edge Unto my future nights, and I will cut Sheer through the ebon gates that yet will shut On every set of day; or as a sledge Drawn over snowy plains; where not a hedge Breaks this Aurora's dancing, nothing but The one cold Esquimaux' unlikely hut That swims in the broad moonlight! Lo, a wedge Of the clean meteor hath been brightly driven Right home into the fastness of the north! Anon it quickeneth up into the heaven! And I with it have clomb and spreaded forth Upon the crisp and cooling atmosphere! My soul is all abroad: I cannot find it here!
THE HUMAN.
Within each living man there doth reside, In some unrifled chamber of the heart, A hidden treasure: wayward as thou art I love thee, man, and bind thee to my side! By that sweet act I purify my pride And hasten onward--willing even to part With pleasant graces: though thy hue is swart, I bear thee company, thou art my guide! Even in thy sinning wise beyond thy ken To thee a subtle debt my soul is owing! I take an impulse from the worst of men That lends a wing unto my onward going; Then let me pay them gladly back again With prayer and love from Faith and Duty flowing!
WRITTEN ON A STORMY NIGHT.
O wild and dark! a night hath found me now Wherein I mingle with that element Sent madly loose through the wide staring rent In yon tormented branches! I will bow A while unto the storm, and thenceforth grow Into a mighty patience strongly bent Before the unconquering Power which hither sent These winds to fight their battles on my brow!-- Again the loud boughs thunder! and the din Licks up my footfall from the hissing earth! But I have found a mighty peace within, And I have risen into a home of mirth! Wildly I climb above the shaking spires, Above the sobbing clouds, up through the steady fires!
REVERENCE WAKING HOPE.
A power is on me, and my soul must speak To thee, thou grey, grey man, whom I behold With those white-headed children. I am bold To commune with thy setting, and to wreak My doubts on thy grey hair; for I would seek Thee in that other world, but I am told Thou goest elsewhere and wilt never hold Thy head so high as now. Oh I were weak, Weak even to despair, could I forego The tender vision which will give somehow Thee standing brightly one day even as now! Thou art a very grey old man, and so I may not pass thee darkly, but bestow A look of reverence on thy wrinkled brow.
BORN OF WATER.
Methought I stood among the stars alone, Watching a grey parched orb which onward flew Half blinded by the dusty winds that blew, Empty as Death and barren as a stone, The pleasant sound of water all unknown! When, as I looked in wonderment, there grew, High in the air above, a drop of dew, Which, gathering slowly through long cycles, shone Like a great tear; and then at last it fell Clasping the orb, which drank it greedily, With a delicious noise and upward swell Of sweet cool joy that tossed me like a sea; And then the thick life sprang as from a grave, With trees, flowers, boats upon the bounding wave!
TO A THUNDER-CLOUD.
Oh, melancholy fragment of the night Drawing thy lazy web against the sun, Thou shouldst have waited till the day was done With kindred glooms to build thy fane aright, Sublime amid the ruins of the light! But thus to shape our glories one by one With fearful hands, ere we had well begun To look for shadows--even in the bright! Yet may we charm a lesson from thy breast, A secret wisdom from thy folds of thunder: There is a wind that cometh from the west Will rend thy tottering piles of gloom asunder, And fling thee ruinous along the grass, To sparkle on us as our footsteps pass!
SUN AND MOON.
First came the red-eyed sun as I did wake; He smote me on the temples and I rose, Casting the night aside and all its woes; And I would spurn my idleness, and take My own wild journey even like him, and shake The pillars of all doubt with lusty blows, Even like himself when his rich glory goes Right through the stalwart fogs that part and break. But ere my soul was ready for the fight, His solemn setting mocked me in the west; And as I trembled in the lifting night, The white moon met me, and my heart confess'd A mellow wisdom in her silent youth, Which fed my hope with fear, and made my strength a truth.
DOUBT HERALDING VISION.
An angel saw me sitting by a brook, Pleased with the silence, and the melodies Of wind and water which did fall and rise: He gently stirred his plumes and from them shook An outworn doubt, which fell on me and took The shape of darkness, hiding all the skies, Blinding the sun, but giving to my eyes An inextinguishable wish to look; When, lo! thick as the buds of spring there came, Crowd upon crowd, informing all the sky, A host of splendours watching silently, With lustrous eyes that wept as if in blame, And waving hands that crossed in lines of flame, And signalled things I hope to hold although I die!
LIFE OR DEATH?
Is there a secret Joy, that may not weep, For every flower that ends its little span, For every child that groweth up to man, For every captive bird a cage doth keep, For every aching eye that went to sleep Long ages back, when other eyes began To see and know and love as now they can, Unravelling God's wonders heap by heap? Or doth the Past lie 'mid Eternity In charnel dens that rot and reek alway, A dismal light for those that go astray, A pit of foul deformity--to be, Beauty, a dreadful source of growth for thee When thou wouldst lift thine eyes to greet the day?
LOST AND FOUND.
I missed him when the sun began to bend; I found him not when I had lost his rim; With many tears I went in search of him, Climbing high mountains which did still ascend, And gave me echoes when I called my friend; Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim, And high cathedrals where the light was dim, Through books and arts and works without an end, But found him not--the friend whom I had lost. And yet I found him--as I found the lark, A sound in fields I heard but could not mark; I found him nearest when I missed him most; I found him in my heart, a life in frost, A light I knew not till my soul was dark.
THE MOON.
She comes! again she comes, the bright-eyed moon! Under a ragged cloud I found her out, Clasping her own dark orb like hope in doubt! That ragged cloud hath waited her since noon, And he hath found and he will hide her soon! Come, all ye little winds that sit without, And blow the shining leaves her edge about, And hold her fast--ye have a pleasant tune! She will forget us in her walks at night Among the other worlds that are so fair! She will forget to look on our despair! She will forget to be so young and bright! Nay, gentle moon, thou hast the keys of light-- I saw them hanging by thy girdle there!
TRUTH, NOT FORM!
I came upon a fountain on my way When it was hot, and sat me down to drink Its sparkling stream, when all around the brink I spied full many vessels made of clay, Whereon were written, not without display, In deep engraving or with merely ink, The blessings which each owner seemed to think Would light on him who drank with each alway. I looked so hard my eyes were looking double Into them all, but when I came to see That they were filthy, each in his degree, I bent my head, though not without some trouble, To where the little waves did leap and bubble, And so I journeyed on most pleasantly.
GOD IN GROWTH.
I said, I will arise and work some thing, Nor be content with growth, but cause to grow A life around me, clear as yes from no, That to my restless hand some rest may bring, And give a vital power to Action's spring: Thus, I must cease to be! I cried; when, lo! An angel stood beside me on the snow, With folded wings that came of pondering. "God's glory flashes on the silence here Beneath the moon," he cried, and upward threw His glorious eyes that swept the utmost blue, "Ere yet his bounding brooks run forth with cheer To bear his message to the hidden year Who cometh up in haste to make his glory new."
IN A CHURCHYARD.
There may be seeming calm above, but no!-- There is a pulse below which ceases not, A subterranean working, fiery hot, Deep in the million-hearted bosom, though Earthquakes unlock not the prodigious show Of elemental conflict; and this spot Nurses most quiet bones which lie and rot, And here the humblest weeds take root and grow. There is a calm upon the mighty sea, Yet are its depths alive and full of being, Enormous bulks that move unwieldily; Yet, pore we on it, they are past our seeing!-- From the deep sea-weed fields, though wide and ample, Comes there no rushing sound: these do not trample!
POWER.
Power that is not of God, however great, Is but the downward rushing and the glare Of a swift meteor that hath lost its share In the one impulse which doth animate The parent mass: emblem to me of fate! Which through vast nightly wastes doth onward fare, Wild-eyed and headlong, rent away from prayer-- A moment brilliant, then most desolate! And, O my brothers, shall we ever learn From all the things we see continually That pride is but the empty mockery Of what is strong in man! Not so the stern And sweet repose of soul which we can earn Only through reverence and humility!
DEATH.
Yes, there is one who makes us all lay down Our mushroom vanities, our speculations, Our well-set theories and calculations, Our workman's jacket or our monarch's crown! To him alike the country and the town, Barbaric hordes or civilized nations, Men of all names and ranks and occupations, Squire, parson, lawyer, Jones, or Smith, or Brown! He stops the carter: the uplifted whip Falls dreamily among the horses' straw; He stops the helmsman, and the gallant ship Holdeth to westward by another law; No one will see him, no one ever saw, But he sees all and lets not any slip.
THAT HOLY THING.
They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes, and lift them high: Thou cam'st a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.
O son of man, to right my lot
Nought but thy presence can avail; Yet on the road thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea thy sail!
My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
Thou com'st down thine own secret stair: Com'st down to answer all my need,
Yea, every bygone prayer!
FROM NOVALIS.
Uplifted is the stone
And all mankind arisen! We are thy very own,
We are no more in prison! What bitterest grief can stay
Beside thy golden cup, When earth and life give way
And with our Lord we sup!
To the marriage Death doth call,
The lamps are burning clear, The virgins, ready all,
Have for their oil no fear. Would that even now were ringing
The distance with thy throng! And that the stars were singing
To us a human song!
Courage! for life is hasting
To endless life away; The inward fire, unwasting,
Transfigures our dull clay! See the stars melting, sinking
In life-wine golden-bright! We, of the splendour drinking,
Shall grow to stars of light.
Lost, lost are all our losses!
Love is for ever free! The full life heaves and tosses
Like an unbounded sea! One live, eternal story!
One poem high and broad! And sun of all our glory
The countenance of God!
WHAT MAN IS THERE OF YOU?
The homely words how often read!
How seldom fully known! "Which father of you, asked for bread,
Would give his son a stone?"
How oft has bitter tear been shed,
And heaved how many a groan, Because thou wouldst not give for bread
The thing that was a stone!
How oft the child thou wouldst have fed,
Thy gift away has thrown! He prayed, thou heard'st, and gav'st the bread:
He cried, "It is a stone!"
Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread
Lest I be left to moan, Am I not he who, asked for bread,
Would give his son a stone?
O WIND OF GOD.
O wind of God, that blowest in the mind,
Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me; Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind,
Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see; Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree,
And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove-- High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!
Blow not the less though winter cometh then;
Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen; Let the spring creep into the ground again,
The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen: All lives in thee that ever once hath been!
Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms; Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.
SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?
I cannot praise thee. By his instrument
The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent,
Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned!
I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove,
But not for life that is not life in me; Not for a being that is less than love--
A barren shoal half lifted from a sea!
Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships
Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips
Than carry them a heart so poor and prone!
I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art,
That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know-- A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart,
Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow.
And I can bless thee too for every smart,
For every disappointment, ache, and fear; For every hook thou fixest in my heart,
For every burning cord that draws me near.
But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave.
Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. Thou silent, I am but an empty grave:
Think to me, Father, and I am a king!
My organ-pipes will then stand up awake,
Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; And swift contending harmonies shall shake
Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.
A YEAR SONG.
Sighing above,
Rustling below, Thorough the woods
The winds go. Beneath, dead crowds;
Above, life bare; And the besom tempest
Sweeps the air:
Heart, leave thy woe:
Let the dead things go.
Through the brown
Gold doth push; Misty green
Veils the bush. Here a twitter,
There a croak! They are coming--
The spring-folk!
Heart, be not numb;
Let the live things come.
Through the beech
The winds go, With gentle speech,
Long and slow. The grass is fine,
And soft to lie in: The sun doth shine
The blue sky in:
Heart, be alive;
Let the new things thrive.
Round again!
Here art thou, A rimy fruit
On a bare bough! Winter comes,
Winter and snow; And a weary sighing
To fall and go!
Heart, thy hour shall be;
Thy dead will comfort thee.
SONG.
Why do the houses stand
When they that built them are gone; When remaineth even of one
That lived there and loved and planned Not a face, not an eye, not a hand,
Only here and there a bone? Why do the houses stand
When they who built them are gone?
Oft in the moonlighted land
When the day is overblown, With happy memorial moan
Sweet ghosts in a loving band Roam through the houses that stand--
For the builders are not gone.
FOR WHERE YOUR TREASURE IS, THERE WILL YOUR HEART BE ALSO.
The miser lay on his lonely bed; Life's candle was burning dim.
His heart in an iron chest was hid Under heaps of gold and an iron lid;
And whether it were alive or dead It never troubled him.
Slowly out of his body he crept. He said, "I am just the same!
Only I want my heart in my breast; I will go and fetch it out of my chest!"
Through the dark a darker shadow he leapt,
Saying "Hell is a fabled flame!"
He opened the lid. Oh, Hell's own night!
His ghost-eyes saw no gold!--
Empty and swept! Not a gleam was there! In goes his hand, but the chest is bare!
Ghost-fingers, aha! have only might To close, not to clasp and hold!
But his heart he saw, and he made a clutch
At the fungous puff-ball of sin:
Eaten with moths, and fretted with rust, He grasped a handful of rotten dust,
And shrieked, as ghosts may, at the crumbling touch,
But hid it his breast within.
And some there are who see him sit
Under the church, apart,
Counting out coins and coins of gold Heap by heap on the dank death-mould:
Alas poor ghost and his sore lack of wit--
They breed in the dust of his heart!
Another miser has now his chest,
And it hoards wealth more and more;
Like ferrets his hands go in and out, Burrowing, tossing the gold about--
Nor heed the heart that, gone from his breast,
Is the cold heap's bloodless core.
Now wherein differ old ghosts that sit
Counting ghost-coins all day
From the man who clings with spirit prone To whatever can never be his own?
Who will leave the world with not one whit
But a heart all eaten away?
THE ASTHMATIC MAN TO THE SATAN THAT BINDS HIM.
Satan, avaunt!
Nay, take thine hour, Thou canst not daunt,
Thou hast no power;
Be welcome to thy nest,
Though it be in my breast.
Burrow amain;
Dig like a mole; Fill every vein
With half-burnt coal;
Puff the keen dust about,
And all to choke me out.
Fill music's ways
With creaking cries, That no loud praise
May climb the skies;
And on my labouring chest
Lay mountains of unrest.
My slumber steep
In dreams of haste, That only sleep,
No rest, I taste-- With stiflings, rimes of rote, And fingers on my throat.
Satan, thy might
I do defy; Live core of night
I patient lie:
A wind comes up the gray
Will blow thee clean away.
Christ's angel, Death,
All radiant white, With one cold breath
Will scare thee quite,
And give my lungs an air
As fresh as answered prayer.
So, Satan, do
Thy worst with me Until the True
Shall set me free,
And end what he began,
By making me a man.
SONG-SERMON.
Lord, what is man
That thou art mindful of him!
Though in creation's van,
Lord, what is man!
He wills less than he can,
Lets his ideal scoff him!
Lord, what is man
That thou art mindful of him!
SHADOWS.
All things are shadows of thee, Lord;
The sun himself is but thy shade; My spirit is the shadow of thy word,
A thing that thou hast said.
Diamonds are shadows of the sun,
They gleam as after him they hark: My soul some arrows of thy light hath won.
And feebly fights the dark!
All knowledges are broken shades,
In gulfs of dark a scattered horde: Together rush the parted glory-grades--
Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!
My soul, the shadow, still is light
Because the shadow falls from thee; I turn, dull candle, to the centre bright,
And home flit shadowy.
Shine, Lord; shine me thy shadow still;
The brighter I, the more thy shade! My motion be thy lovely moveless will!
My darkness, light delayed!
A WINTER PRAYER.
Come through the gloom of clouded skies,
The slow dim rain and fog athwart; Through east winds keen with wrong and lies
Come and lift up my hopeless heart.
Come through the sickness and the pain,
The sore unrest that tosses still; Through aching dark that hides the gain
Come and arouse my fainting will.
Come through the prate of foolish words,
The science with no God behind; Through all the pangs of untuned chords
Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.
Through all the fears that spirits bow
Of what hath been, or may befall, Come down and talk with me, for thou
Canst tell me all about them all.
Hear, hear my sad lone heart entreat,
Heart of all joy, below, above! Come near and let me kiss thy feet,
And name the names of those I love!
SONG OF A POOR PILGRIM.
Roses all the rosy way!
Roses to the rosier west Where the roses of the day
Cling to night's unrosy breast!
Thou who mak'st the roses, why
Give to every leaf a thorn? On thy rosy highway I
Still am by thy roses torn!
Pardon! I will not mistake
These good thorns that make me fret! Goads to urge me, stings to wake,
For my freedom they are set.
Yea, on one steep mountain-side,
Climbing to a fancied fold, Roses grasped had let me slide
But the thorns did keep their hold.
Out of darkness light is born,
Out of weakness make me strong: One glad day will every thorn
Break into a rose of song.
Though like sparrow sit thy bird
Lonely on the house-top dark, By the rosy dawning stirred
Up will soar thy praising lark;
Roses, roses all his song!
Roses in a gorgeous feast! Roses in a royal throng,
Surging, rosing from the east!
AN EVENING PRAYER.
I am a bubble
Upon thy ever-moving, resting sea: Oh, rest me now from tossing, trespass, trouble!
Take me down into thee.
Give me thy peace.
My heart is aching with unquietness: Oh, make its inharmonious beating cease!
Thy hand upon it press.
My Night! my Day!
Swift night and day betwixt, my world doth reel: Potter, take not thy hand from off the clay
That whirls upon thy wheel.
O Heart, I cry
For love and life, pardon and hope and strength! O Father, I am thine; I shall not die,
But I shall sleep at length!
SONG-SERMON.
Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man. From us, not thee, come all our wrongs; Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs: With small-cord whips and scorpion thongs Thou lay'st on every ill thy ban. Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man.
A DREAM-SONG.
The stars are spinning their threads,
And the clouds are the dust that flies, And the suns are weaving them up
For the day when the sleepers arise.
The ocean in music rolls,
The gems are turning to eyes, And the trees are gathering souls
For the day when the sleepers arise.
The weepers are learning to smile,
And laughter to glean the sighs, And hearts to bury their care and guile
For the day when the sleepers arise.
Oh, the dews and the moths and the daisy-red,
The larks and the glimmers and flows! The lilies and sparrows and daily bread,
And the something that nobody knows!
CHRISTMAS, 1880.
Great-hearted child, thy very being The Son,
Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;-- For who is prodigal but he who has gone
Far from the true to heart it with the false?-- Who, who but thou, that, from the animals', Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own, Can tell what it would be to be alone!
Alone! No father!--At the very thought
Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast; A death in death for thee it almost wrought!
But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last, And call'dst out Father ere thy spirit passed, Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow, But doing his will who greater is than thou.
That we might know him, thou didst come and live;
That we might find him, thou didst come and die;
The son-heart, brother, thy son-being give--
We too would love the father perfectly, And to his bosom go back with the cry, Father, into thy hands I give the heart Which left thee but to learn how good thou art!
There are but two in all the universe--
The father and his children--not a third; Nor, all the weary time, fell any curse!
Not once dropped from its nest an unfledged bird But thou wast with it! Never sorrow stirred But a love-pull it was upon the chain That draws the children to the father again!
O Jesus Christ, babe, man, eternal son,
Take pity! we are poor where thou art rich: Our hearts are small; and yet there is not one
In all thy father's noisy nursery which, Merry, or mourning in its narrow niche, Needs not thy father's heart, this very now, With all his being's being, even as thou!
RONDEL.
I do not know thy final will,
It is too good for me to know: Thou willest that I mercy show,
That I take heed and do no ill, That I the needy warm and fill,
Nor stones at any sinner throw; But I know not thy final will--
It is too good for me to know.
I know thy love unspeakable--
For love's sake able to send woe! To find thine own thou lost didst go,
And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill!-- How should I know thy final will,
Godwise too good for me to know!
THE SPARROW.
O Lord, I cannot but believe The birds do sing thy praises then, when they sing to one another, And they are lying seed-sown land when the winter makes them grieve, Their little bosoms breeding songs for the summer to unsmother!
If thou hadst finished me, O Lord, Nor left out of me part of that great gift that goes to singing, I sure had known the meaning high of the songster's praising word, Had known upon what thoughts of thee his pearly talk he was stringing!
I should have read the wisdom hid In the storm-inspired melody of thy thrush's bosom solemn: I should not then have understood what thy free spirit did To make the lark-soprano mount like to a geyser-column!
I think I almost understand Thy owl, his muffled swiftness, moon-round eyes, and intoned hooting; I think I could take up the part of a night-owl in the land, With yellow moon and starry things day-dreamers all confuting.
But 'mong thy creatures that do sing Perhaps of all I likest am to the housetop-haunting sparrow, That flies brief, sudden flights upon a dumpy, fluttering wing, And chirps thy praises from a throat that's very short and narrow.
But if thy sparrow praise thee well By singing well thy song, nor letting noisy traffic quell it, It may be that, in some remote and leafy heavenly dell, He may with a trumpet-throat awake, and a trumpet-song to swell it!
DECEMBER 23, 1879.