The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

II

 
  A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her,
    A glory that deepened and grew,
  A song of colour and odour
    That thrilled her through and through:
  'Twas a dream of too much gladness
    Ever to see the light;
  They are only dreams of sadness
    That weary out the night.
 
 
  Slow darkness began to rifle
    The nest of the sunset fair;
  Dank vapour began to stifle
    The scents that enriched the air;
  The flowers paled fast and faster,
    They crumbled, leaf and crown,
  Till they looked like the stained plaster
    Of a cornice fallen down.
 
 
  And the change crept nigh and nigher,
    Inward and closer stole,
  Till the flameless, blasting fire
    Entered and withered her soul.—
  But the fiends had only flouted
    Her vision of the night;
  Up came the morn and routed
    The darksome things with light.
 
 
  Wide awake I have often been in it—
    The dream that all is none;
  It will come in the gladdest minute
    And wither the very sun.
  Two moments of sad commotion,
    One more of doubt's palsied rule—
  And the great wave-pulsing ocean
    Is only a gathered pool;
 
 
  A flower is a spot of painting,
    A lifeless, loveless hue;
  Though your heart be sick to fainting
    It says not a word to you;
  A bird knows nothing of gladness,
    Is only a song-machine;
  A man is a reasoning madness,
    A woman a pictured queen!
 
 
  Then fiercely we dig the fountain:
    Oh! whence do the waters rise?
  Then panting we climb the mountain:
    Oh! are there indeed blue skies?
  We dig till the soul is weary,
    Nor find the water-nest out;
  We climb to the stone-crest dreary,
    And still the sky is a doubt!
 
 
  Let alone the roots of the fountain;
    Drink of the water bright;
  Leave the sky at rest on the mountain,
    Walk in its torrent of light;
  Although thou seest no beauty,
    Though widowed thy heart yet cries,
  With thy hands go and do thy duty,
    And thy work will clear thine eyes.
 

III

 
  A great church in an empty square,
    A haunt of echoing tones!
  Feet pass not oft enough to wear
    The grass between the stones.
 
 
  The jarring hinges of its gates
    A stifled thunder boom;
  The boding heart slow-listening waits,
    As for a coming doom.
 
 
  The door stands wide. With hideous grin,
    Like dumb laugh, evil, frore,
  A gulf of death, all dark within,
    Hath swallowed half the floor.
 
 
  Its uncouth sides of earth and clay
    O'erhang the void below;
  Ah, some one force my feet away,
    Or down I needs must go!
 
 
  See, see the horrid, crumbling slope!
    It breathes up damp and fust!
  What man would for his lost loves grope
    Amid the charnel dust!
 
 
  Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high!
    Methinks, with anguish dull,
  I enter by the empty eye
    Into a monstrous skull!
 
 
  Stumbling on what I dare not guess,
    Blind-wading through the gloom,
  Still down, still on, I sink, I press,
    To meet some awful doom.
 
 
  My searching hands have caught a door
    With iron clenched and barred:
  Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core,
    Grim Death keeps watch and ward!
 
 
  Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed,
    As if a ghastly wind,
  That never bore a leaf or cloud,
    Were pressing hard behind.
 
 
  They shake, they groan, they outward strain:
    What thing of dire dismay
  Will freeze its form upon my brain,
    And fright my soul away?
 
 
  They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack;
    The bars, the doors divide;
  A flood of glory at their back
    Hath burst the portals wide!
 
 
  In flows a summer afternoon;
    I know the very breeze!
  It used to blow the silvery moon
    About the summer trees.
 
 
  The gulf is filled with flashing tides;
    Blue sky through boughs looks in;
  Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides
    A mazy arras spin.
 
 
  The empty church, the yawning cleft,
    The earthy, dead despair
  Are gone, and I alive am left
    In sunshine and in air!
 

IV

 
  Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly
    Through the ivory wicket creep;
  Then suddenly the inward eye
    Sees them outside the sleep.
 
 
  Once, wandering in the border gray,
    I spied one past me swim;
  I caught it on its truant way
    To nowhere in the dim.
 
 
  All o'er a steep of grassy ground,
    Lay ruined statues old,
  Such forms as never more are found
    Save deep in ancient mould,
 
 
  A host of marble Anakim
    Shattered in deadly fight!
  Oh, what a wealth one broken limb
    Had been to waking sight!
 
 
  But sudden, the weak mind to mock
    That could not keep its own,
  Without a shiver or a shock,
    Behold, the dream was gone!
 
 
  For each dim form of marble rare
    Stood broken rush or reed;
  So bends on autumn field, long bare,
    Some tall rain-battered weed.
 
 
  The shapeless night hung empty, drear,
    O'er my scarce slumbering head;
  There is no good in staying here,
    My spirit moaned, and fled.
 

V

 
  The simplest joys that daily pass
    Grow ecstasies in sleep;
  A wind on heights of waving grass
    In a dream has made me weep.
 
 
  No wonder then my heart one night
    Was joy-full to the brim:
  I was with one whose love and might
    Had drawn me close to him!
 
 
  But from a church into the street
    Came pouring, crowding on,
  A troubled throng with hurrying feet,
    And Lo, my friend was gone!
 
 
  Alone upon a miry road
    I walked a wretched plain;
  Onward without a goal I strode
    Through mist and drizzling rain.
 
 
  Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits,
    And brick-fields scarred the globe;
  Those wastes where desolation sits
    Without her ancient robe.
 
 
  The dreariness, the nothingness
    Grew worse almost than fear;
  If ever hope was needful bliss,
    Hope sure was needful here!
 
 
  Did potent wish work joyous change
    Like wizard's glamour-spell?
  Wishes not always fruitless range,
    And sometimes it is well!
 
 
  I know not. Sudden sank the way,
    Burst in the ocean-waves;
  Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay,
    Red rocks and sounding caves!
 
 
  Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask—
    Shall earthly dreams, forsooth,
  Set the old Heavens too hard a task
    To match them with the truth?
 

VI

 
  Once more I build a dream, awake,
    Which sleeping I would dream;
  Once more an unborn fancy take
    And try to make it seem!
  Some strange delight shall fill my breast,
    Enticed from sleep's abyss,
  With sense of motion, yet of rest,
    Of sleep, yet waking bliss!
 
 
  It comes!—I lie on something warm
    That lifts me from below;
  It rounds me like a mighty arm
    Though soft as drifted snow.
  A dream, indeed!—Oh, happy me
    Whom Titan woman bears
  Afloat upon a gentle sea
    Of wandering midnight airs!
 
 
  A breeze, just cool enough to lave
    With sense each conscious limb,
  Glides round and under, like a wave
    Of twilight growing dim!
  She bears me over sleeping towns,
    O'er murmuring ears of corn;
  O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs,
    O'er moorland wastes forlorn.
 
 
  The harebells in the mountain-pass
    Flutter their blue about;
  The myriad blades of meadow grass
    Float scarce-heard music out.
  Over the lake!—ah! nearer float,
    Nearer the water's breast;
  Let me look deeper—let me doat
    Upon that lily-nest.
 
 
  Old homes we brush—in wood, on road;
    Their windows do not shine;
  Their dwellers must be all abroad
    In lovely dreams like mine!
  Hark—drifting syllables that break
    Like foam-bells on fleet ships!
  The little airs are all awake
    With softly kissing lips.
 
 
  Light laughter ripples down the wind,
    Sweet sighs float everywhere;
  But when I look I nothing find,
    For every star is there.
  O lady lovely, lady strong,
    Ungiven thy best gift lies!
  Thou bear'st me in thine arms along,
    Dost not reveal thine eyes!
 
 
  Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest,
    In darts a pang of loss:
  My outstretched hand, for hills of rest,
    Finds only mounds of moss!
  Faint and far off the stars appear;
    The wind begins to weep;
  'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear,
    And all but me asleep!
 

ROADSIDE POEMS

BETTER THINGS

 
  Better to smell the violet
  Than sip the glowing wine;
  Better to hearken to a brook
  Than watch a diamond shine.
 
 
  Better to have a loving friend
  Than ten admiring foes;
  Better a daisy's earthy root
  Than a gorgeous, dying rose.
 
 
  Better to love in loneliness
  Than bask in love all day;
  Better the fountain in the heart
  Than the fountain by the way.
 
 
  Better be fed by mother's hand
  Than eat alone at will;
  Better to trust in God, than say,
  My goods my storehouse fill.
 
 
  Better to be a little wise
  Than in knowledge to abound;
  Better to teach a child than toil
  To fill perfection's round.
 
 
  Better to sit at some man's feet
  Than thrill a listening state;
  Better suspect that thou art proud
  Than be sure that thou art great.
 
 
  Better to walk the realm unseen
  Than watch the hour's event;
  Better the Well done, faithful slave!
  Than the air with shoutings rent.
 
 
  Better to have a quiet grief
  Than many turbulent joys;
  Better to miss thy manhood's aim
  Than sacrifice the boy's.
 
 
  Better a death when work is done
  Than earth's most favoured birth;
  Better a child in God's great house
  Than the king of all the earth.
 

AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT

 
  My wife contrived a fleecy thing
    Her husband to infold,
  For 'tis the pride of woman still
    To cover from the cold:
  My daughter made it a new text
    For a sermon very old.
 
 
  The child came trotting to her side,
    Ready with bootless aid:
  "Lily make veckit for papa,"
    The tiny woman said:
  Her mother gave the means and ways,
    And a knot upon her thread.
 
 
  "Mamma, mamma!—it won't come through!"
    In meek dismay she cried.
  Her mother cut away the knot,
    And she was satisfied,
  Pulling the long thread through and through,
    In fabricating pride.
 
 
  Her mother told me this: I caught
    A glimpse of something more:
  Great meanings often hide behind
    The little word before!
  And I brooded over my new text
    Till the seed a sermon bore.
 
 
  Nannie, to you I preach it now—
    A little sermon, low:
  Is it not thus a thousand times,
    As through the world we go?
  Do we not tug, and fret, and cry—
    Instead of Yes, Lord—No?
 
 
  While all the rough things that we meet
    Which will not move a jot,
  The hindrances to heart and feet,
    The Crook in every Lot,
  Mean plainly but that children's threads
    Have at the end a knot.
 
 
  This world of life God weaves for us,
    Nor spares he pains or cost,
  But we must turn the web to clothes
    And shield our hearts from frost:
  Shall we, because the thread holds fast,
    Count labour vain and lost?
 
 
  If he should cut away the knot,
    And yield each fancy wild,
  The hidden life within our hearts—
    His life, the undefiled—
  Would fare as ill as I should fare
    From the needle of my child.
 
 
  As tack and sheet unto the sail,
    As to my verse the rime,
  As mountains to the low green earth—
    So hard for feet to climb,
  As call of striking clock amid
    The quiet flow of time,
 
 
  As sculptor's mallet to the birth
    Of the slow-dawning face,
  As knot upon my Lily's thread
    When she would work apace,
  God's Nay is such, and worketh so
    For his children's coming grace.
 
 
  Who, knowing God's intent with him,
    His birthright would refuse?
  What makes us what we have to be
    Is the only thing to choose:
  We understand nor end nor means,
    And yet his ways accuse!
 
 
  This is my sermon. It is preached
    Against all fretful strife.
  Chafe not with anything that is,
    Nor cut it with thy knife.
  Ah! be not angry with the knot
    That holdeth fast thy life.
 

LITTLE ELFIE

 
  I have a puppet-jointed child,
    She's but three half-years old;
  Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild
    With looks both shy and bold.
 
 
  Like little imps, her tiny hands
    Dart out and push and take;
  Chide her—a trembling thing she stands,
    And like two leaves they shake.
 
 
  But to her mind a minute gone
    Is like a year ago;
  And when you lift your eyes anon,
    Anon you must say No!
 
 
  Sometimes, though not oppressed with care,
    She has her sleepless fits;
  Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair
    The elfish mortal sits;—
 
 
  Where, if by chance in mood more grave,
    A hermit she appears
  Propped in the opening of his cave,
    Mummied almost with years;
 
 
  Or like an idol set upright
    With folded legs for stem,
  Ready to hear prayers all the night
    And never answer them.
 
 
  But where's the idol-hermit thrust?
    Her knees like flail-joints go!
  Alternate kiss, her mother must,
    Now that, now this big toe!
 
 
  I turn away from her, and write
    For minutes three or four:
  A tiny spectre, tall and white,
    She's standing by the door!
 
 
  Then something comes into my head
    That makes me stop and think:
  She's on the table, the quadruped,
    And dabbling in my ink!
 
 
  O Elfie, make no haste to lose
    Thy ignorance of offence!
  Thou hast the best gift I could choose,
    A heavenly confidence.
 
 
  'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham,
    To put you in the ark!
  Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb,
    Sleep shining through the dark.