The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

THE WIND OF THE WORLD

Chained is the Spring. The Night-wind bold   Blows over the hard earth; Time is not more confused and cold,   Nor keeps more wintry mirth. Yet blow, and roll the world about—   Blow, Time, blow, winter's Wind! Through chinks of time heaven peepeth out,   And Spring the frost behind.

SABBATH BELLS

Oh holy Sabbath bells, Ye have a pleasant voice! Through all the land your music swells, And man with one commandment tells To rest and to rejoice. As birds rejoice to flee From dark and stormy skies To brighter lands beyond the sea Where skies are calm, and wings are free To wander and to rise; As thirsty travellers sing, Through desert paths that pass, To hear the welcome waters spring, And see, beyond the spray they fling Tall trees and waving grass; So we rejoice to know Your melody begun; For when our paths are parched below Ye tell us where green pastures glow And living waters run. LONDON, December 15, 1840.

FIGHTING

Here is a temple strangely wrought:   Within it I can see Two spirits of a diverse thought   Contend for mastery. One is an angel fair and bright,   Adown the aisle comes he, Adown the aisle in raiment white,   A creature fair to see. The other wears an evil mien,   And he hath doubtless slipt, A fearful being dark and lean,   Up from the mouldy crypt. * * * * * Is that the roof that grows so black?   Did some one call my name? Was it the bursting thunder crack   That filled this place with flame? I move—I wake from out my sleep:   Some one hath victor been! I see two radiant pinions sweep,   And I am borne between. Beneath the clouds that under roll   An upturned face I see— A dead man's face, but, ah, the soul   Was right well known to me! A man's dead face! Away I haste   Through regions calm and fair: Go vanquish sin, and thou shall taste   The same celestial air.

AFTER THE FASHION OF AN OLD EMBLEM

I have long enough been working down in my cellar,   Working spade and pick, boring-chisel and drill; I long for wider spaces, airy, clear-dark, and stellar:   Successless labour never the love of it did fill. More profit surely lies in a holy, pure quiescence,   In a setting forth of cups to catch the heavenly rain, In a yielding of the being to the ever waiting presence,   In a lifting of the eyes upward, homeward again! Up to my garret, its storm-windows and skylights!   There I'll lay me on the floor, and patient let the sun, The moon and the stars, the blueness and the twilights   Do what their pleasure is, and wait till they have done. But, lo, I hear a waving on the roof of great pinions!   'Tis the labour of a windmill, broad-spreading to the wind! Lo, down there goes a. shaft through all the house-dominions!   I trace it to a cellar, whose door I cannot find. But there I hear ever a keen diamond-drill in motion,   Now fast and now slow as the wind sits in the sails, Drilling and boring to the far eternal ocean,   The living well of all wells whose water never fails. So now I go no more to the cellar to my labour,   But up to my garret where those arms are ever going; There the sky is ever o'er me, and the wind my blessed neighbour,   And the prayer-handle ready turns the sails to its blowing. Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing!   Keep the great windmill going full and free; So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going   Till in burst the waters of God's eternal sea.

A PRAYER IN SICKNESS

Thou foldest me in sickness;   Thou callest through the cloud; I batter with the thickness   Of the swathing, blinding shroud: Oh, let me see thy face, The only perfect grace   That thou canst show thy child. O father, being-giver,   Take off the sickness-cloud; Saviour, my life deliver   From this dull body-shroud: Till I can see thy face I am not full of grace,   I am not reconciled.

QUIET DEAD!

Quiet, quiet dead, Have ye aught to say From your hidden bed In the earthy clay? Fathers, children, mothers, Ye are very quiet; Can ye shout, my brothers? I would know you by it! Have ye any words That are like to ours? Have ye any birds? Have ye any flowers? Could ye rise a minute When the sun is warm? I would know you in it, I would take no harm. I am half afraid In the ghostly night; If ye all obeyed I should fear you quite. But when day is breaking In the purple east I would meet you waking— One of you at least— When the sun is tipping Every stony block, And the sun is slipping Down the weathercock. Quiet, quiet dead, I will not perplex you; What my tongue hath said Haply it may vex you! Yet I hear you speaking With a quiet speech, As if ye were seeking Better things to teach: "Wait a little longer, Suffer and endure Till your heart is stronger And your eyes are pure— A little longer, brother, With your fellow-men: We will meet each other Otherwhere again."

LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE

Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest in my head   A lamp that well might pharos all the lands; Anon the light will neither rise nor spread:   Shrouded in danger gray the beacon stands! A pharos? Oh dull brain! poor dying lamp   Under a bushel with an earthy smell! Mouldering it stands, in rust and eating damp,   While the slow oil keeps oozing from its cell! For me it were enough to be a flower   Knowing its root in thee, the Living, hid, Ordained to blossom at the appointed hour,   And wake or sleep as thou, my Nature, bid; But hear my brethren in their darkling fright!   Hearten my lamp that it may shine abroad Then will they cry—Lo, there is something bright!   Who kindled it if not the shining God?

TRIOLET

When the heart is a cup   In the body low lying, And wine, drop by drop   Falls into that cup From somewhere high up,   It is good to be dying With the heart for a cup   In the body low lying.

THE SOULS' RISING

  See how the storm of life ascends Up through the shadow of the world! Beyond our gaze the line extends, Like wreaths of vapour tempest-hurled! Grasp tighter, brother, lest the storm Should sweep us down from where we stand, And we may catch some human form We know, amongst the straining band.   See! see in yonder misty cloud One whirlwind sweep, and we shall hear The voice that waxes yet more loud And louder still approaching near!   Tremble not, brother, fear not thou, For yonder wild and mystic strain Will bring before us strangely now The visions of our youth again!   Listen! oh listen! See how its eyeballs roll and glisten With a wild and fearful stare Upwards through the shining air, Or backwards with averted look, As a child were gazing at a book Full of tales of fear and dread, When the thick night-wind came hollow and dead.   Round about it, wavering and light. As the moths flock round a candle at night, A crowd of phantoms sheeted and dumb Strain to its words as they shrilly come: Brother, my brother, dost thou hear? They pierce through the tumult sharp and clear!   "The rush of speed is on my soul, My eyes are blind with things I see; I cannot grasp the awful whole, I cannot gird the mystery! The mountains sweep like mist away; The great sea shakes like flakes of fire; The rush of things I cannot see Is mounting upward higher and higher! Oh! life was still and full of calm In yonder spot of earthly ground, But now it rolls a thunder-psalm, Its voices drown my ear in sound! Would God I were a child again To nurse the seeds of faith and power; I might have clasped in wisdom then A wing to beat this awful hour! The dullest things would take my marks— They took my marks like drifted snow— God! how the footsteps rise in sparks, Rise like myself and onward go! Have pity, O ye driving things That once like me had human form! For I am driven for lack of wings A shreddy cloud before the storm!"   How its words went through me then, Like a long forgotten pang, Till the storm's embrace again Swept it far with sudden clang!— Ah, methinks I see it still! Let us follow it, my brother, Keeping close to one another, Blessing God for might of will! Closer, closer, side by side! Ours are wings that deftly glide Upwards, downwards, and crosswise Flashing past our ears and eyes, Splitting up the comet-tracks With a whirlwind at our backs!   How the sky is blackening! Yet the race is never slackening; Swift, continual, and strong, Streams the torrent slope along, Like a tidal surge of faces Molten into one despair; Each the other now displaces, A continual whirl of spaces; Ah, my fainting eyesight reels As I strive in vain to stare On a thousand turning wheels Dimly in the gloom descending, Faces with each other blending!— Let us beat the vapours back, We are yet upon his track.   Didst thou see a spirit halt Upright on a cloudy peak, As the lightning's horrid fault Smote a gash into the cheek Of the grinning thunder-cloud Which doth still besiege and crowd Upward from the nether pits Where the monster Chaos sits, Building o'er the fleeing rack Roofs of thunder long and black? Yes, I see it! I will shout Till I stop the horrid rout. Ho, ho! spirit-phantom, tell Is thy path to heaven or hell? We would hear thee yet again, What thy standing amongst men, What thy former history, And thy hope of things to be! Wisdom still we gain from hearing: We would know, we would know Whither thou art steering— Unto weal or woe!   Ah, I cannot hear it speaking! Yet it seems as it were seeking Through our eyes our souls to reach With a quaint mysterious speech, As with stretched and crossing palms One were tracing diagrams On the ebbing of the beach, Till with wild unmeasured dance All the tiptoe waves advance, Seize him by the shoulder, cover, Turn him up and toss him over: He is vanished from our sight, Nothing mars the quiet night Save a speck of gloom afar Like the ruin of a star!   Brother, streams it ever so, Such a torrent tide of woe? Ah, I know not; let us haste Upwards from this dreary waste, Up to where like music flowing Gentler feet are ever going, Streams of life encircling run Round about the spirit-sun! Up beyond the storm and rush With our lesson let us rise! Lo, the morning's golden flush Meets us midway in the skies! Perished all the dream and strife! Death is swallowed up of Life!

AWAKE!

  The stars are all watching;   God's angel is catching At thy skirts in the darkness deep!   Gold hinges grating,   The mighty dead waiting, Why dost thou sleep?   Years without number,   Ages of slumber, Stiff in the track of the infinite One!   Dead, can I think it?   Dropt like a trinket, A thing whose uses are done!   White wings are crossing,   Glad waves are tossing, The earth flames out in crimson and green   Spring is appearing,   Summer is nearing— Where hast thou been?   Down in some cavern,   Death's sleepy tavern, Housing, carousing with spectres of night?   There is my right hand!   Grasp it full tight and Spring to the light.   Wonder, oh, wonder!   How the life-thunder Bursts on his ear in horror and dread!   Happy shapes meet him;   Heaven and earth greet him: Life from the dead!

TO AN AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER

Seek not my name—it doth no virtue bear;   Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find— The name God called when thy ideal fair   Arose in deeps of the eternal mind. When that thou findest, thou art straight a lord   Of time and space—art heir of all things grown; And not my name, poor, earthly label-word,   But I myself thenceforward am thine own. Thou hearest not? Or hearest as a man   Who hears the muttering of a foolish spell? My very shadow would feel strange and wan   In thy abode:—I say No, and Farewell. Thou understandest? Then it is enough;   No shadow-deputy shall mock my friend; We walk the same path, over smooth and rough,   To meet ere long at the unending end.

WITH A COPY OF "IN MEMORIAM."

TO E.M. II Dear friend, you love the poet's song,   And here is one for your regard.   You know the "melancholy bard," Whose grief is wise as well as strong; Already something understand   For whom he mourns and what he sings,   And how he wakes with golden strings The echoes of "the silent land;" How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,   Yet loving all and hoping all,   He gazes where the shadows fall, And finds in darkness some relief; And how he sends his cries across,   His cries for him that comes no more,   Till one might think that silent shore Full of the burden of his loss; And how there comes sublimer cheer—   Not darkness solacing sad eyes,   Not the wild joy of mournful cries, But light that makes his spirit clear; How, while he gazes, something high,   Something of Heaven has fallen on him,   His distance and his future dim Broken into a dawning sky! Something of this, dear friend, you know;   And will you take the book from me   That holds this mournful melody, And softens grief to sadness so? Perhaps it scarcely suits the day   Of joyful hopes and memories clear,   When love should have no thought of fear, And only smiles be round your way; Yet from the mystery and the gloom,   From tempted faith and conquering trust,   From spirit stronger than the dust, And love that looks beyond the tomb, What can there be but good to win,   But hope for life, but love for all,   But strength whatever may befall?— So for the year that you begin, For all the years that follow this   While a long happy life endures,   This hope, this love, this strength be yours, And afterwards a larger bliss! May nothing in this mournful song   Too much take off your thoughts from time,   For joy should fill your vernal prime, And peace your summer mild and long. And may his love who can restore   All losses, give all new good things,   Like loving eyes and sheltering wings Be round us all for evermore!

THEY ARE BLIND

They are blind, and they are dead:   We will wake them as we go; There are words have not been said,   There are sounds they do not know:     We will pipe and we will sing—     With the Music and the Spring     Set their hearts a wondering! They are tired of what is old,   We will give it voices new; For the half hath not been told   Of the Beautiful and True.     Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping!     Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping!     Flashes through the lashes leaping! Ye that have a pleasant voice,   Hither come without delay; Ye will never have a choice   Like to that ye have to-day:     Round the wide world we will go,     Singing through the frost and snow     Till the daisies are in blow. Ye that cannot pipe or sing,   Ye must also come with speed; Ye must come, and with you bring   Weighty word and weightier deed—     Helping hands and loving eyes!     These will make them truly wise—     Then will be our Paradise. March 27, 1852.

WHEN THE STORM WAS PROUDEST

  When the storm was proudest,   And the wind was loudest, I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;   When the stars were bright,   And the ground was white, I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.   Many voices spake—   The river to the lake, And the iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;   And every starry spark   Made music with the dark, And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.   When the sun was setting,   All the clouds were getting Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;   Beneath the leafless trees   Wrangling in the breeze, I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.   When the day had ended,   And the night descended, I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day,   And every peak afar   Was ready for a star, And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.   Then slumber soft and holy   Came down upon me slowly, And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;   My glory had been banished,   For when I woke it vanished; But I waited on its coming, and I am waiting now.