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

THE SANGREAL:

A Part Of The Story Omitted In The Old Romances

I How sir Galahad despaired of finding the Grail Through the wood the sunny day   Glimmered sweetly glad; Through the wood his weary way   Rode sir Galahad. All about stood open porch,   Long-drawn cloister dim; 'Twas a wavering wandering church   Every side of him. On through columns arching high,   Foliage-vaulted, he Rode in thirst that made him sigh,   Longing miserably. Came the moon, and through the trees   Glimmered faintly sad; Withered, worn, and ill at ease   Down lay Galahad; Closed his eyes and took no heed   What might come or pass; Heard his hunger-busy steed   Cropping dewy grass. Cool and juicy was the blade,   Good to him as wine: For his labour he was paid,   Galahad must pine! Late had he at Arthur's board,   Arthur strong and wise, Pledged the cup with friendly lord,   Looked in ladies' eyes; Now, alas! he wandered wide,   Resting never more, Over lake and mountain-side,   Over sea and shore! Swift in vision rose and fled   All he might have had; Weary tossed his restless head,   And his heart grew sad. With the lowliest in the land   He a maiden fair Might have led with virgin hand   From the altar-stair: Youth away with strength would glide,   Age bring frost and woe; Through the world so dreary wide   Mateless he must go! Lost was life and all its good,   Gone without avail! All his labour never would   Find the Holy Grail! II How sir Galahad found and lost the Grail Galahad was in the night,   And the wood was drear; But to men in darksome plight   Radiant things appear: Wings he heard not floating by,   Heard no heavenly hail; But he started with a cry,   For he saw the Grail. Hid from bright beholding sun,   Hid from moonlight wan, Lo, from age-long darkness won,   It was seen of man! Three feet off, on cushioned moss,   As if cast away, Homely wood with carven cross,   Rough and rude it lay! To his knees the knight rose up,   Loosed his gauntlet-band; Fearing, daring, toward the cup   Went his naked hand; When, as if it fled from harm,   Sank the holy thing, And his eager following arm   Plunged into a spring. Oh the thirst, the water sweet!   Down he lay and quaffed, Quaffed and rose up on his feet,   Rose and gayly laughed; Fell upon his knees to thank,   Loved and lauded there; Stretched him on the mossy bank,   Fell asleep in prayer; Dreamed, and dreaming murmured low   Ave, pater, creed; When the fir-tops gan to glow   Waked and called his steed; Bitted him and drew his girth,   Watered from his helm: Happier knight or better worth   Was not in the realm! Belted on him then his sword,   Braced his slackened mail; Doubting said: "I dreamed the Lord   Offered me the Grail." III How sir Galahad gave up the Quest for the Grail Ere the sun had cast his light   On the water's face, Firm in saddle rode the knight   From the holy place, Merry songs began to sing,   Let his matins bide; Rode a good hour pondering,   And was turned aside, Saying, "I will henceforth then   Yield this hopeless quest; Tis a dream of holy men   This ideal Best!" "Every good for miracle   Heart devout may hold; Grail indeed was that fair well   Full of water cold! "Not my thirst alone it stilled   But my soul it stayed; And my heart, with gladness filled,   Wept and laughed and prayed! "Spectral church with cryptic niche   I will seek no more; That the holiest Grail is, which   Helps the need most sore!" And he spake with speech more true   Than his thought indeed, For not yet the good knight knew   His own sorest need. IV How sir Galahad sought yet again for the Grail On he rode, to succour bound,   But his faith grew dim; Wells for thirst he many found,   Water none for him. Never more from drinking deep   Rose he up and laughed; Never more did prayerful sleep   Follow on the draught. Good the water which they bore,   Plenteously it flowed, Quenched his thirst, but, ah, no more   Eased his bosom's load! For the Best no more he sighed;   Rode as in a trance; Life grew poor, undignified,   And he spake of chance. Then he dreamed through Jesus' hand   That he drove a nail— Woke and cried, "Through every land,   Lord, I seek thy Grail!" V That sir Galahad found the Grail Up the quest again he took,   Rode through wood and wave; Sought in many a mossy nook,   Many a hermit-cave; Sought until the evening red   Sunk in shadow deep; Sought until the moonlight fled;   Slept, and sought in sleep. Where he wandered, seeking, sad,   Story doth not say, But at length sir Galahad   Found it on a day; Took the Grail with holy hand,   Had the cup of joy; Carried it about the land,   Gleesome as a boy; Laid his sword where he had found   Boot for every bale, Stuck his spear into the ground,   Kept alone the Grail. VI How sir Galahad carried about the Grail Horse and crested helmet gone,   Greaves and shield and mail, Caroling loud the knight walked on,   For he had the Grail; Caroling loud walked south and north,   East and west, for years; Where he went, the smiles came forth,   Where he left, the tears. Glave nor dagger mourned he,   Axe nor iron flail: Evil might not brook to see   Once the Holy Grail. Wilds he wandered with his staff,   Woods no longer sad; Earth and sky and sea did laugh   Round sir Galahad. Bitter mere nor trodden pool   Did in service fail, Water all grew sweet and cool   In the Holy Grail. Without where to lay his head,   Chanting loud he went; Found each cave a palace-bed,   Every rock a tent. Age that had begun to quail   In the gathering gloom, Counselled he to seek the Grail   And forget the tomb. Youth with hope or passion pale,   Youth with eager eyes, Taught he that the Holy Grail   Was the only prize. Maiden worn with hidden ail,   Restless and unsure, Taught he that the Holy Grail   Was the only cure. Children rosy in the sun   Ran to hear his tale How twelve little ones had won   Each of them the Grail. VII How sir Galahad hid the Grail Very still was earth and sky   When he passing lay; Oft he said he should not die,   Would but go away. When he passed, they reverent sought,   Where his hand lay prest, For the cup he bare, they thought,   Hidden in his breast. Hope and haste and eager thrill   Turned to sorrowing wail: Hid he held it deeper still,   Took with him the Grail.

THE FAILING TRACK

Where went the feet that hitherto have come?   Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past! With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;   The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast. Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;   By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes; The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky   Over some lowly landmark sings and floats. Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;   There all the ships tear each its track of gray; Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:   In each a magic finger points the way. No finger finely touched, no eye of lark   Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail? Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,   Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder vale! The backward way one hour is plain to thee,   Hard hap were hers who saw no trace behind! Back to confession at thy mother's knee,   Back to the question and the childlike mind! Then start afresh, but toward unending end,   The goal o'er which hangs thy own star all night; So shalt thou need no footprints to befriend,   Child-heart and shining star will guide thee right.

TELL ME

"Traveller, what lies over the hill?   Traveller, tell to me: Tip-toe-high on the window-sill   Over I cannot see." "My child, a valley green lies there,   Lovely with trees, and shy; And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care,   Or I'll drown you by and by!'" "And what comes next?"—"A little town,   And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys up and down,   And a river now and then." "And what comes next?"—"A lonely moor   Without one beaten way, And slow clouds drifting dull before   A wind that will not stay." "And then?"—"Dark rocks and yellow sand,   Blue sea and a moaning tide." "And then?"—"More sea, and then more land,   With rivers deep and wide." "And then?"—"Oh, rock and mountain and vale,   Ocean and shores and men, Over and over, a weary tale,   And round to your home again!" "And is that all? From day to day,   Like one with a long chain bound, Should I walk and walk and not get away,   But go always round and round?" "No, no; I have not told you the best,   I have not told you the end: If you want to escape, away in the west   You will see a stair ascend, "Built of all colours of lovely stones,   A stair up into the sky Where no one is weary, and no one moans,   Or wishes to be laid by." "Is it far away?"—"I do not know:   You must fix your eyes thereon, And travel, travel through thunder and snow,   Till the weary way is gone. "All day, though you never see it shine,   You must travel nor turn aside, All night you must keep as straight a line   Through moonbeams or darkness wide." "When I am older!"—"Nay, not so!"   "I have hardly opened my eyes!" "He who to the old sunset would go,   Starts best with the young sunrise." "Is the stair right up? is it very steep?"   "Too steep for you to climb; You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap   And patient wait your time." "How long?"—"Nay, that I cannot tell."   "In wind, and rain, and frost?" "It may be so; and it is well   That you should count the cost. "Pilgrims from near and from distant lands   Will step on you lying there; But a wayfaring man with wounded hands   Will carry you up the stair."

BROTHER ARTIST!

Brother artist, help me; come!   Artists are a maimed band:   I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art dumb. Had I thine, when words did fail—   Vassal-words their hasting chief,   On the white awaiting leaf Shapes of power should tell the tale. Had I hers of music-might,   I would shake the air with storm   Till the red clouds trailed enorm Boreal dances through the night. Had I his whose foresight rare   Piles the stones with lordliest art,   From the quarry of my heart Love should climb a heavenly stair! Had I his whose wooing slow   Wins the marble's hidden child,   Out in passion undefiled Stood my Psyche, white as snow! Maimed, a little help I pray;   Words suffice not for my end;   Let thy hand obey thy friend, Say for me what I would say. Draw me, on an arid plain   With hoar-headed mountains nigh,   Under a clear morning sky Telling of a night of rain, Huge and half-shaped, like a block   Chosen for sarcophagus   By a Pharaoh glorious, One rude solitary rock. Cleave it down along the ridge   With a fissure yawning deep   To the heart of the hard heap, Like the rent of riving wedge. Through the cleft let hands appear,   Upward pointed with pressed palms   As if raised in silent psalms For salvation come anear. Turn thee now—'tis almost done!—   To the near horizon's verge:   Make the smallest arc emerge Of the forehead of the sun. One thing more—I ask too much!—   From a brow which hope makes brave   Sweep the shadow of the grave With a single golden touch. Thanks, dear painter; that is all.   If thy picture one day should   Need some words to make it good, I am ready to thy call.

AFTER AN OLD LEGEND

The monk was praying in his cell,   With bowed head praying sore; He had been praying on his knees   For two long hours and more. As of themselves, all suddenly,   His eyelids opened wide; Before him on the ground he saw   A man's feet close beside; And almost to the feet came down   A garment wove throughout; Such garment he had never seen   In countries round about! His eyes he lifted tremblingly   Until a hand they spied: A chisel-scar on it he saw,   And a deep, torn scar beside. His eyes they leaped up to the face,   His heart gave one wild bound, Then stood as if its work were done—   The Master he had found! With sudden clang the convent bell   Told him the poor did wait His hand to give the daily bread   Doled at the convent-gate. Then Love rose in him passionate,   And with Duty wrestled strong; And the bell kept calling all the time   With merciless iron tongue. The Master stood and looked at him   He rose up with a sigh: "He will be gone when I come back   I go to him by and by!" He chid his heart, he fed the poor   All at the convent-gate; Then with slow-dragging feet went back   To his cell so desolate: His heart bereaved by duty done,   He had sore need of prayer! Oh, sad he lifted the latch!—and, lo,   The Master standing there! He said, "My poor had not to stand   Wearily at thy gate: For him who feeds the shepherd's sheep   The shepherd will stand and wait." _Yet, Lord—for thou would'st have us judge,   And I will humbly dare— If he had staid, I do not think   Thou wouldst have left him there. Thy voice in far-off time I hear,   With sweet defending, say: "The poor ye always have with you,   Me ye have not alway!" Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor,   The deed thou shalt not rue; Wherever ye do my father's will   I always am with you."_

A MEDITATION OF ST. ELIGIUS

Queen Mary one day Jesus sent   To fetch some water, legends tell; The little boy, obedient,   Drew a full pitcher from the well; But as he raised it to his head,   The water lipping with the rim, The handle broke, and all was shed   Upon the stones about the brim. His cloak upon the ground he laid   And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.] Obedient there the water staid,   And home he bore it plentiful._ Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill:   The hands that all the world control, Had here been room for miracle,   Had made his mother's pitcher whole! "Still, some few drops for thirsty need   A poor invention even, when told In love of thee the Truth indeed,   Like broken pitcher yet may hold: "Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt:   I thought to bear the pitcher high; Upon the shining stones of guilt   I slipped, and there the potsherds lie! "Master, I cried, _no man will drink,   No human thirst will e'er be stilled Through me, who sit upon the brink,   My pitcher broke, thy water spilled! "What will they do I waiting left?   They looked to me to bring thy law! The well is deep, and, sin-bereft,   I nothing have wherewith to draw!"_ "But as I sat in evil plight,   With dry parched heart and sickened brain, Uprose in me the water bright,   Thou gavest me thyself again!"

THE EARLY BIRD

A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;   Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops; Day-long she had worked almost without rest,   And had filled every one of their gibbous crops; Her own she had filled just over-full, And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool. "Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head   Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all, Looking like an apple on a feather-bed   Poked and rounded and fluffed to a ball, "What's to be done if things don't reform? I cannot tell where there is one more worm! "I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each,   Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders: Who will dare say I don't do as I preach?   I set an example to all providers! But what's the use? We want a storm: I don't know where there's a single worm!" "There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee bird   Who woke at the voice of his mother's pain; "I know where there's five!" And with the word   He tucked in his head and went off again. "The folly of childhood," sighed his mother, "Has always been my especial bother!" Careless the yellow-beaks slept on,   They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow; The mother sat outside making her moan—   "I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow! I have always to say, the night before, Where shall I find one red worm more!" Her case was this, she had gobbled too many,   And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight: A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any!   Could she but get of the great worm-store sight! The eastern sky was growing red Ere she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed. Just then, the fellow who knew of five,   Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks, Woke, and stirred, and felt alive:   "To-day," he said, "I am up to six! But my mother feels in her lot the crook— What if I tried my own little hook!" When his mother awoke, she winked her eyes   As if she had dreamed that she was a mole: Could she believe them? "What a huge prize   That child is dragging out of its hole!" The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third! And here is a fable to catch the bird!