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

A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA

I

 
  Upon a rock I sat—a mountain-side,
  Far, far forsaken of the old sea's lip;
  A rock where ancient waters' rise and dip,
  Recoil and plunge, eddy, and oscillant tide,
  Had worn and worn, while races lived and died,
  Involved channels. Where the sea-weed's drip
  Followed the ebb, now crumbling lichens sip
  Sparse dews of heaven that down with sunset slide.
  I sat long-gazing southward. A dry flow
  Of withering wind sucked up my drooping strength,
  Itself weak from the desert's burning length.
  Behind me piled, away and up did go
  Great sweeps of savage mountains—up, away,
  Where snow gleams ever, panthers roam, they say.
 

II

 
  This infant world has taken long to make,
  Nor hast Thou done with it, but mak'st it yet,
  And wilt be working on when death has set
  A new mound in some churchyard for my sake.
  On flow the centuries without a break;
  Uprise the mountains, ages without let;
  The lichens suck; the hard rock's breast they fret;
  Years more than past, the young earth yet will take.
  But in the dumbness of the rolling time,
  No veil of silence shall encompass me—
  Thou wilt not once forget and let me be;
  Rather wouldst thou some old chaotic prime
  Invade, and, moved by tenderness sublime,
  Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.
 

A. M. D

 
  Methinks I see thee, lying straight and low,
  Silent and darkling, in thy earthy bed,
  The mighty strength in which I trusted, fled,
  The long arms lying careless of kiss or blow;
  On thy tall form I see the night-robe flow
  Down from the pale, composed face—thy head
  Crowned with its own dark curls: though thou wast dead,
  They dressed thee as for sleep, and left thee so!
  My heart, with cares and questionings oppressed,
  Not oft since thou didst leave us turns to thee;
  But wait, my brother, till I too am dead,
  And thou shalt find that heart more true, more free,
  More ready in thy love to take its rest,
  Than when we lay together in one bed.
 

TO GARIBALDI—WITH A BOOK

 
  When at Philippi, he who would have freed
  Great Rome from tyrants, for the season brief
  That lay 'twixt him and battle, sought relief
  From painful thoughts, he in a book did read,
  That so the death of Portia might not breed
  Unmanful thoughts, and cloud his mind with grief:
  Brother of Brutus, of high hearts the chief,
  When thou at length receiv'st thy heavenly meed,
  And I have found my hoping not in vain,
  Tell me my book has wiled away one pang
  That out of some lone sacred memory sprang,
  Or wrought an hour's forgetfulness of pain,
  And I shall rise, my heart brimful of gain,
  And thank my God amid the golden clang.
 

TO S. F. S

 
  They say that lonely sorrows do not chance:
  More gently, I think, sorrows together go;
  A new one joins the funeral gliding slow
  With less of jar than when it breaks the dance.
  Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance;
  Nature is generous to her children so.
  And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow,
  As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance
  The foot that must walk naked in life's way,—
  Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear,
  Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear,
  They would walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay;
  And when the soft night closed the weary day,
  Would sleep like those that far-off music hear.
 

RUSSELL GURNEY

 
  In that high country whither thou art gone,
  Right noble friend, thou walkest with thy peers,
  The gathered great of many a hundred years!
  Few are left like thee—few, I say, not none,
  Else were thy England soon a Babylon,
  A land of outcry, mockery, and tears!
  Higher than law, a refuge from its fears,
  Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone.
  The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face
  Was like the sunrise of a morn serene
  Among the mountains, making sweet their awe.
  Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw;
  Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean,
  As, whence thou cam'st, it knew the lofty place.
 

TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS

I

 
  Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark,
  And twilight cool thy potent day inclose!
  The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows
  All the night through, sleepless and young and stark.
  Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark,
  More daring: in the midnight of thy woes,
  Dart through them, higher than earth's shadow goes,
  Into the Light of which thou art a spark!
  Be willing to be blind—that, in thy night,
  The Lord may bring his Father to thy door,
  And enter in, and feast thy soul with light.
  Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more,
  Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies,
  And shine, God's house, all radiant in our eyes.
 

II

 
  Say thou, his will be done who is the good!
  His will be borne who knoweth how to bear!
  Who also in the night had need of prayer,
  Both when awoke divinely longing mood,
  And when the power of darkness him withstood.
  For what is coming take no jot of care:
  Behind, before, around thee as the air,
  He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood.
  And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer,
  Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest,
  Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest
  With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height,
  Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share:
  He needs no eyes who is a shining light!
 

TO AUBREY DE VERE

 
  Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere,
  Forgive my play fantastic with thy name,
  Distilling its true essence by the flame
  Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear.
  I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer;
  If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame,
  Or furthering by failure each high aim;
  If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear;
  But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by—
  Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod—
  We laying down the staff, and He the rod—
  So look on me I shall not need to cry—
  "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I:
  We mean the same thing—will the will of God!"
 

GENERAL GORDON

I

 
  Victorious through failure! faithful Lord,
  Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray
  From thine own country of eternal day,
  To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde,
  Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!—
  Our long retarded legions, on their way,
  Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway,
  To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word,
  Thou sawest foiled—but glorifiedst him,
  Over ten cities giving him thy rule!
  We will not mourn a star that grew not dim,
  A soldier-child of God gone home from school!
  A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff,
  And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff!
 

II

 
  Another to the witnesses' roll-call
  Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out—
  With willingness crowned everywhere about,
  Not the head only, but the body all,
  In one great nimbus of obedient fall,
  His heart's blood dashing in the face of doubt—
  Love's last victorious stand amid the rout!
  —Silence is left, and the untasted gall.
  No chariot with ramping steeds of fire
  The Father sent to fetch his man-child home;
  His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!"
  And like a dove to heaven he did aspire,
  His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire.
  —Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb!
 

THE CHRYSALIS

 
  Methought I floated sightless, nor did know
  That I had ears until I heard the cry
  As of a mighty man in agony:
  "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow?
  The arrows of thy lightning through me go,
  And sting and torture me—yet here I lie
  A shapeless mass that scarce can mould a sigh!"
  The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below
  Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet.
  Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead,
  And looked upon the world: the silence broke!
  A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat
  Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke!
  And from that world a mighty angel fled.
 

THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR

 
  Methought that in a solemn church I stood.
  Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet,
  Lay spread from door to door, from street to street.
  Midway the form hung high upon the rood
  Of him who gave his life to be our good;
  Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet,
  Among the candles shining still and sweet.
  Men came and went, and worshipped as they could—
  And still their dust a woman with her broom,
  Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door.
  Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom,
  Across the church a silent figure come:
  "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!"
  It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more.
 

DEATH

 
  Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
  A fresher birth brings every new year in.
  Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
  See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
  My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
  Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
  —Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
  Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:—
  Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
  Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
  And set upon his day night's starry crown!
  Death, say'st thou? Nay—thine be no caitiff creed!—
  A woman-angel! see—in long white gown!
  The mother of our youth!—she maketh speed.
 

ORGAN SONGS

TO A. J. SCOTT

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM

 
  I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.
  Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,
  Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed
 
 
  A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain.
  Closed were the lofty doors that led within;
  But by a wicket one might entrance gain.
 
 
  'Twas awe and silence when I entered in;
  The night, the weariness, the rain were lost
  In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin
 
 
  Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed,
  As if they sought some harmony to find
  Which they knew once, but none of all that host
 
 
  Could wile the far-fled music back to mind.
  Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along
  The pillared paths, and up the arches twined
 
 
  With sister arches, rising, throng on throng,
  Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times
  The voices gathered to a burst of song,
 
 
  But parted sudden, and were but single rimes
  By single bells through Sabbath morning sent,
  That have no thought of harmony or chimes.
 
 
  Hopeful confusion! Who could be content
  Looking and hearkening from the distant door?
  I entered further. Solemnly it went—
 
 
  Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar,
  Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine:
  I loved and listened, listened and loved more.
 
 
  May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine
  Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone?
  Let my poor song be taken in to thine.
 
 
  Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own,
  Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown?
 

LIGHT

 
  First-born of the creating Voice!
  Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent
  Waiting upon him first, what time he went
  Moving about mid the tumultuous noise
  Of each unpiloted element
  Upon the face of the void formless deep!
  Thou who didst come unbodied and alone
  Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep,
  Or ever the moon shone,
  Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven!
  Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt
  Sweeps, glory-giving, over earth and heaven!
  Thou comforter, be with me as thou wert
  When first I longed for words, to be
  A radiant garment for my thought, like thee!
 
 
  We lay us down in sorrow,
  Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night;
  In vexing dreams we strive until the morrow;
  Grief lifts our eyelids up—and Lo, the light!
  The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise
  Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies;
  Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests;
  Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down;
  Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts;
  Of clouds that show thy glory as their own;
  O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by!
  Light, gladness, motion, are reality!
 
 
  Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs
  Far up to catch thy glory on his wings;
  And thou dost bless him first that highest soars.
  The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers
  Worship thee all day long, and through the skies
  Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes.
  River of life, thou pourest on the woods,
  And on thy waves float out the wakening buds;
  The trees lean toward thee, and, in loving pain,
  Keep turning still to see thee yet again;
  South sides of pines, haunted all day by thee,
  Bear violins that tremble humanly.
  And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low:
  Where'er thou art, on every side,
  All things are glorified;
  And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw
  Beautiful shadows, made out of the dark,
  That else were shapeless; now it bears thy mark.
 
 
  And men have worshipped thee.
  The Persian, on his mountain-top,
  Waits kneeling till thy sun go up,
  God-like in his serenity.
  All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near,
  And the wide earth waits till his face appear—
  Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps
  Along the ridges of the outlying clouds,
  Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps.
  Sudden, still multitudinous laughter crowds
  The universal face: Lo, silently,
  Up cometh he, the never-closing eye!
  Symbol of Deity, men could not be
  Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee!
 
 
  Thou plaything of the child,
  When from the water's surface thou dost spring,
  Thyself upon his chamber ceiling fling,
  And there, in mazy dance and motion wild,
  Disport thyself—etherial, undefiled.
  Capricious, like the thinkings of the child!
  I am a child again, to think of thee
  In thy consummate glee.
  How I would play with thee, athirst to climb
  On sloping ladders of thy moted beams,
  When through the gray dust darting in long streams!
  How marvel at the dusky glimmering red,
  With which my closed fingers thou hadst made
  Like rainy clouds that curtain the sun's bed!
  And how I loved thee always in the moon!
  But most about the harvest-time,
  When corn and moonlight made a mellow tune,
  And thou wast grave and tender as a cooing dove!
  And then the stars that flashed cold, deathless love!
  And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide!
  And more mysterious earthly stars,
  That shone from windows of the hill and glen—
  Thee prisoned in with lattice-bars,
  Mingling with household love and rest of weary men!
  And still I am a child, thank God!—to spy
  Thee starry stream from bit of broken glass
  Upon the brown earth undescried,
  Is a found thing to me, a gladness high,
  A spark that lights joy's altar-fire within,
  A thought of hope to prophecy akin,
  That from my spirit fruitless will not pass.
 
 
                  Thou art the joy of age:
  Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls.
  Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls,
  And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage
  To gather song from radiance, in his chair
  Sits by the door; and sitteth there
  His soul within him, like a child that lies
  Half dreaming, with half-open eyes,
  At close of a long afternoon in summer—
  High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where
  The raven is almost the only comer—
  Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment
  At thy celestial ascent
  Through rifted loop to light upon the gold
  That waves its bloom in some high airy rent:
  So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old,
  But sleepy mid the ruins that infold.
 
 
              What soul-like changes, evanescent moods,
  Upon the face of the still passive earth,
  Its hills, and fields, and woods,
  Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art ever calling forth!
  Even like a lord of music bent
  Over his instrument,
  Giving to carol, now to tempest birth!
  When, clear as holiness, the morning ray
  Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its feet,
  Mottling with shadows all the mountain gray;
  When, at the hour of sovereign noon,
  Infinite silent cataracts sheet
  Shadowless through the air of thunder-breeding June;
  When now a yellower glory slanting passes
  'Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow grasses;
  And now the moon lifts up her shining shield,
  High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed;
  Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away,
  Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray,
  Her still face seeming more to think than see,
  Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams of thee!
  No mood, eternal or ephemeral,
  But wakes obedient at thy silent call!
 
 
  Of operative single power,
  And simple unity the one emblem,
  Yet all the colours that our passionate eyes devour,
  In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem,
  Are the melodious descant of divided thee.
  Lo thee in yellow sands! Lo thee
  In the blue air and sea!
  In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit,
  Thy half-souls parted, patient thou dost sit.
  Lo thee in dying triumphs of the west!
  Lo thee in dew-drop's tiny breast!
  Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away,
  Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray!
  Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw
  Thy hoardless wealth of gleam and glow!
  The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers
  Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours;
  The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be,
  Are dead till touched by thee.
 
 
                                Everywhere,
  Thou art lancing through the air!
  Every atom from another
  Takes thee, gives thee to his brother;
  Continually,
  Thou art wetting the wet sea,
  Bathing its sluggish woods below,
  Making the salt flowers bud and blow;
  Silently,
  Workest thou, and ardently,
  Waking from the night of nought
  Into being and to thought;
 
 
                      Influences
  Every beam of thine dispenses,
  Potent, subtle, reaching far,
  Shooting different from each star.
  Not an iron rod can lie
  In circle of thy beamy eye,
  But its look doth change it so
  That it cannot choose but show
  Thou, the worker, hast been there;
  Yea, sometimes, on substance rare,
  Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark
  Even in what men call the dark.
  Ever doing, ever showing,
  Thou dost set our hearts a glowing—
  Universal something sent
  To shadow forth the Excellent!
 
 
  When the firstborn affections—
  Those winged seekers of the world within,
  That search about in all directions,
  Some bright thing for themselves to win—
  Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs,
  Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs,
  Long, long, have followed faces fair,
  Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air,
  And darkness is around them and above,
  Desolate of aught to love,
  And through the gloom on every side,
  Strange dismal forms are dim descried,
  And the air is as the breath
  From the lips of void-eyed Death,
  And the knees are bowed in prayer
  To the Stronger than despair—
  Then the ever-lifted cry,
  Give us light, or we shall die,
  Cometh to the Father's ears,
  And he hearkens, and he hears:—
 
 
  As some slow sun would glimmer forth
  From sunless winter of the north,
  We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes,
  Discern and doubt the opening skies.
  From a misty gray that lies on
  Our dim future's far horizon,
  It grows a fresh aurora, sent
  Up the spirit's firmament,
  Telling, through the vapours dun,
  Of the coming, coming sun!
  Tis Truth awaking in the soul!
  His Righteousness to make us whole!
  And what shall we, this Truth receiving,
  Though with but a faint believing,
  Call it but eternal Light?
  'Tis the morning, 'twas the night!
 
 
               All things most excellent
  Are likened unto thee, excellent thing!
  Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent,
  Came like a lamp, to bring,
  Across the winds and wastes of night,
  The everlasting light.
  Hail, Word of God, the telling of his thought!
  Hail, Light of God, the making-visible!
  Hail, far-transcending glory brought
  In human form with man to dwell—
  Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less
  To show, irradiate, and bless;
  The gathering of the primal rays divine
  Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine!
 
 
         Dull horrid pools no motion making!
  No bubble on the surface breaking!
  The dead air lies, without a sound,
  Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground.
 
 
  Rushing winds and snow-like drift,
  Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift!
  Hair-like vapours madly riven!
  Waters smitten into dust!
  Lightning through the turmoil driven,
  Aimless, useless, yet it must!
 
 
  Gentle winds through forests calling!
  Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing!
  Solemn waves on sea-shores falling!
  White sails on blue waters dancing!
  Mountain streams glad music giving!
  Children in the clear pool laving!
  Yellow corn and green grass waving!
  Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living!
  Light, O radiant, it is thou!
  Light!—we know our Father now!
 
 
  Forming ever without form;
  Showing, but thyself unseen;
  Pouring stillness on the storm;
  Breathing life where death had been!
  If thy light thou didst draw in,
  Death and Chaos soon were out,
  Weltering o'er the slimy sea,
  Riding on the whirlwind's rout,
  In wild unmaking energy!
  God, be round us and within,
  Fighting darkness, slaying sin.
 
 
  Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable,
  On whom no changing shadow ever fell!
  Thy light we know not, are content to see;
  Thee we know not, and are content to be!—
  Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we!
  But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed,
  Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast?
  Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee!
  The very shadows on our souls that lie,
  Good witness to the light supernal bear;
  The something 'twixt us and the sky
  Could cast no shadow if light were not there!
  If children tremble in the night,
  It is because their God is light!
  The shining of the common day
  Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow—
  Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies:
  Thy living light's eternal play,
  Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?—
  Behind the life itself, its fountains rise!
  In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place;
  And we have seen thee in the Saviour's face.
 
 
  Enlighten me, O Light!—why art thou such?
  Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet?
  Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch?
  Why in thee do the known and unknown meet?
  Why swift and tender, strong and delicate?
  Simple as truth, yet manifold in might?
  Why does one love thee, and another hate?
  Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech
  When I a goodly matter would indite?
  Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach?
  —In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech,
  For God is light.