A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 1

A Hidden Life and Other Poems.

by George MacDonald.

1864.

To My Father.

I.

Take of the first fruits, Father, of thy care, Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my grat.i.tude Late waked for early gifts ill understood; Claiming in all my harvests rightful share, Whether with song that mounts the joyful air I praise my G.o.d; or, in yet deeper mood, Sit dumb because I know a speechless good, Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer.

Thou hast been faithful to my highest need; And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore, Shall never feel the grateful burden sore.

Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed, But for the sense thy living self did breed That fatherhood is at the great world's core.

II.

All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined, As for some being of another race; Ah! not with it departing--grown apace As years have brought me manhood's loftier mind Able to see thy human life behind-- The same hid heart, the same revealing face-- My own dim contest settling into grace Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined.

So I beheld my G.o.d, in childhood's morn, A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart, Moveless and dim--I scarce could say _Thou art_: My manhood came, of joy and sadness born-- Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn, Revealed man's glory, G.o.d's great human heart.

G.M.D. Jr.

Algiers, April, 1857.

CONTENTS.

A HIDDEN LIFE THE HOMELESS GHOST ABU MIDJAN AN OLD STORY A BOOK OP DREAMS TO AURELIO SAFFI SONNET A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA A GIFT THE MAN OF SONGS BETTER THINGS THE JOURNEY PRAYER REST TO A.J. SCOTT LIGHT TO A.J. SCOTT WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH THE HILLS I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS I WOULD I WERE A CHILD THE LOST SOUL A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM AFTER AN OLD LEGEND THE TREE'S PRAYER A STORY OF THE SEA Sh.o.r.e MY HEART O DO NOT LEAVE ME THE HOLY SNOWDROPS TO MY SISTER O THOU OF LITTLE FAITH LONGING A BOY'S GRIEF THE CHILD-MOTHER LOVE'S ORDEAL A PRAYER FOR THE PAST FAR AND NEAR MY ROOM SYMPATHY LITTLE ELFIE THE THANK OFFERING THE BURNT OFFERING FOUR SONNETS SONNET EIGHTEEN SONNETS DEATH AND BIRTH

EARLY POEMS.

LONGING MY EYES MAKE PICTURES DEATH LESSONS FOR A CHILD HOPE DEFERRED THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR A SONG IN A DREAM A THANKSGIVING

THE GOSPEL WOMEN.

THE MOTHER MARY THE WOMAN THAT CRIED IN THE CROWD THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN THE WIDOW OF NAIN THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM PILATE'S WIFE THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA MART MAGDALENE THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE MARTHA MARY THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER

POEMS.

A HIDDEN LIFE.

Proudly the youth, by manhood sudden crowned, Went walking by his horses to the plough, For the first time that morn. No soldier gay Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt (Knowing the blue blade hides within its sheath, As lightning in the cloud) with more delight, When first he belts it on, than he that day Heard still the clank of the plough-chains against The horses' harnessed sides, as to the field They went to make it fruitful. O'er the hill The sun looked down, baptizing him for toil.

A farmer's son he was, and grandson too; Yea, his great-grandsire had possessed these fields.

Tradition said they had been tilled by men Who bore the name long centuries ago, And married wives, and reared a stalwart race, And died, and went where all had followed them, Save one old man, his daughter, and the youth Who ploughs in pride, nor ever doubts his toil; And death is far from him this sunny morn.

Why should we think of death when life is high?

The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night.

Earth, give us food, and, after that, a grave; For both are good, each better in its time.

The youth knew little; but he read old tales Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift As charging knights upon their death career.

And then he chanted old tunes, till the blood Was charmed back into its fountain-well, And tears arose instead. And Robert's songs, Which ever flow in noises like his name, Rose from him in the fields beside the kine, And met the sky-lark's rain from out the clouds.

As yet he sang only as sing the birds, From gladness simply, or, he knew not why.

The earth was fair--he knew not it was fair; And he so glad--he knew not he was glad: He walked as in a twilight of the sense, Which this one day shall turn to tender light.

For, ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops Of the fir-thicket on the eastward hill, His horses leaned and laboured. His great hands Held both the reins and plough-stilts: he was proud; Proud with a ploughman's pride; n.o.bler, may be, Than statesman's, ay, or poet's pride sometimes, For little praise would come that he ploughed well, And yet he did it well; proud of his work, And not of what would follow. With sure eye, He saw the horses keep the arrow-track; He saw the swift share cut the measured sod; He saw the furrow folding to the right, Ready with nimble foot to aid at need.

And there the slain sod lay, patient for grain, Turning its secrets upward to the sun, And hiding in a grave green sun-born gra.s.s, And daisies clipped in carmine: all must die, That others live, and they arise again.

Then when the sun had clomb to his decline, And seemed to rest, before his slow descent, Upon the keystone of his airy bridge, They rested likewise, half-tired man and horse, And homeward went for food and courage new; Whereby refreshed, they turned again to toil, And lived in labour all the afternoon.

Till, in the gloaming, once again the plough Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea; And home with hanging neck the horses went, Walking beside their master, force by will.

Then through the deepening shades a vision came.

It was a lady mounted on a horse, A slender girl upon a mighty steed, That bore her with the pride horses must feel When they submit to women. Home she went, Alone, or else the groom lagged far behind.

But, as she pa.s.sed, some faithless belt gave way; The saddle slipped, the horse stopped, and the girl Stood on her feet, still holding fast the reins.

Three paces bore him bounding to her side; Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there; But with main force, as one that gripes with fear, He threw the fascination off, and saw The work before him. Soon his hand and knife Replaced the saddle firmer than before Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned To mount the maiden. But bewilderment A moment lasted; for he knew not how, With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne, Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid: A moment only; for while yet she thanked, Nor yet had time to teach her further will, Around her waist he put his brawny hands, That almost zoned her round; and like a child Lifting her high, he set her on the horse; Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him, Nor turned away, although a radiant blush Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes.

But he was never sure if from her heart Or from the rosy sunset came the flush.

Again she thanked him, while again he stood Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones Round which dissolving lambent music played, Like dropping water in a silver cup; Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, And called himself hard names, and turned and went After his horses, bending too his head.

Ah G.o.d! when Beauty pa.s.ses by the door, Although she ne'er came in, the house grows bare.

Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house.

Why seems it always that it should be ours?

A secret lies behind which Thou dost know, And I can partly guess.

But think not then, The holder of the plough had many sighs Upon his bed that night; or other dreams Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep, Within the magic crystal of the soul; Nor that the airy castles of his brain Had less foundation than the air admits.

But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name; And answer, if he gained not from the fair Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth, An angel vision from a higher world.

Not much of her I tell. Her changeful life Where part the waters on the mountain ridge, Flowed down the other side apart from his.

Her tale hath wiled deep sighs on summer eves, Where in the ancient mysteries of woods Walketh a man who worships womanhood.

Soon was she orphaned of such parent-haunts; Surrounded with dead glitter, not the shine Of leaves in wind and sunlight; while the youth Breathed on, as if a constant breaking dawn Sent forth the new-born wind upon his brow; And knew the morning light was climbing up The further hill-side--morning light, which most, They say, reveals the inner hues of earth.

Now she was such as G.o.d had made her, ere The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say, And half-succeeded, failing utterly.

Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child That stares you in the eyes; fearless of ill, Because she knew it not; and brave withal, Because she drank the draught that maketh strong, The charmed country air. Her father's house-- A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- Stood only two miles off amid the hills; But though she often pa.s.sed alone as now, The youth had never seen her face before, And might not twice. Yet was not once enough?

It left him not. She, as the harvest moon That goeth on her way, and knoweth not The fields of grain whose ripening ears she fills With wealth of life and human joyfulness, Went on, and knew not of the influence She left behind; yea, never thought of him; Save at those times when, all at once, old scenes Return uncalled, with wonder that they come, Amidst far other thoughts and other cares; Sinking again into their ancient graves, Till some far-whispered necromantic spell Loose them once more to wander for a s.p.a.ce.

Again I say, no fond romance of love, No argument of possibilities, If he were some one, and she claimed his aid, Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams.

As soon he had sat down and twisted cords To snare, and carry home for daylight use, Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields.

But when he rose next morn, and went abroad, (The exultation of his new-found rank Already settling into dignity,) He found the earth was beautiful. The sky, Which shone with expectation of the sun, Somehow, he knew not how, was like her face.

He grieved almost to plough the daisies down; Something they shared in common with that smile Wherewith she crowned his manhood; and they fell Bent in the furrow, sometimes, with their heads Just out imploringly. A hedgehog ran With tangled mesh of bristling spikes, and face Helplessly innocent, across the field: He let it run, and blessed it as it ran.

At noon returning, something drew his feet Into the barn. Entering, he gazed and stood.

Through the rent roof alighting, one sunbeam, Blazing upon the straw one golden spot, Dulled all the yellow heap, and sank far down, Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound, Crossing the splendour with the shadow-straws, In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, The eye was cheated with a spectral smoke That rose as from a fire. He never knew, Before, how beautiful the sunlight was; Though he had seen it in the gra.s.sy fields, And on the river, and the ripening corn, A thousand times. He threw him on the heap, And gazing down into the glory-gulf, Dreamed as a boy half-sleeping by the fire; And dreaming rose, and got his horses out.

G.o.d, and not woman, is the heart of all.