The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 31

You shall be gleaned up!

Sucking and feazing, Crushing and squeezing All that is feathery, Crisp, not leathery, Juicy and bruisy-- All comes proper To my little hopper Still on the dance, Driven by hunger and drouth!

All is welcome to my crunching, Finding, grinding, Milling, munching, Gobbling, lunching, Fore-toothed, three-lipped mouth-- Eating side way, round way, flat way, Eating this way, eating that way, Every way at once!

Hark to the rain!-- Pattering, clattering, The cabbage leaves battering, Down it comes amain!-- Home we hurry Hop and scurry, And in with a flurry!

Hustling, jostling Out of the airy land Into the dry warm sand; Our family white tails, The last of our vitals, Following hard with a whisk to them, And with a great sense of risk to them!

Hear to it pouring!

Hear the thunder roaring Far off and up high, While we all lie So warm and so dry In the mellow dark, Where never a spark, White or rosy or blue, Of the sheeting, fleeting, Forking, frightening, Lashing lightning Ever can come through!

Let the wind chafe In the trees overhead, We are quite safe In our dark, yellow bed!

Let the rain pour!

It never can bore A hole in our roof-- It is waterproof!

So is the cloak We always carry, We furry folk, In sandhole or quarry!

It is perfect bliss To lie in a nest So soft as this, All so warmly drest!

No one to flurry you!

No one to hurry you!

No one to scurry you!

Holes plenty to creep in!

All day to sleep in!

All night to roam in!

Gray dawn to run home in!

And all the days and nights to come after-- All the to-morrows for hind-legs and laughter!

Now the rain is over, We are out again, Every merry, leaping rover, On his right leg and his wrong leg, On his doubled, shortened long leg, Floundering amain!

Oh, it is merry And jolly--yes, very!

But what--what is that?

What can he be at?

Is it a cat?

Ah, my poor little brother, He's caught in the trap That goes-to with a snap!

Ah me! there was never, Nor will be for ever-- There was never such another, Such a funny, funny bunny, Such a frisking, such a whisking, Such a frolicking brother!

He's screeching, beseeching!

They're going to--

Ah, my poor foot, It is caught in a root!

No, no! 'tis a trap That goes-to with a snap!

Ah me, I'm forsaken!

Ah me, I am taken!

I am screeching, beseeching!

They are going to--

No more! no more! I must stop this play, Be a boy again, and kneel down and pray To the G.o.d of sparrows and rabbits and men, Who never lets any one out of his ken-- It must be so, though it be bewild'ring-- To save his dear beasts from his cruel children!

_THE CHRISTMAS CHILD_.

"Little one, who straight hast come Down the heavenly stair, Tell us all about your home, And the father there."

"He is such a one as I, Like as like can be.

Do his will, and, by and by, Home and him you'll see."

_A CHRISTMAS PRAYER_.

Loving looks the large-eyed cow, Loving stares the long-eared a.s.s At Heaven's glory in the gra.s.s!

Child, with added human birth Come to bring the child of earth Glad repentance, tearful mirth, And a seat beside the hearth At the Father's knee-- Make us peaceful as thy cow; Make us patient as thine a.s.s; Make us quiet as thou art now; Make us strong as thou wilt be.

Make us always know and see We are his as well as thou.

_NO END OF NO-STORY_.

There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows and the nests they make with the clay they cake with the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the shallows or out of the hollows will hold together in any weather and the swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and are built very narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing and each so narrow like the head of an arrow is a wonderful barrow to carry the mud he makes for his children's sakes from the wet water flowing and the dry dust blowing to build his nest for her he loves best and the wind cakes it the sun bakes it into a nest for the rest of her he loves best and all their merry children each little fellow with a beak as yellow as the b.u.t.tercups growing beside the flowing of the singing river always and ever growing and blowing as fast as the sheep awake or asleep crop them and crop and cannot stop their yellowness blowing nor yet the growing of the obstinate daisies the little white praises they grow and they blow they spread out their crown and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done they fold up their crown and sleep every one till over the plain he is shining amain and they're at it again praising and praising such low songs raising that no one can hear them but the sun so near them and the sheep that bite them but do not fright them are the quietest sheep awake or asleep with the merriest bleat and the little lambs are the merriest lambs forgetting to eat for the frolic in their feet and the lambs and their dams are the whitest sheep with the woolliest wool for the swallow to pull when he makes his nest for her he loves best and they shine like snow in the gra.s.ses that grow by the singing river that sings for ever and the sheep and the lambs are merry for ever because the river sings and they drink it and the lambs and their dams would any one think it are bright and white because of their diet which gladdens them quiet for what they bite is b.u.t.tercups yellow and daisies white and gra.s.s as green as the river can make it with wind as mellow to kiss it and shake it as never was known but here in the hollows beside the river where all the swallows are the merriest fellows and the nests they make with the clay they cake in the sunshine bake till they are like bone and as dry in the wind as a marble stone dried in the wind the sweetest wind that blows by the river flowing for ever and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows on the hollows and over the shallows where dip the swallows and comes and goes and the sweet life blows into the river that sings as it flows and the sweet life blows into the sheep awake or asleep with the woolliest wool and the trailingest tails and never fails gentle and cool to wave the wool and to toss the gra.s.s as the lambs and the sheep over it pa.s.s and tug and bite with their teeth so white and then with the sweep of their trailing tails smooth it again and it grows amain and amain it grows and the wind that blows tosses the swallows over the hollows and over the shallows and blows the sweet life and the joy so rife into the swallows that skim the shallows and have the yellowest children and the wind that blows is the life of the river that flows for ever and washes the gra.s.ses still as it pa.s.ses and feeds the daisies the little white praises and b.u.t.tercups sunny with b.u.t.ter and honey that whiten the sheep awake or asleep that nibble and bite and grow whiter than white and merry and quiet on such good diet watered by the river and tossed for ever by the wind that tosses the wool and the gra.s.ses and the swallow that crosses with all the swallows over the shallows dipping their wings to gather the water and bake the cake for the wind to make as hard as a bone and as dry as a stone and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows from behind and ripples the river that flows for ever and still as it pa.s.ses waves the gra.s.ses and cools the daisies the white sun praises that feed the sheep awake or asleep and give them their wool for the swallows to pull a little away to mix with the clay that cakes to a nest for those they love best and all the yellow children soon to go trying their wings at the flying over the hollows and over the shallows with all the swallows that do not know whence the wind doth blow that comes from behind a blowing wind.

A THREEFOLD CORD:

Poems by Three Friends.

TO

GREVILLE MATHESON MACDONALD.

First, most, to thee, my son, I give this book In which a friend's and brother's verses blend With mine; for not son only--brother, friend, Art thou, through sonship which no veil can brook Between the eyes that in each other look, Or any shadow 'twixt the hearts that tend Still nearer, with divine approach, to end In love eternal that cannot be shook When all the shakable shall cease to be.

With growing hope I greet the coming day When from thy journey done I welcome thee Who sharest in the names of all the three, And take thee to the two, and humbly say, _Let this man be the fourth with us, I pray._

CASA CORAGGIO: _May, 1883._

A THREEFOLD CHORD.

_THE HAUNTED HOUSE_:

_Suggested by a drawing of Thomas Moran, the American painter._

This must be the very night!

The moon knows it!--and the trees!

They stand straight upright, Each a sentinel drawn up, As if they dared not know Which way the wind might blow!

The very pool, with dead gray eye, Dully expectant, feels it nigh, And begins to curdle and freeze!