The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 37

Come in the glory of thine excellence, Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light, And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels Burn through the cracks of night! So slowly, Lord, To lift myself to thee with hands of toil, Climbing the slippery cliffs of unheard prayer!

Lift up a hand among my idle days-- One beckoning finger: I will cast aside The clogs of earthly circ.u.mstance and run Up the broad highways where the countless worlds Sit ripening in the summer of thy love.

Send a clear meaning sparkling through the years; Burst all the prison-doors, and make men's hearts Gush up like fountains with thy melody; Brighten the hollow eyes; fill with life's fruits The hands that grope and scramble down the wastes; And let the ghastly troops of withered ones Come shining o'er the mountains of thy love.

Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening down Upon my head like snowflakes, shutting out The happy upper fields with chilly vapour.

Shall I content my soul with a weak sense Of safety? or feed my ravenous hunger with Sore purged hopes, that are not hopes but fears Clad in white raiment?

The creeds lie in the hollow of men's hearts Like festering pools gla.s.sing their own corruption; The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval, And answer not when thy bright starry feet Move on the watery floors: oh, shake men's souls Together like the gathering of all oceans Rent from their hidden chambers, till the waves Lift up their million voices of high joy Along the echoing cliffs! come thus, O Lord, With nightly gifts of stars, and lay a hand Of mighty peace upon the quivering flood.

O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee?

I am a child lost in a mighty forest; The air is thick with voices, and strange hands Reach through the dusk, and pluck me by the skirts.

There is a voice which sounds like words from home, But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems To leap from rock to rock: oh, if it is Willing obliquity of sense, descend, Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand, And lead me homeward through the shadows.

Let me not by my wilful acts of pride Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth And leaden confidence.

_COME DOWN_.

Still am I haunting Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting Up thy steep stairs!

Wouldst thou not rather Come down to my heart, And there, O my Father, Be what thou art?

_A MOOD_.

My thoughts are like fire-flies, pulsing in moonlight; My heart like a silver cup, filled with red wine; My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.

_THE CARPENTER_.

0 Lord, at Joseph's humble bench Thy hands did handle saw and plane; Thy hammer nails did drive and clench, Avoiding knot and humouring grain.

That thou didst seem, thou wast indeed, In sport thy tools thou didst not use; Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need, The labourer's hire, too nice, refuse.

Lord, might I be but as a saw, A plane, a chisel, in thy hand!-- No, Lord! I take it back in awe, Such prayer for me is far too grand.

I pray, O Master, let me lie, As on thy bench the favoured wood; Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply, And work me into something good.

No, no; ambition, holy-high, Urges for more than both to pray: Come in, O gracious Force, I cry-- O workman, share my shed of clay.

Then I, at bench, or desk, or oar, With knife or needle, voice or pen, As thou in Nazareth of yore, Shall do the Father's will again.

Thus fashioning a workman rare, O Master, this shall be thy fee: Home to thy father thou shall bear Another child made like to thee.

_THE OLD GARDEN_.

I.

I stood in an ancient garden With high red walls around; Over them grey and green lichens In shadowy arabesque wound.

The topmost climbing blossoms On fields kine-haunted looked out; But within were shelter and shadow, With daintiest odours about.

There were alleys and lurking arbours, Deep glooms into which to dive.

The lawns were as soft as fleeces, Of daisies I counted but five.

The sun-dial was so aged It had gathered a thoughtful grace; 'Twas the round-about of the shadow That so had furrowed its face.

The flowers were all of the oldest That ever in garden sprung; Red, and blood-red, and dark purple The rose-lamps flaming hung.

Along the borders fringed With broad thick edges of box Stood foxgloves and gorgeous poppies And great-eyed hollyhocks.

There were junipers trimmed into castles, And ash-trees bowed into tents; For the garden, though ancient and pensive, Still wore quaint ornaments.

It was all so stately fantastic Its old wind hardly would stir; Young Spring, when she merrily entered, Scarce felt it a place for her.

II.

I stood in the summer morning Under a cavernous yew; The sun was gently climbing, And the scents rose after the dew.

I saw the wise old mansion, Like a cow in the noon-day heat, Stand in a lake of shadows That rippled about its feet.

Its windows were oriel and latticed, Lowly and wide and fair; And its chimneys like cl.u.s.tered pillars Stood up in the thin blue air.

White doves, like the thoughts of a lady, Haunted it all about; With a train of green and blue comets The peac.o.c.k went marching stout.

The birds in the trees were singing A song as old as the world, Of love and green leaves and sunshine, And winter folded and furled.

They sang that never was sadness But it melted and pa.s.sed away; They sang that never was darkness But in came the conquering day.

And I knew that a maiden somewhere, In a low oak-panelled room, In a nimbus of shining garments, An aureole of white-browed bloom,

Looked out on the garden dreamy, And knew not it was old; Looked past the gray and the sombre, Saw but the green and the gold,

III.

I stood in the gathering twilight, In a gently blowing wind; Then the house looked half uneasy, Like one that was left behind.

The roses had lost their redness, And cold the gra.s.s had grown; At roost were the pigeons and peac.o.c.k, The sun-dial seemed a head-stone.

The world by the gathering twilight In a gauzy dusk was clad; Something went into my spirit And made me a little sad.

Grew and gathered the twilight, It filled my heart and brain; The sadness grew more than sadness, It turned to a gentle pain.

Browned and brooded the twilight, Pervaded, absorbed the calm, Till it seemed for some human sorrows There could not be any balm.

IV.