The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 42

I know how the valleys are bright from far, Rocks, meadows, and waters, the wood and the scaur; And how the roadside and the nearest hill The foxglove and heather and harebell fill.

I know--but the joy that was quick to go Gave more knowledge to me than words can shew; And _you_ know the story, and how they fare Who love the green earth and the heavenly air.

_COME TO ME_.

Come to me, come to me, O my G.o.d; Come to me everywhere!

Let the trees mean thee, and the gra.s.sy sod, And the water and the air!

For thou art so far that I often doubt, As on every side I stare, Searching within, and looking without, If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old?

How did they grow so sure?

They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold, They suffered, and kept themselves pure!

But now they say--neither above the sphere Nor down in the heart of man, But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true Which ages have not made old, Which of endless many makes one anew, And simplicity manifold!

But _he_ taught that they who did his word The truth of it sure would know: I will try to do it: if he be lord Again the old faith will glow;

Again the old spirit-wind will blow That he promised to their prayer; And obeying the Son, I too shall know His father everywhere!

_A FEAR_.

O Mother Earth, I have a fear Which I would tell to thee-- Softly and gently in thine ear When the moon and we are three.

Thy gra.s.s and flowers are beautiful; Among thy trees I hide; And underneath the moonlight cool Thy sea looks broad and wide;

But this I fear--lest thou shouldst grow To me so small and strange, So distant I should never know On thee a shade of change,

Although great earthquakes should uplift Deep mountains from their base, And thy continual motion shift The lands upon thy face;--

The gra.s.s, the flowers, the dews that lie Upon them as before-- Driven upwards evermore, lest I Should love these things no more.

Even now thou dimly hast a place In deep star galaxies!

And I, driven ever on through s.p.a.ce, Have lost thee in the skies!

_THE LOST HOUSE_.

Out of thy door I run to do the thing That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing About their work, "My G.o.d, my father-king!"

I turn in haste to see thy blessed door, But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds, And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!

Ah me! the house of peace is there no more.

Was it a dream then?--Walls, fireside, and floor, And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free, Are vanished--gone as they had never been!

I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!-- And I am kneeling at my father's knee, Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.

_THE TALK OF THE ECHOES_.

A FRAGMENT.

When the c.o.c.k crows loud from the glen, And the moor-c.o.c.k chirrs from the heather, What hear ye and see ye then, Ye children of air and ether?

1_st Echo_.

A thunder as of waves at the rising of the moon, And a darkness on the graves though the day is at its noon.

_2nd Echo_. A springing as of gra.s.s though the air is damp and chill, And a glimmer from the river that winds about the hill.

_1st Echo_. A lapse of crags that leant from the mountain's earthen sheath, And a shock of ruin sent on the river underneath.

_2nd Echo_. A sound as of a building that groweth fair and good, And a piping of the thrushes from the hollow of the wood.

_1st Echo_. A wailing as of lambs that have wandered from the flock, And a bleating of their dams that was answered from the rock.

_2nd Echo_. A breathing as of cattle in the shadow where they dream, And a sound of children playing with the pebbles in the stream.

_1st Echo_. A driving as of clouds in the kingdom of the air, And a tumult as of crowds that mingle everywhere.

_2nd Echo_. A waving of the gra.s.s, and a pa.s.sing o'er the lakes, And a shred of tempest-cloud in the glory when it breaks.

_THE GOAL_

In G.o.d alone, the perfect end, Wilt thou find thyself or friend.

_THE HEALER_.

They come to thee, the halt, the maimed, the blind, The devil-torn, the sick, the sore; Thy heart their well of life they find, Thine ear their open door.

Ah, who can tell the joy in Palestine-- What smiles and tears of rescued throngs!

Their lees of life were turned to wine, Their prayers to shouts and songs!

The story dear our wise men fable call, Give paltry facts the mighty range; To me it seems just what should fall, And nothing very strange.

But were I deaf and lame and blind and sore, I scarce would care for cure to ask; Another prayer should haunt thy door-- Set thee a harder task.

If thou art Christ, see here this heart of mine, Torn, empty, moaning, and unblest!