The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 45

_AFTER THE FASHION OF AN OLD EMBLEM._

I have long enough been working down in my cellar, Working spade and pick, boring-chisel and drill; I long for wider s.p.a.ces, airy, clear-dark, and stellar: Successless labour never the love of it did fill.

More profit surely lies in a holy, pure quiescence, In a setting forth of cups to catch the heavenly rain, In a yielding of the being to the ever waiting presence, In a lifting of the eyes upward, homeward again!

Up to my garret, its storm-windows and skylights!

There I'll lay me on the floor, and patient let the sun, The moon and the stars, the blueness and the twilights Do what their pleasure is, and wait till they have done.

But, lo, I hear a waving on the roof of great pinions!

'Tis the labour of a windmill, broad-spreading to the wind!

Lo, down there goes a. shaft through all the house-dominions!

I trace it to a cellar, whose door I cannot find.

But there I hear ever a keen diamond-drill in motion, Now fast and now slow as the wind sits in the sails, Drilling and boring to the far eternal ocean, The living well of all wells whose water never fails.

So now I go no more to the cellar to my labour, But up to my garret where those arms are ever going; There the sky is ever o'er me, and the wind my blessed neighbour, And the prayer-handle ready turns the sails to its blowing.

Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing!

Keep the great windmill going full and free; So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going Till in burst the waters of G.o.d's eternal sea.

_A PRAYER IN SICKNESS._

Thou foldest me in sickness; Thou callest through the cloud; I batter with the thickness Of the swathing, blinding shroud: Oh, let me see thy face, The only perfect grace That thou canst show thy child.

0 father, being-giver, Take off the sickness-cloud; Saviour, my life deliver From this dull body-shroud: Till I can see thy face I am not full of grace, I am not reconciled.

_QUIET DEAD!_

Quiet, quiet dead, Have ye aught to say From your hidden bed In the earthy clay?

Fathers, children, mothers, Ye are very quiet; Can ye shout, my brothers?

I would know you by it!

Have ye any words That are like to ours?

Have ye any birds?

Have ye any flowers?

Could ye rise a minute When the sun is warm?

I would know you in it, I would take no harm.

I am half afraid In the ghostly night; If ye all obeyed I should fear you quite.

But when day is breaking In the purple east I would meet you waking-- One of you at least--

When the sun is tipping Every stony block, And the sun is slipping Down the weatherc.o.c.k.

Quiet, quiet dead, I will not perplex you; What my tongue hath said Haply it may vex you!

Yet I hear you speaking With a quiet speech, As if ye were seeking Better things to teach:

"Wait a little longer, Suffer and endure Till your heart is stronger And your eyes are pure--

A little longer, brother, With your fellow-men: We will meet each other Otherwhere again."

_LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE._

Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest in my head A lamp that well might pharos all the lands; Anon the light will neither rise nor spread: Shrouded in danger gray the beacon stands!

A pharos? Oh dull brain! poor dying lamp Under a bushel with an earthy smell!

Mouldering it stands, in rust and eating damp, While the slow oil keeps oozing from its cell!

For me it were enough to be a flower Knowing its root in thee, the Living, hid, Ordained to blossom at the appointed hour, And wake or sleep as thou, my Nature, bid;

But hear my brethren in their darkling fright!

Hearten my lamp that it may shine abroad Then will they cry--Lo, there is something bright!

Who kindled it if not the shining G.o.d?

_TRIOLET._

When the heart is a cup In the body low lying, And wine, drop by drop Falls into that cup

From somewhere high up, It is good to be dying With the heart for a cup In the body low lying.

_THE SOULS' RISING._

See how the storm of life ascends Up through the shadow of the world!

Beyond our gaze the line extends, Like wreaths of vapour tempest-hurled!

Grasp tighter, brother, lest the storm Should sweep us down from where we stand, And we may catch some human form We know, amongst the straining band.

See! see in yonder misty cloud One whirlwind sweep, and we shall hear The voice that waxes yet more loud And louder still approaching near!

Tremble not, brother, fear not thou, For yonder wild and mystic strain Will bring before us strangely now The visions of our youth again!

Listen! oh listen!

See how its eyeb.a.l.l.s roll and glisten With a wild and fearful stare Upwards through the shining air, Or backwards with averted look, As a child were gazing at a book Full of tales of fear and dread, When the thick night-wind came hollow and dead.

Round about it, wavering and light.

As the moths flock round a candle at night, A crowd of phantoms sheeted and dumb Strain to its words as they shrilly come: Brother, my brother, dost thou hear?