The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 39

One shining day, Shining with sun and snow, he came and said, "What think you, father--is death very sore?"

"My boy," the father answered, "we will try To make it easy with the present G.o.d.

But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight, It seems much harder to the lookers on Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath We call a gasp, may be in him the cry Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob With which the unclothed spirit, step by step.

Wades forth into the cool eternal sea.

I think, my boy, death has two sides to it-- One sunny, and one dark--as this round earth Is every day half sunny and half dark.

We on the dark side call the mystery _death_; They on the other, looking down in light, Wait the glad _birth_, with other tears than ours."

"Be near me, father, when I die," he said.

"I will, my boy, until a better Father Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, When my time comes--you in the light beyond, And knowing well the country--I in the dark."

The days went by, until the tender green Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart; For the spring drew him--warm, soft, budding spring, With promises, and he went forth to meet her.

But he who once had strode a king on the fields, Walked softly now; lay on the daisied gra.s.s; And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair, Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing.

But though I lingering listen to the old, Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old And lift their lost souls up the music-stair-- Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart To look the blank unknown full in the void; For he had hope in G.o.d--the growth of years, Of ponderings, of childish aspirations, Of prayers and readings and repentances; For something in him had ever sought the peace Of other something deeper in him still-- A _faint_ sound sighing for a harmony With other fainter sounds, that softly drew Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths Where the Individual goeth out in G.o.d: The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, And sought the way by which the music came, Hoping at last to find the face of him To whom Saint John said _Lord_ with holy awe, And on his bosom fearless leaned the while.

As his slow spring came on, the swelling life, The new creation inside of the old, Pressed up in buds toward the invisible.

And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay.

Not once he thought of that still churchyard now; He looked away from earth, and loved the sky.

One earthly notion only clung to him:-- He thanked G.o.d that he died not in the cold; "For," said he, "I would rather go abroad When the sun shines, and birds are singing blithe.--It may be that we know not aught of place, Or any sense, and only live in thought; But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light.

I _may_ pa.s.s forth into the sea of air That swings its ma.s.sy waves around the earth, And I would rather go when it is full Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick.

Now in the dawn of summer I shall die-- Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, And going with the light. And when they say, 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;'

I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'"

The weary nights did much to humble him; They made the good he knew seem all ill known: He would go by and by to school again!

"Father," he said, "I am nothing; but Thou _art_!"

Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, Who, longing for his mother, has forgot The arms about him, holding him to her heart: _Mother_ he murmuring moans; she wakes him up That he may see her face, and sleep indeed.

Father! we need thy winter as thy spring; We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers; But through them all thy strong arms carry us, Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief.

Because thou lovest goodness more than joy In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve: We must not vex thee with our peevish cries, But look into thy face, and hold thee fast, And say _O Father, Father_! when the pain Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: We never grasp the zenith of the time!

We have no spring except in winter-prayers!

But we believe--alas, we only hope!--That one day we shall thank thee perfectly For every disappointment, pang, and shame, That drove us to the bosom of thy love.

One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep.

His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark, Through which bright pictures pa.s.sed of the outer world: The regnant Will gazed pa.s.sive on the show; The magic tube through which the shadows came, Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, Glided across the field the things that were, Silent and sorrowful, like all things old: Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, And old brown letters are more sad than graves.

At length, as ever in such vision-hours, Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse.

Will started all awake, pa.s.sive no more, And, necromantic sage, the apparition That came unbid, commanded to abide.

Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts: How had she fared, spinning her history Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer?

Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained?

"I know," he said, "some women fail of life!

The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?"

The fount of possibilities began To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought: Anon the geyser-column raging rose;-- For purest souls sometimes have direst fears In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth Is cast on half her children, and the sun Is busy giving daylight to the rest.

"Oh, G.o.d!" he cried, "if she be such as those!-- Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still Fancy the wavings of invisible wings, But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts, Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!-- It cannot, cannot be! She is of G.o.d!-- And yet things lovely perish! higher life Gives deeper death! fair gifts make fouler faults!-- Women themselves--I dare not think the rest!"

Such thoughts went walking up and down his soul But found at last a spot wherein to rest, Building a resolution for the day.

The next day, and the next, he was too worn To clothe intent in body of a deed.

A cold dry wind blew from the unkindly east, Making him feel as he had come to the earth Before G.o.d's spirit moved on the water's face, To make it ready for him.

But the third Morning rose radiant. A genial wind Rippled the blue air 'neath the golden sun, And brought glad summer-tidings from the south.

He lay now in his father's room; for there The southern sun poured all the warmth he had.

His rays fell on the fire, alive with flames, And turned it ghostly pale, and would have slain-- Even as the sunshine of the higher life, Quenching the glow of this, leaves but a coal.

He rose and sat him down 'twixt sun and fire; Two lives fought in him for the mastery; And half from each forth flowed the written stream "Lady, I owe thee much. Stay not to look Upon my name: I write it, but I date From the churchyard, where it shall lie in peace, Thou reading it. Thou know'st me not at all; Nor dared I write, but death is crowning me Thy equal. If my boldness yet offend, Lo, pure in my intent, I am with the ghosts; Where when thou comest, thou hast already known G.o.d equal makes at first, and Death at last."

"But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun, My thoughts moved toward thee with a gentle flow That bore a depth of waters: when I took My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf, Precipitate and foamy. Can it be That Death who humbles all hath made me proud?"

"Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain, As if I were thy heritage bequeathed From many sires; yet only from afar I have worshipped thee--content to know the vision Had lifted me above myself who saw, And ta'en my angel nigh thee in thy heaven.

Thy beauty, lady, hath overflowed, and made Another being beautiful, beside, With virtue to aspire and be itself.

Afar as angels or the sainted dead, Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man, Thy form hath put on each revealing dress Of circ.u.mstance and history, high or low, In which, from any tale of selfless life, Essential womanhood hath shone on me."

"Ten years have pa.s.sed away since the first time, Which was the last, I saw thee. What have these Made or unmade in thee?--I ask myself.

O lovely in my memory! art thou As lovely in thyself? Thy glory then Was what G.o.d made thee: art thou such indeed?

Forgive my boldness, lady--I am dead: The dead may cry, their voices are so small."

"I have a prayer to make thee--hear the dead.

Lady, for G.o.d's sake be as beautiful As that white form that dwelleth in my heart; Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure That waketh in thee, when thou prayest G.o.d, Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself I pray. For if I die and find that she, My woman-glory, lives in common air, Is not so very radiant after all, My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts, Unused to see such rooted sorrow there.

With palm to palm my kneeling ghost implores Thee, living lady--justify my faith In womanhood's white-handed n.o.bleness, And thee, its revelation unto me."

"But I bethink me:--If thou turn thy thoughts Upon thyself, even for that great sake Of purity and conscious whiteness' self, Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half Is to forget the former, yea, thyself, Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day, Turning thy being full unto thy G.o.d.

Be thou in him a pure, twice holy child, Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness-- Having G.o.d in thee, thy completing soul."

"Lady, I die; the Father holds me up.

It is not much to thee that I should die; It may be much to know he holds me up."

"I thank thee, lady, for the gentle look Which crowned me from thine eyes ten years ago, Ere, clothed in nimbus of the setting sun, Thee from my dazzled eyes thy horse did bear, Proud of his burden. My dull tongue was mute-- I was a fool before thee; but my silence Was the sole homage possible to me then: That now I speak, and fear not, is thy gift.

The same sweet look be possible to thee For evermore! I bless thee with thine own, And say farewell, and go into my grave-- No, to the sapphire heaven of all my hopes."

Followed his name in full, and then the name Of the green churchyard where his form should lie.

Back to his couch he crept, weary, and said: "O G.o.d, I am but an attempt at life!

Sleep falls again ere I am full awake.

Light goeth from me in the morning hour.

I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill Of pure emotion, save in dreams, ah--dreams!

The high Truth has but flickered in my soul-- Even at such times, in wide blue midnight hours, When, dawning sudden on my inner world, New stars came forth, revealing unknown depths, New heights of silence, quelling all my sea, And for a moment I saw formless fact, And knew myself a living lonely thought, Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway!

I have not reaped earth's harvest, O my G.o.d; Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers, Harebells, red poppies, daisies, eyebrights blue-- Gathered them by the way, for comforting!

Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low, Striving for something visible in my thought, And not the unseen thing hid far in thine?

Make me content to be a primrose-flower Among thy nations, so the fair truth, hid In the sweet primrose, come awake in me, And I rejoice, an individual soul, Reflecting thee--as truly then divine As if I towered the angel of the sun.

Once, in a southern eve, a glowing worm Gave me a keener joy than the heaven of stars: Thou camest in the worm nearer me then!

Nor do I think, were I that green delight, I would change to be the shadowy evening star.

Ah, make me, Father, anything thou wilt, So be thou will it! I am safe with thee.

I laugh exulting. Make me something, G.o.d-- Clear, sunny, veritable purity Of mere existence, in thyself content.

And seeking no compare. Sure I _have_ reaped Earth's harvest if I find this holy death!-- Now I am ready; take me when thou wilt."

He laid the letter in his desk, with seal And superscription. When his sister came, He told her where to find it--afterwards.

As the slow eve, through paler, darker shades, Insensibly declines, until at last The lordly day is but a memory, So died he. In the hush of noon he died.