The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 69

Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; But spring is floating up the southern skies, And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below.

Let me persuade: in dull December's day We scarce believe there is a month of June; But up the stairs of April and of May The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

Yet hear me: I love G.o.d, and half I rest.

O better! G.o.d loves thee, so all rest thou.

He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;-- And in his heart thy prayer is resting now.

_WILD FLOWERS_.

Content Primroses, With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care, Peeping as from his mother's lap the child Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!-- Hanging Harebell, Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes, Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!-- Fluttering-wild Anemone, so well Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free, Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully, With _Take me or leave me, Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone_!-- Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!-- Fire-winged Pimpernel, Communing with some hidden well, And secrets with the sun-G.o.d holding, At fixed hour folding and unfolding!-- How is it with you, children all, When human children on you fall, Gather you in eager haste, Spoil your plenty with their waste-- Fill and fill their dropping hands?

Feel you hurtfully disgraced By their injurious demands?

Do you know them from afar, Shuddering at their merry hum, Growing faint as near they come?

Blind and deaf they think you are-- Is it only ye are dumb?

You alive at least, I think, Trembling almost on the brink Of our lonely consciousness: If it be so, Take this comfort for your woe, For the breaking of your rest, For the tearing in your breast, For the blotting of the sun, For the death too soon begun, For all else beyond redress-- Or what seemeth so to be-- That the children's wonder-springs Bubble high at sight of you, Lovely, lowly, common things: In you more than you they see!

Take this too--that, walking out, Looking fearlessly about, Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt, And our childhood's faith renew; So that we, with old age nigh, Seeing you alive and well Out of winter's crucible, Hearing you, from graveyard crept, Tell us that ye only slept-- Think we die not, though we die.

Thus ye die not, though ye die-- Only yield your being up, Like a nectar-holding cup: Deaf, ye give to them that hear, With a greatness lovely-dear; Blind, ye give to them that see-- Poor, but bounteous royally.

Lowly servants to the higher, Burning upwards in the fire Of Nature's endless sacrifice, In great Life's ascent ye rise, Leave the lowly earth behind, Pa.s.s into the human mind, Pa.s.s with it up into G.o.d, Whence ye came though through the clod-- Pa.s.s, and find yourselves at home Where but life can go and come; Where all life is in its nest, At loving one with holy Best;-- Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense Of a past, age-long somnolence!

_SPRING SONG_.

Days of old, Ye are not dead, though gone from me; Ye are not cold, But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea.

The sun brings back the swallows fast O'er the sea; When he cometh at the last, The days of old come back to me.

_SUMMER SONG_.

"Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan, Many a tune in a single tone, For every ear with a secret true-- The sea-sh.e.l.l wants to whisper to you."

"Yes--I hear it--far and faint, Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint; Like the m.u.f.fled sounds of a summer rain; Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain."

"By smiling lip and fixed eye, You are hearing a song within the sigh: The murmurer has many a lovely phrase-- Tell me, darling, the words it says."

"I hear a wind on a boatless main Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain; On the dreaming waters dreams the moon-- But I hear no words in the doubtful tune."

"If it tell thee not that I love thee well, 'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved sh.e.l.l: If it be not of love, why sigh or sing?

'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!"

"It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice; It says not a word of your love to me, But it tells me I love you eternally."

_AUTUMN SONG_.

Autumn clouds are flying, flying O'er the waste of blue; Summer flowers are dying, dying, Late so lovely new.

Labouring wains are slowly rolling Home with winter grain; Holy bells are slowly tolling Over buried men.

Goldener light sets noon a sleeping Like an afternoon; Colder airs come stealing, creeping From the misty moon; And the leaves, of old age dying, Earthy hues put on; Out on every lone wind sighing That their day is gone.

Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking Down to winter low; And our hearts are thinking, thinking Of the sleet and snow; For our sun is slowly sliding Down the hill of might; And no moon is softly gliding Up the slope of night.

See the bare fields' pillaged prizes Heaped in golden glooms!

See, the earth's outworn sunrises Dream in cloudy tombs!

Darkling flowers but wait the blowing Of a quickening wind; And the man, through Death's door going, Leaves old Death behind.

Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; Let the gold turn gray; Feet, though feeble, still may falter Toward the better day!

Brother, let not weak faith linger O'er a withered thing; Mark how Autumn's prophet finger Burns to hues of Spring.

_WINTER SONG_.

They were parted then at last?

Was it duty, or force, or fate?

Or did a worldly blast Blow-to the meeting-gate?

An old, short story is this!

A glance, a trembling, a sigh, A gaze in the eyes, a kiss-- Why will it not go by!

PICTURE SONGS.

I.