The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 82

1892.

_THE SHADOWS_.

My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks, And dreamy, large, brown eyes, Not often, little wisehead, speaks, But hearing, weighs and tries.

"G.o.d is not only in the sky,"

His sister said one day-- Not older much, but she would cry Like Wisdom in the way--

"He's in this room." His dreamy, clear, Large eyes look round for G.o.d: In vain they search, in vain they peer; His wits are all abroad!

"He is not here, mamma? No, no; I do not see him at all!

He's not the shadows, is he?" So His doubtful accents fall--

Fall on my heart, no babble mere!

They rouse both love and shame: But for earth's loneliness and fear, I might be saying the same!

Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break And home the shadows flee, In my dim room even yet I take Those shadows, Lord, for thee!

_THE CHILD-MOTHER_.

Heavily slumbered noonday bright Upon the lone field, glory-dight, A burnished gra.s.sy sea: The child, in gorgeous golden hours, Through heaven-descended starry flowers, Went walking on the lea.

Velvety bees make busy hum; Green flies and striped wasps go and come; The b.u.t.terflies gleam white; Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro The dragon-flies like arrows go, Or hang in moveless flight:--

Not one she followed; like a rill She wandered on with quiet will; Received, but did not miss; Her step was neither quick nor long; Nought but a s.n.a.t.c.h of murmured song Ever revealed her bliss.

An almost solemn woman-child, Not fashioned frolicsome and wild, She had more love than glee; And now, though nine and nothing more, Another little child she bore, Almost as big as she.

No silken cloud from solar harms Had she to spread; with shifting arms She dodged him from the sun; Mother and sister both in heart, She did a gracious woman's part, Life's task even now begun!

They came upon a stagnant ditch, The slippery sloping banks of which More varied blossoms line; Some ragged-robins baby spies, Stretches his hands, and crows and cries, Plain saying, "They are mine!"

What baby wants, that baby has-- A law unalterable as The poor shall serve the rich: They are beyond her reach--almost!

She kneels, she strains, and, too engrossed, Topples into the ditch.

Adown the side she slanting rolled, But her two arms convulsive hold The precious baby tight; She lets herself sublimely go, And in the ditch's muddy flow Stands up, in evil plight.

'Tis nothing that her feet are wet, But her new shoes she can't forget-- They cost five shillings bright!

Her petticoat, her tippet blue, Her frock, they're smeared with slime like glue!

But baby is all right!

And baby laughs, and baby crows; And baby being right, she knows That nothing can be wrong; So, with a troubled heart yet stout, She plans how _ever_ to get out With meditation long.

The high bank's edge is far away, The slope is steep, and made of clay; And what to do with baby?

For even a monkey, up to run, Would need his four hands, every one:-- She is perplexed as may be.

And all her puzzling is no good!

Blank-staring up the side she stood, Which, settling she, grew higher.

At last, seized with a fresh dismay Lest baby's patience should give way, She plucked her feet from the mire,

And up and down the ditch, not glad, But patient, very, did promenade-- Splash, splash, went her small feet!

And baby thought it rare good fun, Sucking his bit of pulpy bun, And smelling meadow-sweet.

But, oh, the world that she had left-- The meads from her so lately reft-- Poor infant Proserpine!

A fabled land they lay above, A paradise of sunny love, In breezy s.p.a.ce divine!

Frequent from neighbouring village-green Came sounds of laughter, faintly keen, And barks of well-known dogs, While she, the hot sun overhead, Her lonely watery way must tread In mud and weeds and frogs!

Sudden, the ditch about her shakes; Her little heart, responsive, quakes With fear of uncouth woes; She lifts her boding eyes perforce-- To see the huge head of a horse Go past upon its nose.

Then, hark, what sounds of tearing gra.s.s And puffing breath!--With k.n.o.bs of bra.s.s On horns of frightful size, A cow's head through the broken hedge Looks awful from the other edge, Though mild her pondering eyes.

The horse, the cow are pa.s.sed and gone; The sun keeps going on and on, And still no help comes near.-- At misery's last--oh joy, the sound Of human footsteps on the ground!

She cried aloud, "_I_'m here!"

It was a man--oh, heavenly joy!

He looked amazed at girl and boy, And reached his hand so strong: "Give me the child," he said; but no!

Care would not let the burden go Which Love had borne so long.

Smiling he kneels with outstretched hands, And them unparted safely lands In the upper world again.

Her low thanks feebly murmured, she Drags her legs homeward painfully-- Poor, wet, one-chickened hen!

Arrived at length--Lo, scarce a speck Was on the child from heel to neck, Though she was sorely mired!

No tear confessed the long-drawn rack, Till her mother took the baby back, And the she cried, "I'm tired!"

And, intermixed with sobbing wail, She told her mother all the tale, Her wet cheeks in a glow: "But, mother, mother, though I fell, I kept the baby pretty well-- I did not let him go!"

_HE HEEDED NOT_.

Of whispering trees the tongues to hear, And sermons of the silent stone; To read in brooks the print so clear Of motion, shadowy light, and tone-- That man hath neither eye nor ear Who careth not for human moan.

Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste, From sin that pa.s.seth helpless by; The weak antennae of whose taste From touch of alien grossness fly-- Shall, banished to the outer waste, Never in Nature's bosom lie.