The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 85

Trust my father, saith the eldest-born; I did trust him ere the earth began; Not to know him is to be forlorn; Not to love him is--not to be man.

He that knows him loves him altogether; With my father I am so content That through all this dreary human weather I am working, waiting, confident.

He is with me; I am not alone; Life is bliss, because I am his child; Down in Hades will I lay the stone Whence shall rise to Heaven his city piled.

Hearken, brothers, pray you, to my story!

Hear me, sister; hearken, child, to me: Our one father is a perfect glory; He is light, and there is none but he.

Come then with me; I will lead the way; All of you, sore-hearted, heavy-shod, Come to father, yours and mine, I pray; Little ones, I pray you, come to G.o.d!

_HOW SHALL HE SING WHO HATH NO SONG_?

How shall he sing who hath no song?

He laugh who hath no mirth?

Will cannot wake the sleeping song!

Yea, Love itself in vain may long To sing with them that have a song, Or, mirthless, laugh with Mirth!

He who would sing but hath no song Must speak the right, denounce the wrong, Must humbly front the indignant throng, Must yield his back to Satire's thong, Nor shield his face from liar's p.r.o.ng, Must say and do and be the truth, And fearless wait for what ensueth, Wait, wait, with patience sweet and strong, Until G.o.d's glory fill the earth; Then shall he sing who had no song, He laugh who had no mirth!

Yea, if in land of stony dearth Like barren rock thou sit, Round which the phantom-waters flit Of heart- and brain-mirage That can no thirst a.s.suage, Yet be thou still, and wait, wait long; A right sea comes to drown the wrong; G.o.d's glory comes to fill the earth, And thou, no more a scathed rock, Shalt start alive with gladsome shock, Shalt a hand-clapping billow be, And shout with the eternal sea!

To righteousness and love belong The dance, the jubilance, the song, When the great Right hath quelled the wrong, And Truth hath stilled the lying tongue!

Then men must sing because of song, And laugh because of mirth!

And this shall be their anthem strong-- Hallow! the glad G.o.d fills the earth, And Love sits down by every hearth!

_THIS WORLD_.

Thy world is made to fit thine own, A nursery for thy children small, The playground-footstool of thy throne, Thy solemn school-room, Father of all!

When day is done, in twilight's gloom, We pa.s.s into thy presence-room.

Because from selfishness and wrath, Our cold and hot extremes of ill, We grope and stagger on the path-- Thou tell'st us from thy holy hill, With icy storms and sunshine rude, That we are all unripe in good.

Because of snaky things that creep Through our soul's sea, dim-undulant, Thou fill'st the mystery of thy deep With faces heartless, grim, and gaunt; That we may know how ugly seem The things our spirit-oceans teem.

Because of half-way things that hold Good names, and have a poisonous breath-- Prudence that is but trust in gold, And faith that is but fear of death-- Amongst thy flowers, the lovely brood, Thou sendest some that are not good.

Thou stay'st thy hand from finishing things To make thy child love the complete; Full many a flower comes up thy springs Unshamed in imperfection sweet; That through good all, and good in part, Thy work be perfect in the heart.

Because, in careless confidence, So oft we leave the narrow way, Its borders th.o.r.n.y hedges fence, Beyond them marshy deeps affray; But farther on, the heavenly road Lies through the gardens of our G.o.d.

Because thy sheep so often will Forsake the meadow cool and damp To climb the stony, gra.s.sless hill, Or wallow in the slimy swamp, Thy sicknesses, where'er they roam, Go after them to bring them home.

One day, all fear, all ugliness, All pain, all discord, dumb or loud, All selfishness, and all distress, Will melt like low-spread morning cloud, And heart and brain be free from thrall, Because thou, G.o.d, art all in all!

_SAINT PETER_.

O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt?

Indeed the spray flew fast about, But he was there whose walking foot Could make the wandering hills take root; And he had said, "Come down to me,"

Else hadst thou not set foot on sea!

Christ did not call thee to thy grave!

Was it the boat that made thee brave?

"Easy for thee who wast not there To think thou more than I couldst dare!

It hardly fits thee though to mock Scared as thou wast that railway shock!

Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go-- The plague will soon be here, I know!'

Who, when thy child slept--not to death-- Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'"

Saint Peter, thou rebukest well!

It needs no tempest me to quell, Not even a spent lash of its spray!

Things far too little to affray Will wake the doubt that's worst of all-- Is there a G.o.d to hear me call?

But if he be, I never think That he will hear and let me sink!

Lord of my little faith, my Lord, Help me to fear nor fire nor sword; Let not the cross itself appall Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all; Let reeling brain nor fainting heart Wipe out the soreness that thou art; Dwell farther in than doubt can go, And make _I hope_ become _I know_.

Then, sure, if thou should please to say, "Come to my side," some stormy way, My feet, atoning to thy will, Shall, heaved and tossed, walk toward thee still; No heart of lead shall sink me where Prudence lies crowned with cold despair, But I shall reach and clasp thy hand, And on the sea forget the land!

_ZACCHAEUS_.

To whom the heavy burden clings, It yet may serve him like a staff; One day the cross will break in wings, The sinner laugh a holy laugh.

The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree, His humble stature set him high; The Lord the little man did see Who sought the great man pa.s.sing by.

Up to the tree he came, and stopped: "To-day," he said, "with thee I bide."

A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped, Ripe for the Master, at his side.

Sure never host with gladder look A welcome guest home with him bore!

Then rose the Satan of rebuke And loudly spake beside the door:

"This is no place for holy feet; Sinners should house and eat alone!