The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 5

Let us away, 'tis no use to tarry; Love no light to its heart will carry!

Sting it with words, it will never shrink; It will not repent, it cannot think!

Hath G.o.d forgotten it, alas!

Lost in eternity's lumber-room?

Will the wind of his breathing never pa.s.s Over it through the insensate gloom?

Like a frost-killed bud on a tombstone curled, Crumbling it lies on its crumbling world, Sightless and deaf, with never a cry, In the h.e.l.l of its own vacuity!

See, see yon angel crossing our flight Where the thunder vapours loom, From his upcast pinions flashing the light Of some outbreaking doom!

Up, brothers! away! a storm is nigh!

Smite we the wing up a steeper sky!

What matters the hail or the clashing winds, The thunder that buffets, the lightning that blinds!

We know by the tempest we do not lie Dead in the pits of eternity!

_THE THREE HORSES_.

What shall I be?--I will be a knight Walled up in armour black, With a sword of sharpness, a hammer of might.

And a spear that will not crack-- So black, so blank, no glimmer of light Will betray my darkling track.

Saddle my coal-black steed, my men, Fittest for sunless work; Old Night is steaming from her den, And her children gather and lurk; Bad things are creeping from the fen, And sliding down the murk.

Let him go!--let him go! Let him plunge!--Keep away!

He's a foal of the third seal's brood!

Gaunt with armour, in grim array Of poitrel and frontlet-hood, Let him go, a living castle, away-- Right for the evil wood.

I and Ravenwing on the course, Heavy in fighting gear-- Woe to the thing that checks our force, That meets us in career!

Giant, enchanter, devil, or worse-- What cares the couched spear!

Slow through the trees zigzag I ride.

See! the goblins!--to and fro!

From the skull of the dark, on either side, See the eyes of a dragon glow!

From the thickets the silent serpents glide-- I pa.s.s them, I let them go;

For somewhere in the evil night A little one cries alone; An aged knight, outnumbered in fight, But for me will be stricken p.r.o.ne; A lady with terror is staring white, For her champion is overthrown.

The child in my arms, to my hauberk prest, Like a trembling bird will cling; I will cover him over, in iron nest, With my shield, my one steel wing, And bear him home to his mother's breast, A radiant, rescued thing.

Spur in flank, and lance in rest, On the old knight's foes I flash; The caitiffs I scatter to east and west With clang and hurtle and crash; Leave them the law, as knaves learn it best, In bruise, and breach, and gash.

The lady I lift on my panting steed; On the pommel she holds my mace; Hand on bridle I gently lead The horse at a gentle pace; The thickets with martel-axe I heed, For the wood is an evil place.

What treasure is there in manly might That hid in the bosom lies!

Who for the crying will not fight Had better be he that cries!

A man is a knight that loves the right And mounts for it till he dies.

Alas, 'tis a dream of ages h.o.a.r!

In the fens no dragons won; No giants from moated castles roar; Through the forest wide roadways run; Of all the deeds they did of yore Not one is left to be done!

If I should saddle old Ravenwing And hie me out at night, Scared little birds away would spring An ill-shot arrow's flight: The idle fancy away I fling, Now I will dream aright!

Let a youth bridle Twilight, my dapple-gray, With broad rein and snaffle bit; He must bring him round at break of day When the shadows begin to flit, When the darkness begins to dream away, And the owls begin to sit.

Ungraithed in plate or mail I go, With only my sword--gray-blue Like the scythe of the dawning come to mow The night-sprung shadows anew From the gates of the east, that, fair and slow, Maid Morning may walk through.

I seek no forest with darkness grim, To the open land I ride; Low light, from the broad horizon's brim, Lies wet on the flowing tide, And mottles with shadows dun and dim The mountain's rugged side.

Steadily, hasteless, o'er valley and hill.

O'er the moor, along the beach, We ride, nor slacken our pace until Some city of men we reach; There, in the market, my horse stands still, And I lift my voice and preach.

Wealth and poverty, age and youth Around me gather and throng; I tell them of justice, of wisdom, of truth, Of mercy, and law, and wrong; My words are moulded by right and ruth To a solemn-chanted song.

They bring me questions which would be scanned, That strife may be forgot; Swerves my balance to neither hand, The poor I favour no jot; If a man withstand, out sweeps my brand.

I slay him upon the spot.

But what if my eye have in it a beam And therefore spy his mote?

Righteousness only, wisdom supreme Can tell the sheep from the goat!

Not thus I dream a wise man's dream, Not thus take Wrong by the throat!

Lead Twilight home. I dare not kill; The sword myself would scare.-- When the sun looks over the eastern hill, Bring out my snow-white mare: One labour is left which no one will Deny me the right to share!

Take heed, my men, from crest to heel Snow-white have no speck; No curb, no bit her mouth must feel, No tightening rein her neck; No saddle-girth drawn with buckle of steel Shall her mighty breathing check!

Lay on her a cloth of silver sheen, Bring me a robe of white; Wherever we go we must be seen By the shining of our light-- A glistening splendour in forest green, A star on the mountain-height.

With jar and shudder the gates unclose; Out in the sun she leaps!

A unit of light and power she goes Levelling vales and steeps: The wind around her eddies and blows, Before and behind her sleeps.

Oh joy, oh joy to ride the world And glad, good tidings bear!

A flag of peace on the winds unfurled Is the mane of my shining mare: To the sound of her hoofs, lo, the dead stars hurled Quivering adown the air!

Oh, the sun and the wind! Oh, the life and the love!

Where the serpent swung all day The loud dove coos to the silent dove; Where the web-winged dragon lay In its hole beneath, on the rock above Merry-tongued children play.

With eyes of light the maidens look up As they sit in the summer heat Twining green blade with golden cup-- They see, and they rise to their feet; I call aloud, for I must not stop, "Good tidings, my sisters sweet!"

For mine is a message of holy mirth To city and land of corn; Of praise for heaviness, plenty for dearth, For darkness a shining morn: Clap hands, ye billows; be glad, O earth, For a child, a child is born!

Lo, even the just shall live by faith!

None argue of mine and thine!

Old Self shall die an ecstatic death And be born a thing divine, For G.o.d's own being and G.o.d's own breath Shall be its bread and wine.

Ambition shall vanish, and Love be king, And Pride to his darkness hie; Yea, for very love of a living thing A man would forget and die, If very love were not the spring Whence life springs endlessly!

The myrtle shall grow where grew the thorn; Earth shall be young as heaven; The heart with remorse or anger torn Shall weep like a summer even; For to us a child, a child is born, Unto us a son is given!

Lord, with thy message I dare not ride!

I am a fool, a beast!

The little ones only from thy side Go forth to publish thy feast!

And I, where but sons and daughters abide, Would have walked about, a priest!