The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 36

Loosener of springs, he died by thee!

Softness, not hardness, sent him home; He loved thee--and thou mad'st him free Of all the place thou comest from!

_AN AUTUMN SONG_.

Are the leaves falling round about The churchyard on the hill?

Is the glow of autumn going out?

Is that the winter chill?

And yet through winter's noise, no doubt The graves are very still!

Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare?

On sodden leaves do you tread?

Is nothing left of all those fair?

Is the whole summer fled?

Well, so from this unwholesome air Have gone away these dead!

The seasons pierce me; like a leaf I feel the autumn blow, And tremble between nature's grief And the silent death below.

O Summer, thou art very brief!

Where do these exiles go?

_Gilesgate, Durham._

_TRIOLET_.

Few in joy's sweet riot Able are to listen: Thou, to make me quiet, Quenchest the sweet riot, Tak'st away my diet, Puttest me in prison-- Quenchest joy's sweet riot That the heart may listen.

_I SEE THEE NOT_.

Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find A little faith on earth, if I am here!

Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind.

How sad I wait until thy face appear!

Hast thou not ploughed my th.o.r.n.y ground full sore, And from it gathered many stones and sherds?

Plough, plough and harrow till it needs no more-- Then sow thy mustard-seed, and send thy birds.

I love thee, Lord; and if I yield to fears, Nor trust with triumph that pale doubt defies, Remember, Lord, 'tis nigh two thousand years, And I have never seen thee with mine eyes!

And when I lift them from the wondrous tale, See, all about me hath so strange a show!

Is that thy river running down the vale?

Is that thy wind that through the pines doth blow?

Could'st thou right verily appear again, The same who walked the paths of Palestine, And here in England teach thy trusting men In church and field and house, with word and sign?

Here are but lilies, sparrows, and the rest!

My hands on some dear proof would light and stay!

But my heart sees John leaning on thy breast, And sends them forth to do what thou dost say.

_A BROKEN PRAYER_.

0 Lord, my G.o.d, how long Shall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy?

How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hear The murmur of Truth's crystal waters slide From the deep caverns of their endless being, But my lips taste not, and the grosser air Choke each pure inspiration of thy will?

I am a denseness 'twixt me and the light; 1 cannot round myself; my purest thought, Ere it is thought, hath caught the taint of earth, And mocked me with hard thoughts beyond my will.

I would be a wind Whose smallest atom is a viewless wing, All busy with the pulsing life that throbs To do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thing That has relation to a changeless truth, Could I but be instinct with thee--each thought The lightning of a pure intelligence, And every act as the loud thunder-clap Of currents warring for a vacuum.

Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe; Purge me with sorrow; I will bend my head And let the nations of thy waves pa.s.s over, Bathing me in thy consecrated strength; And let thy many-voiced and silver winds Pa.s.s through my frame with their clear influence, O save me; I am blind; lo, thwarting shapes Wall up the void before, and thrusting out Lean arms of unshaped expectation, beckon Down to the night of all unholy thoughts.

Oh, when at midnight one of thy strong angels Stems back the waves of earthly influence That shape unsteady continents around me, And they draw off with the devouring gush Of exile billows that have found a home, Leaving me islanded on unseen points, Hanging 'twixt thee and chaos--I have seen Unholy shapes lop off my s.h.i.+ning thoughts, And they have lent me leathern wings of fear, Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust; And G.o.dhead, with its crown of many stars, Its pinnacles of flaming holiness, And voice of leaves in the green summer-time, Has seemed the shadowed image of a self!

Then my soul blackened; and I rose to find And grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deeps Of desolation.

O Lord, my soul is a forgotten well Clad round with its own rank luxuriance; A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for, Sinking the l.u.s.tre of its arrowy finger Through the long gra.s.s its own strange virtue Hath blinded up its crystal eye withal: Make me a broad strong river coming down With shouts from its high hills, whose rocky hearts Throb forth the joy of their stability In watery pulses from their inmost deeps; And I shall be a vein upon thy world, Circling perpetual from the parent deep.

Most mighty One, Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good; Help me to wall each sacred treasure round With the firm battlements of special action.

Alas, my holy happy thoughts of thee Make not perpetual nest within my soul, But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoop The trailing glories of their sunward speed For one glad moment, filling my blasted boughs With the suns.h.i.+ne of their wings. Make me a forest Of gladdest life wherein perpetual spring Lifts up her leafy tresses in the wind.

Lo, now I see Thy trembling starlight sit among my pines, And thy young moon slide down my arching boughs With a soft sound of restless eloquence!

And I can feel a joy as when thy hosts Of trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands, Roar upward through the blue and flas.h.i.+ng day Round my still depths of uncleft solitude.

Hear me, O Lord, When the black night draws down upon my soul, And voices of temptation darken down The misty wind, slamming thy starry doors With bitter jests:--"Thou fool!" they seem to say, "Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; all Thy nature hath been stung right through and through; Thy sin hath blasted thee and made thee old; Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it dead, And with the fulsome garniture of life Built out the loathsome corpse; thou art a child Of night and death, even lower than a worm; Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self, And with what resolution thou hast left Fall on the d.a.m.ned spikes of doom!"

Oh, take me like a child, If thou hast made me for thyself, my G.o.d, And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear, So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sin With the terrors of thine eye: it fears me not As once it might have feared thine own good image, But lays bold siege at my heart's doors.

Oh, I have seen a thing of beauty stand In the young moonlight of its upward thoughts, And the old earth came round it with its gifts Of gladness, whispering leaves, and odorous plants, Until its large and spiritual eye Burned with intensest love: my G.o.d, I could Have watched it evermore with Argus-eyes, Lest when the noontide of the summer's sun Let down the tented sunlight on the plain, His flaming beams should scorch my darling flower; And through the fruitless nights of leaden gloom, Of plas.h.i.+ng rains, and knotted winds of cold, Yea, when thy lightnings ran across the sky, And the loud stumbling blasts fell from the hills Upon the mounds of death, I could have watched Guarding such beauty like another life!

But, O my G.o.d, it changed!-- Yet methinks I know not if it was not I!

Its beauty turned to ghastly loathsomeness!

Then a hand spurned me backwards from the clouds, And with the gather of a mighty whirlwind, Drew in the glittering gifts of life.

How long, O Lord, how long?

I am a man lost in a rocky place!

Lo, all thy echoes smite me with confusion Of varied speech,--the cry of vanished Life Rolled upon nations' sighs--of hearts uplifted Against despair--the stifled sounds of Woe Sitting perpetual by its grey cold well-- Or wasted Toil climbing its endless hills With quickening gasps--or the thin winds of Joy That beat about the voices of the crowd!

Lord, hast thou sent Thy moons to mock us with perpetual hope?

Lighted within our b.r.e.a.s.t.s the love of love To make us ripen for despair, my G.o.d?

Oh, dost thou hold each individual soul Strung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose?

Or does thine inextinguishable will Stand on the steeps of night with lifted hand Filling the yawning wells of monstrous s.p.a.ce With mixing thought--drinking up single life As in a cup? and from the rending folds Of glimmering purpose, do all thy navied stars Slide through the gloom with mystic melody, Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul, Hung like a dewdrop in thy gra.s.sy ways, Drawn up again into the rack of change Even through the l.u.s.tre which created it?

--O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me through With scorching wrath, because my spirit stands Bewildered in thy circling mysteries!

Oh lift the burdened gloom that chokes my soul With dews of darkness; smite the lean winds of death That run with howls around the ruined temples, Blowing the souls of men about like leaves.

Lo, the broad life-lands widen overhead, Star-galaxies arise like drifting snow, And happy life goes whitening down the stream Of boundless action, whilst my fettered soul Sits, as a captive in a noisome dungeon Watches the pulses of his withered heart Lave out the sparkling minutes of his life On the idle flags!