The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 49

And I, when I encounter on my road A human soul that looketh black and grim, Shall I more ceremonious be than G.o.d?

Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him Who once beside our deepest woe did bud A patient watching flower about the brim?

_EVIL INFLUENCE_.

'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom, Although to these full oft the yawning tomb Owes deadly surfeit; but a keener sting, A more immortal agony will cling To the half fas.h.i.+oned sin which would a.s.sume Fair Virtue's garb; the eye that sows the gloom With quiet seeds of Death henceforth to spring What time the sun of pa.s.sion burning fierce Breaks through the kindly cloud of circ.u.mstance; The bitter word, and the unkindly glance, The crust and canker coming with the years, Are liker Death than arrows and the lance Which through the living heart at once doth pierce.

_SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS_.

I pray you, all ye men who put your trust In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear, Holding that Nature lives from year to year In one continual round because she must-- Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer-- A pewter-pot disconsolately clear, Which holds a potful, as is right and just!

I will grow clamorous--by the rood, I will, If thus ye use me like a pewter pot!

Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot-- will not be the lead to hold thy swill, Nor any lead: I will arise and spill Thy silly beverage--spill it piping hot!

_NATURE A MORAL POWER_.

Nature, to him no message dost thou bear Who in thy beauty findeth not the power To gird himself more strongly for the hour Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear To him who knows thy secret, and, in shower, And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower Where he may rest until the heavens are fair!

Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance Of onward movement steady and serene, Where oft, in struggle and in contest keen, His eyes will opened be, and all the dance Of life break on him, and a wide expanse Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.

_TO JUNE_.

Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see!

For in a season of such wretched weather I thought that thou hadst left us altogether, Although I could not choose but fancy thee Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether Thou shouldst be seen in such a company Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps Of ruffian vapour, broken from restraint Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps.

But yet I may not chide: fall to thy books-- Fall to immediately without complaint-- There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks.

_SUMMER_.

Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer!

We hold thee very dear, as well we may: It is the kernel of the year to-day-- All hail to thee! thou art a welcome comer!

If every insect were a fairy drummer, And I a fifer that could deftly play, We'd give the old Earth such a roundelay That she would cast all thought of labour from her.-- Ah! what is this upon my window-pane?

Some sulky, drooping cloud comes pouting up, Stamping its glittering feet along the plain!-- Well, I will let that idle fancy drop!

Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain!

And all the earth s.h.i.+nes like a silver cup!

_ON A MIDGE_.

Whence do ye come, ye creatures? Each of you Is perfect as an angel! wings and eyes Stupendous in their beauty--gorgeous dyes In feathery fields of purple and of blue!

Would G.o.d I saw a moment as ye do!

I would become a molecule in size, Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view The pearly secret which each tiny fly-- Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs Hides in its little breast eternally From you, ye p.r.i.c.kly, grim philosophers With all your theories that sound so high: Hark to the buz a moment, my good sirs!

_STEADFAST_.

Here stands a giant stone from whose far top Comes down the sounding water: let me gaze Till every sense of man and human ways Is wrecked and quenched for ever, and I drop Into the whirl of time, and without stop Pa.s.s downward thus! Again my eyes I raise To thee, dark rock; and through the mist and haze My strength returns when I behold thy prop Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrack.

Surely thy strength is human, and like me Thou bearest loads of thunder on thy back!

And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black-- A breezy tuft of gra.s.s which I can see Waving serenely from a sunlit crack!

_PROVISION_.

Above my head the great pine-branches tower; Backwards and forwards each to the other bends, Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power: Hark to the patter of the coming shower!

Let me be silent while the Almighty sends His thunder-word along--but when it ends I will arise and fas.h.i.+on from the hour Words of stupendous import, fit to guard High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave, When the temptation cometh close and hard, Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave Of meaner things--to which I am a slave, If evermore I keep not watch and ward.

_FIRST SIGHT OF THE SEA_.

I do remember how, when very young, I saw the great sea first, and heard its swell As I drew nearer, caught within the spell Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue.

How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swung With a man in it, and a great wave fell Within a stone's cast! Words may never tell The pa.s.sion of the moment, when I flung All childish records by, and felt arise A thing that died no more! An awful power I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes, Mine, mine for ever, an immortal dower.-- The noise of waters soundeth to this hour When I look seaward through the quiet skies.

_ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE_.

Hears't thou the dash of water, loud and hoa.r.s.e, With its perpetual tidings upward climb, Struggling against the wind? Oh, how sublime!

For not in vain from its portentous source Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full force, But from thine ice-toothed caverns, dark as time, At last thou issuest, dancing to the rime Of thy outvolleying freedom! Lo, thy course Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies!

Right to the ocean-plains away, away!

Thy parent waits thee, and her sunset dyes Are ruffled for thy coming, and the gray Of all her glittering borders flashes high Against the glittering rocks!--oh, haste, and fly!

_CONFIDENCE_.

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!

Press thy face in the gra.s.s, and do not speak.

Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun, Which is her G.o.d; seven times she doth not shun Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek Of voices utterless, which rave and run Through all the star-penumbra, craving light And tidings of the dawn from East and West.

Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night Treading aloft with moons; nor hath she fright Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.

_FATE_.

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven Black pa.s.sages which have not any sky: The scourge is on me now, with all the cry Of ancient life that hath with murder striven.

How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven, How many a hand in prayer been lifted high When the black fate came onward with the rush Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume!

Even at my feet is cleft a s.h.i.+vering tomb Beneath the waves; or else, with solemn hush The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush As if we were all huddled in one doom!