The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 55

But I bethink me of something better!--something better, yea best!

"I am lying a voiceless, featherless thing in G.o.d's own perfect nest; And the voice and the song are growing within me, slowly lifting my breast; And his wide night-wings are closed about me, for his sun is down in the west!"

VII.

Doors and windows, tents and grave-clothes, winters and eggs and seeds, Ye shall all be opened and broken and torn; ye are but to serve my needs!

On the will of the Father all lovely things are strung like a string of beads For his heart to give the obedient child that the will of the father heeds.

_SONG-PRAYER_: AFTER KING DAVID.

I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face.

When I awake, wide-eyed, I shall be satisfied With what this life did hide, The one supernal grace!

I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face.

_DECEMBER 27, 1879_

Every time would have its song If the heart were right, Seeing Love all tender-strong Fills the day and night.

Weary drop the hands of Prayer Calling out for peace; Love always and everywhere Sings and does not cease.

Fear, the caitiff, through the night Silent peers about; Love comes singing with a light And doth cast him out.

Hate and Guile and Wrath and Doubt Never try to sing; If they did, oh, what a rout Anguished ears would sting!

Pride indeed will sometimes aim At the finer speech, But the best that he can frame Is a peac.o.c.k-screech.

Greed will also sometimes try: Happiness he hunts!

But his dwelling is a sty, And his tones are grunts.

Faith will sometimes raise a song Soaring up to heaven, Then she will be silent long, And will weep at even.

Hope has many a gladsome note Now and then to pipe; But, alas, he has the throat Of a bird unripe.

Often Joy a stave will start Which the welkin rends, But it always breaks athwart, And untimely ends.

Grief, who still for death doth long, Always self-abhorred, Has but one low, troubled song, _I am sorry, Lord_.

But Love singeth in the vault.

Singeth on the stair; Even for Sorrow will not halt, Singeth everywhere.

For the great Love everywhere Over all doth glow; Draws his birds up trough the air, Tends his birds below.

And with songs ascending sheer Love-born Love replies, Singing _Father_ in his ear Where she bleeding lies.

Therefore, if my heart were right I should sing out clear, Sing aloud both day and night Every month in the year!

_SUNDAY_,

DECEMBER 28, 1879.

A dim, vague shrinking haunts my soul, My spirit bodeth ill-- As some far-off restraining bank Had burst, and waters, many a rank, Were marching on my hill;

As if I had no fire within For thoughts to sit about; As if I had no flax to spin, No lamp to lure the good things in And keep the bad things out.

The wind, south-west, raves in the pines That guard my cottage round; The sea-waves fall in stormy lines Below the sandy cliffs and chines, And swell the roaring sound.

The misty air, the bellowing wind Not often trouble me; The storm that's outside of the mind Doth oftener wake my heart to find More peace and liberty.

Why is not such my fate to-night?

Chance is not lord of things!

Man were indeed a hapless wight Things, thoughts occurring as they might-- Chaotic wallowings!

The man of moods might merely say As by the fire he sat, "I am low spirited to-day; I must do something, work or play, Lest care should kill the cat!"

Not such my saw: I was not meant To be the sport of things!

The mood has meaning and intent, And my dull heart is humbly bent To have the truth it brings.

This sense of needed shelter round, This frequent mental start Show what a poor life mine were found, To what a dead self I were bound, How feeble were my heart,

If I who think did stand alone Centre to what I thought, A brain within a box of bone, A king on a deserted throne, A something that was nought!

A being without power to be, Or any power to cease; Whom objects but compelled to see, Whose trouble was a windblown sea, A windless sea his peace!

This very sadness makes me think How readily I might Be driven to reason's farthest brink, Then over it, and sudden sink In ghastly waves of night.

It makes me know when I am glad 'Tis thy strength makes me strong; But for thy bliss I should be sad, But for thy reason should be mad, But for thy right be wrong.

Around me spreads no empty waste, No lordless host of things; My restlessness but seeks thy rest; My little good doth seek thy best, My needs thy ministerings.

'Tis this, this only makes me safe-- I am, immediate, Of one that lives; I am no waif That haggard waters toss and chafe, But of a royal fate,

The born-child of a Power that lives Because it will and can, A Love whose slightest motion gives, A Freedom that forever strives To liberate his Man.

I live not on the circling air, Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there Where G.o.d is pondering good.

Because G.o.d lives I live; because He thinks, I also think; I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

The man that lives he knows not how May well fear any mouse!

I should be trembling this same now If I did think, my Father, thou Wast nowhere in the house!

O Father, lift me on thine arm, And hold me close to thee; Lift me into thy breathing warm, Then cast me, and I fear no harm, Into creation's sea!