The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 44

XII.

A word within says I am to blame, And therefore must confess; Must call my doing by its name, And so make evil less.

"I could not his false triumph bear, For he was first in wrong."

"Thy own ill-doings are thy care, His to himself belong."

"To do it right, my heart should own Some sorrow for the ill."

"Plain, honest words will half atone, And they are in thy will."

The struggle comes. Evil or I Must gain the victory now.

I am unmoved and yet would try: O G.o.d, to thee I bow.

The skies are bra.s.s; there falls no aid; No wind of help will blow.

But I bethink me:--I am made A man: I rise and go.

XIII.

To Christ I needs must come, they say; Who went to death for me: I turn aside; I come, I pray, My unknown G.o.d, to thee.

He is afar; the story old Is blotted, worn, and dim; With thee, O G.o.d, I can be bold-- I cannot pray to him.

_Pray_! At the word a cloudy grief Around me folds its pall: Nothing I have to call belief!

How can I pray at all?

I know not if a G.o.d be there To heed my crying sore; If in the great world anywhere An ear keeps open door!

An unborn faith I will not nurse, Pursue an endless task; Loud out into its universe My soul shall call and ask!

Is there no G.o.d--earth, sky, and sea Are but a chaos wild!

Is there a G.o.d--I know that he Must hear his calling child!

XIV.

I kneel. But all my soul is dumb With hopeless misery: Is he a friend who will not come, Whose face I must not see?

I do not think of broken laws, Of judge's d.a.m.ning word; My heart is all one ache, because I call and am not heard.

A cry where there is none to hear, Doubles the lonely pain; Returns in silence on the ear, In torture on the brain.

No look of love a smile can bring, No kiss wile back the breath To cold lips: I no answer wring From this great face of death.

XV.

Yet sometimes when the agony Dies of its own excess, A dew-like calm descends on me, A shadow of tenderness;

A sense of bounty and of grace, A cool air in my breast, As if my soul were yet a place Where peace might one day rest.

G.o.d! G.o.d! I say, and cry no more, But rise, and think to stand Unwearied at the closed door Till comes the opening hand.

XVI.

But is it G.o.d?--Once more the fear Of _No G.o.d_ loads my breath: Amid a sunless atmosphere I fight again with death.

Such rest may be like that which lulls The man who fainting lies: His bloodless brain his spirit dulls, Draws darkness o'er his eyes.

But even such sleep, my heart responds, May be the ancient rest Rising released from bodily bonds, And flowing unreprest.

The o'ertasked will falls down aghast In individual death; G.o.d puts aside the severed past, Breathes-in a primal breath.

For how should torture breed a calm?

Can death to life give birth?

No labour can create the balm That soothes the sleeping earth!

I yet will hope the very One Whose love is life in me, Did, when my strength was overdone, Inspire serenity.

XVII.

When the hot sun's too urgent might Hath shrunk the tender leaf, Water comes sliding down the night, And makes its sorrow brief.

When poet's heart is in eclipse, A glance from childhood's eye, A smile from pa.s.sing maiden's lips, Will clear a glowing sky.

Might not from G.o.d such influence come A dying hope to lift?

Might he not send to poor heart some Unmediated gift?

My child lies moaning, lost in dreams, Abandoned, sore dismayed; Her fancy's world with horror teems, Her soul is much afraid:

I lay my hand upon her breast, Her moaning dies away; She does not wake, but, lost in rest, Sleeps on into the day.

And when my heart with soft release Grows calm as summer-sea, Shall I not hope the G.o.d of peace Hath laid his hand on me?

XVIII.

But why from thought should fresh doubt start-- An ever-lengthening cord?

Might he not make my troubled heart Right sure it was the Lord?

G.o.d will not let a smaller boon Hinder the coming best; A granted sign might all too soon Rejoice thee into rest.

Yet could not any sign, though grand As hosts of fire about, Though lovely as a sunset-land, Secure thy soul from doubt.

A smile from one thou lovedst well Gladdened thee all the day; The doubt which all day far did dwell Came home with twilight gray.

For doubt will come, will ever come, Though signs be perfect good, Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb, And both are understood.