The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 60

So, Father, every gift of thine I offer at thy knee; Else take I not the love divine With which it comes to me; Not else the offered grace is mine Of sharing life with thee.

Yea, all my being I would bring, Yielding it utterly, Not yet a full-possessed thing Till heaved again to thee: Away, my self! away, and cling To him that makes thee be!

_PRAYER_.

We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, And ye shall have your prayer; We turn our thoughts as to a task, With will constrained and rare.

And yet we have; these scanty prayers Yield gold without alloy: O G.o.d, but he that trusts and dares Must have a boundless joy!

_REST_.

I.

When round the earth the Father's hands Have gently drawn the dark; Sent off the sun to fresher lands, And curtained in the lark; 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, To fade with fading light, And lie once more, the old weary way, Upfolded in the night.

If mothers o'er our slumbers bend, And unripe kisses reap, In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, Till even in dreams we sleep.

And if we wake while night is dumb, 'Tis sweet to turn and say, It is an hour ere dawning come, And I will sleep till day.

II.

There is a dearer, warmer bed, Where one all day may lie, Earth's bosom pillowing the head, And let the world go by.

There come no watching mother's eyes, The stars instead look down; Upon it breaks, and silent dies, The murmur of the town.

The great world, shouting, forward fares: This chamber, hid from none, Hides safe from all, for no one cares For him whose work is done.

Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how A certain unknown place, Or here or there, is waiting now, To rest thee from thy race.

III.

Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms, The still composed breath!

Not there the folding of the arms, The cool, the blessed death!

_That_ needs no curtained bed to hide The world with all its wars, No gra.s.sy cover to divide From sun and moon and stars.

It is a rest that deeper grows In midst of pain and strife; A mighty, conscious, willed repose, The death of deepest life.

To have and hold the precious prize No need of jealous bars; But windows open to the skies, And skill to read the stars!

IV.

Who dwelleth in that secret place, Where tumult enters not, Is never cold with terror base, Never with anger hot.

For if an evil host should dare His very heart invest, G.o.d is his deeper heart, and there He enters in to rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow, And tear the scattered waves, Peaceful as summer woods, below Lie darkling ocean caves: The wind of words may toss my heart, But what is that to me!

Tis but a surface storm--thou art My deep, still, resting sea.

_O DO NOT LEAVE ME_.

O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; Till I forget, be near me in that chair.

The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- Leaves her contented there.

O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, Till I am dead, and resting in my place.

Love-compa.s.sed thus, the girl in peace ascends, And leaves a raptured face.

Leave me not, G.o.d, until--nay, until when?

Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; Not till the Life is Light in me, and then Leaving is left behind.

_BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH_.

A quiet heart, submissive, meek, Father, do thou bestow, Which more than granted, will not seek To have, or give, or know.

Each little hill then holds its gift Forth to my joying eyes; Each mighty mountain then doth lift My spirit to the skies.

Lo, then the running water sounds With gladsome, secret things!

The silent water more abounds, And more the hidden springs.

Live murmurs then the trees will blend With all the feathered song; The waving gra.s.s low tribute lend Earth's music to prolong.

The sun will cast great crowns of light On waves that anthems roar; The dusky billows break at night In flashes on the sh.o.r.e.

Each harebell, each white lily's cup, The hum of hidden bee, Yea, every odour floating up, The insect revelry--

Each hue, each harmony divine The holy world about, Its soul will send forth into mine, My soul to widen out.

And thus the great earth I shall hold, A perfect gift of thine; Richer by these, a thousandfold, Than if broad lands were mine.

_HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL_.

Father, in the dark I lay, Thirsting for the light, Helpless, but for hope alway In thy father-might.