The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 10

"Traveller, what lies over the hill?

Traveller, tell to me: Tip-toe-high on the window-sill Over I cannot see."

"My child, a valley green lies there, Lovely with trees, and shy; And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care, Or I'll drown you by and by!'"

"And what comes next?"--"A little town, And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys up and down, And a river now and then."

"And what comes next?"--"A lonely moor Without one beaten way, And slow clouds drifting dull before A wind that will not stay."

"And then?"--"Dark rocks and yellow sand, Blue sea and a moaning tide."

"And then?"--"More sea, and then more land, With rivers deep and wide."

"And then?"--"Oh, rock and mountain and vale, Ocean and sh.o.r.es and men, Over and over, a weary tale, And round to your home again!"

"And is that all? From day to day, Like one with a long chain bound, Should I walk and walk and not get away, But go always round and round?"

"No, no; I have not told you the best, I have not told you the end: If you want to escape, away in the west You will see a stair ascend,

"Built of all colours of lovely stones, A stair up into the sky Where no one is weary, and no one moans, Or wishes to be laid by."

"Is it far away?"--"I do not know: You must fix your eyes thereon, And travel, travel through thunder and snow, Till the weary way is gone.

"All day, though you never see it s.h.i.+ne, You must travel nor turn aside, All night you must keep as straight a line Through moonbeams or darkness wide."

"When I am older!"--"Nay, not so!"

"I have hardly opened my eyes!"

"He who to the old sunset would go, Starts best with the young sunrise."

"Is the stair right up? is it very steep?"

"Too steep for you to climb; You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap And patient wait your time."

"How long?"--"Nay, that I cannot tell."

"In wind, and rain, and frost?"

"It may be so; and it is well That you should count the cost.

"Pilgrims from near and from distant lands Will step on you lying there; But a wayfaring man with wounded hands Will carry you up the stair."

_BROTHER ARTIST!_

Brother artist, help me; come!

Artists are a maimed band: I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail-- Va.s.sal-words their hasting chief, On the white awaiting leaf Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Had I hers of music-might, I would shake the air with storm Till the red clouds trailed enorm Boreal dances through the night.

Had I his whose foresight rare Piles the stones with lordliest art, From the quarry of my heart Love should climb a heavenly stair!

Had I his whose wooing slow Wins the marble's hidden child, Out in pa.s.sion undefiled Stood my Psyche, white as snow!

Maimed, a little help I pray; Words suffice not for my end; Let thy hand obey thy friend, Say for me what I would say.

Draw me, on an arid plain With h.o.a.r-headed mountains nigh, Under a clear morning sky Telling of a night of rain,

Huge and half-shaped, like a block Chosen for sarcophagus By a Pharaoh glorious, One rude solitary rock.

Cleave it down along the ridge With a fissure yawning deep To the heart of the hard heap, Like the rent of riving wedge.

Through the cleft let hands appear, Upward pointed with pressed palms As if raised in silent psalms For salvation come anear.

Turn thee now--'tis almost done!-- To the near horizon's verge: Make the smallest arc emerge Of the forehead of the sun.

One thing more--I ask too much!-- From a brow which hope makes brave Sweep the shadow of the grave With a single golden touch.

Thanks, dear painter; that is all.

If thy picture one day should Need some words to make it good, I am ready to thy call.

_AFTER AN OLD LEGEND._

The monk was praying in his cell, With bowed head praying sore; He had been praying on his knees For two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly, His eyelids opened wide; Before him on the ground he saw A man's feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came down A garment wove throughout; Such garment he had never seen In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly Until a hand they spied: A chisel-scar on it he saw, And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face, His heart gave one wild bound, Then stood as if its work were done-- The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell Told him the poor did wait His hand to give the daily bread Doled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him pa.s.sionate, And with Duty wrestled strong; And the bell kept calling all the time With merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at him He rose up with a sigh: "He will be gone when I come back I go to him by and by!"

He chid his heart, he fed the poor All at the convent-gate; Then with slow-dragging feet went back To his cell so desolate:

His heart bereaved by duty done, He had sore need of prayer!

Oh, sad he lifted the latch!--and, lo, The Master standing there!

He said, "My poor had not to stand Wearily at thy gate: For him who feeds the shepherd's sheep The shepherd will stand and wait."

_Yet, Lord--for thou would'st have us judge, And I will humbly dare-- If he had staid, I do not think Thou wouldst have left him there.

Thy voice in far-off time I hear, With sweet defending, say: "The poor ye always have with you, Me ye have not alway!"