The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 33

Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day, But ever he the Father, thou the Son; I am his child, but being born alway-- How long, O Lord, how long till it be done?

Be thou from endless years to years the Son-- And I thy brother, new-born every day.

_THE NEW YEAR_.

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come; Make poor the body, but make rich the heart: What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home, Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames, Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low-- Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.

_TWO RONDELS_.

I.

When, in the mid-sea of the night, I waken at thy call, O Lord, The first that troop my bark aboard Are darksome imps that hate the light, Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight-- Of wraths and cares a pirate horde-- Though on the mid-sea of the night It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight-- Catch up my s.h.i.+eld and two-edged sword, The words of him who is thy word-- Nor cease till they are put to flight; Then in the mid-sea of the night I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II.

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night!

I lift my voice and cry with might: If thou keep silent, soon a horde Of imps again will swarm aboard, And I shall be in sorry plight If no voice come from thee, my Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night.

There comes no voice; I hear no word!

But in my soul dawns something bright:-- There is no sea, no foe to fight!

Thy heart and mine beat one accord: I need no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night.

_RONDEL_.

Heart, thou must learn to do without-- That is the riches of the poor, Their liberty is to endure; Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about, And carol loud and carol stout; Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer; Thou too must learn to do without, Must earn the riches of the poor!

Why should'st thou only wear no clout?

Thou only walk in love-robes pure?

Why should thy step alone be sure?

Thou only free of fortune's flout?

Nay, nay! but learn to go without, And so be humbly, richly poor.

_SONG_.

Lighter and sweeter Let your song be; And for sorrow--oh cheat her With melody!

_SMOKE_.

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar But cannot get the wood to burn; It hardly flares ere it begins to falter And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel; In vain my breath would flame provoke; Yet see--at every poor attempt's renewal To thee ascends the smoke!

'Tis all I have--smoke, failure, foiled endeavour, Coldness and doubt and palsied lack: Such as I have I send thee!--perfect Giver, Send thou thy lightning back.

_TO A CERTAIN CRITIC_.

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind When I my homely dish with care designed; 'Twas certain humble souls I would have fed Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread: You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way, O'erturned the food, and trod it in the clay; Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt, Cried, "Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!"

_SONG_.

She loves thee, loves thee not!

That, that is all, my heart.

Why should she take a part In every selfish blot, In every greedy spot That now doth ache and smart Because she loves thee not-- Not, not at all, poor heart!

Thou art no such dove-cot Of virtues--no such chart Of highways, though the dart Of love be through thee shot!

Why should she not love not Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?

_A CRY_.

Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand, A mirror polished by thy hand; Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me-- I cannot help it: here I stand, there he!

To one of them I cannot say, Go, and on yonder water play; Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fas.h.i.+on-- I do not make the words of this my limping pa.s.sion!

If I should say, Now I will think a thought, Lo, I must wait, unknowing What thought in me is growing, Until the thing to birth be brought!

Nor know I then what next will come From out the gulf of silence dumb: I am the door the thing will find To pa.s.s into the general mind!

I cannot say _I think_-- I only stand upon the thought-well's brink: From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up-- lift it in my cup.

Thou only thinkest--I am thought; Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought Am I but as a fountain spout From which thy water welleth out.

Thou art the only one, the all in all.-- Yet when my soul on thee doth call And thou dost answer out of everywhere, I in thy allness have my perfect share.

_FROM HOME_.

Some men there are who cannot spare A single tear until they feel The last cold pressure, and the heel Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think The clouds have borrowed winter's wing, Sad winter, when the gra.s.ses spring No more about the fountain's brink.

And some would call me coward fool: I lay a claim to better blood, But yet a heap of idle mud Hath power to make me sorrowful.

_TO MY MOTHER EARTH_.