The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 39

But if she changes: One has mastery Who makes the joy the last in every song.

And so to-day I blessed the breezes strong That swept the blue; I blessed the breezes free That rolled wet leaves like rivers s.h.i.+ningly; I blessed the purple woods I stood among.

"And yet the spring is better!" Bitterness Came with the words, but did not stay with them.

"Accomplishment and promise! field and stem New green fresh growing in a fragrant dress!

And we behind with death and memory!"

--Nay, prophet-spring! but I will follow thee.

_CHRISTMAS DAY, 1850_.

Beautiful stories wed with lovely days Like words and music:--what shall be the tale Of love and n.o.bleness that might avail To express in action what this sweetness says--

The sweetness of a day of airs and rays That are strange glories on the winter pale?

Alas, O beauty, all my fancies fail!

I cannot tell a story in thy praise!

Thou hast, thou hast one--set, and sure to chime With thee, as with the days of "winter wild;"

For Joy like Sorrow loves his blessed feet Who shone from Heaven on Earth this Christmas-time A Brother and a Saviour, Mary's child!-- And so, fair day, thou _hast_ thy story sweet.

_TO A FEBRUARY PRIMROSE_.

I know not what among the gra.s.s thou art, Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power To send thine image through them to the heart; But when I push the frosty leaves apart And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower Thou growest up within me from that hour, And through the snow I with the spring depart.

I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, Pale beauty, of thy second life within.

There is a wind that cometh for thy death, But thou a life immortal dost begin, Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!

_IN FEBRUARY_.

Now in the dark of February rains, Poor lovers of the suns.h.i.+ne, spring is born, The earthy fields are full of hidden corn, And March's violets bud along the lanes;

Therefore with joy believe in what remains.

And thou who dost not feel them, do not scorn Our early songs for winter overworn, And faith in G.o.d's handwriting on the plains.

"Hope" writes he, "Love" in the first violet, "Joy," even from Heaven, in songs and winds and trees; And having caught the happy words in these While Nature labours with the letters yet, Spring cannot cheat us, though her _hopes_ be broken, Nor leave us, for we know what G.o.d hath spoken.

_THE TRUE_.

I envy the tree-tops that shake so high In winds that fill them full of heavenly airs; I envy every little cloud that shares With unseen angels evening in the sky; I envy most the youngest stars that lie Sky-nested, and the loving heaven that bears, And night that makes strong worlds of them unawares; And all G.o.d's other beautiful and nigh!

Nay, nay, I envy not! And these are dreams, Fancies and images of real heaven!

My longings, all my longing prayers are given For that which is, and not for that which seems.

Draw me, O Lord, to thy true heaven above, The Heaven of thy Thought, thy Rest, thy Love.

_THE DWELLERS THEREIN_.

Down a warm alley, early in the year, Among the woods, with all the suns.h.i.+ne in And all the winds outside it, I begin To think that something gracious will appear, If anything of grace inhabit here, Or there be friends.h.i.+p in the woods to win.

Might one but find companions more akin To trees and gra.s.s and happy daylight clear, And in this wood spend one long hour at home!

The fairies do not love so bright a place, And angels to the forest never come, But I have dreamed of some harmonious race, The kindred of the shapes that haunt the sh.o.r.e Of Music's flow and flow for evermore.

_AUTUMN'S GOLD_.

Along the tops of all the yellow trees, The golden-yellow trees, the suns.h.i.+ne lies; And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses; And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze, Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes-- Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies, And s.h.i.+ning houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore That make the western river-beds so bright, The briar and the furze are all alight!

Perhaps the year will be so fair no more, But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay, And autumn old has shone into a Day!

_PUNISHMENT_.

Mourner, that dost deserve thy mournfulness, Call thyself punished, call the earth thy h.e.l.l; Say, "G.o.d is angry, and I earned it well-- I would not have him smile on wickedness:"

Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less:-- "G.o.d rules at least, I find as prophets tell, And proves it in this prison!"--then thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness.

--"A prison--and yet from door and window-bar I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air!

Even to me his days and nights are fair!

He shows me many a flower and many a star!

And though I mourn and he is very far, He does not kill the hope that reaches there!"

_SHEW US THE FATHER_.

"Shew us the Father." Chiming stars of s.p.a.ce, And lives that fit the worlds, and means and powers, A Thought that holds them up reveal to ours-- A Wisdom we have been made wise to trace.

And, looking out from sweetest Nature's face, From sunsets, moonlights, rivers, hills, and flowers, Infinite love and beauty, all the hours, Woo men that love them with divinest grace; And to the depths of all the answering soul High Justice speaks, and calls the world her own; And yet we long, and yet we have not known The very Father's face who means the whole!

Shew us the Father! Nature, conscience, love Revealed in beauty, is there One above?

_THE PINAFORE_.

When peevish flaws his soul have stirred To fretful tears for crossed desires, Obedient to his mother's word My child to banishment retires.

As disappears the moon, when wind Heaps miles of mist her visage o'er, So vanisheth his face behind The cloud of his white pinafore.

I cannot then come near my child-- A gulf between of gainful loss; He to the infinite exiled-- I waiting, for I cannot cross.

Ah then, what wonder, pa.s.sing show, The Isis-veil behind it brings-- Like that self-coffined creatures know, Remembering legs, foreseeing wings!