The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 50

_UNREST_.

Comes there, O Earth, no breathing time for thee, No pause upon thy many-chequered lands?

Now resting on my bed with listless hands I mourn thee resting not. Continually Hear I the plas.h.i.+ng borders of the sea Answer each other from the rocks and sands!

Troop all the rivers seawards; nothing stands, But with strange noises hasteth terribly!

Loam-eared hyenas go a moaning by; Howls to each other all the b.l.o.o.d.y crew Of Afric's tigers! but, O men, from you Comes this perpetual sound more loud and high Than aught that vexes air! I hear the cry Of infant generations rising too!

_ONE WITH NATURE_.

I have a fellows.h.i.+p with every shade Of changing nature: with the tempest hour My soul goes forth to claim her early dower Of living princedom; and her wings have staid Amidst the wildest uproar undismayed!

Yet she hath often owned a better power, And blessed the gentle coming of the shower, The speechless majesty of love arrayed In lowly virtue, under which disguise Full many a princely thing hath pa.s.sed her by; And she from homely intercourse of eyes Hath gathered visions wider than the sky, And seen the withered heart of man arise Peaceful as G.o.d, and full of majesty.

_MY TWO GENIUSES_.

I.

One is a slow and melancholy maid; I know riot if she cometh from the skies Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise Often before me in the twilight shade, Holding a bunch of poppies and a blade Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies Before her on the turf, the while she ties A fillet of the weed about my head; And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear A gentle rustle like the stir of corn, And words like odours thronging to my ear: "Lie still, beloved--still until the morn; Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere-- Still till the judgment; thou art faint and worn."

II.

The other meets me in the public throng; Her hair streams backward from her loose attire; She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire; She points me downward, steadily and long:-- "There is thy grave--arise, my son, be strong!

Hands are upon thy crown--awake, aspire To immortality; heed not the lyre Of the Enchantress, nor her poppy-song, But in the stillness of the summer calm Tremble for what is G.o.dlike in thy being.

Listen a while, and thou shall hear the psalm Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing; And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm."

III.

Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?

Alas, I may not; thou art likewise dear!

I am but human, and thou hast a tear When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow Of a wild energy that mocks the flow Of the poor sympathies which keep us here: Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near, And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow; And thou shalt walk with me in open day Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace; And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way, Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace As her great orbs turn ever on thy face, Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.

_SUDDEN CALM_.

There is a bellowing in me, as of might Unfleshed and visionless, mangling the air With horrible convulse, as if it bare The cruel weight of worlds, but could not fight With the thick-dropping clods, and could but bite A vapour-cloud! Oh, I will climb the stair Of the great universe, and lay me there Even at the threshold of his gate, despite The tempest, and the weakness, and the rush Of this quick crowding on me!--Oh, I dream!

Now I am sailing swiftly, as we seem To do in sleep! and I can hear the gush Of a melodious wave that carries me On, on for ever to eternity!

_THOU ALSO_.

Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track The b.l.o.o.d.y secret; let the welkin crack Reverberating, while ye dance and skip About the horrid blaze! or else ye strip, More secretly, for the avenging rack, Him who hath done the deed, till, oozing black Ye watch the anguish from his nostrils drip, And all the knotted limbs lie quivering!

Or, if your hearts disdain such banqueting, With wide and tearless eyes go staring through The murder cells! but think--that, if your knees Bow not to holiness, then even in you Lie deeper gulfs and blacker crimes than these.

_THE AURORA BOREALIS_.

Now have I grown a sharpness and an edge Unto my future nights, and I will cut Sheer through the ebon gates that yet will shut On every set of day; or as a sledge Drawn over snowy plains; where not a hedge Breaks this Aurora's dancing, nothing but The one cold Esquimaux' unlikely hut That swims in the broad moonlight! Lo, a wedge Of the clean meteor hath been brightly driven Right home into the fastness of the north!

Anon it quickeneth up into the heaven!

And I with it have clomb and spreaded forth Upon the crisp and cooling atmosphere!

My soul is all abroad: I cannot find it here!

_THE HUMAN._

Within each living man there doth reside, In some unrifled chamber of the heart, A hidden treasure: wayward as thou art I love thee, man, and bind thee to my side!

By that sweet act I purify my pride And hasten onward--willing even to part With pleasant graces: though thy hue is swart, I bear thee company, thou art my guide!

Even in thy sinning wise beyond thy ken To thee a subtle debt my soul is owing!

I take an impulse from the worst of men That lends a wing unto my onward going; Then let me pay them gladly back again With prayer and love from Faith and Duty flowing!

_WRITTEN ON A STORMY NIGHT._

O wild and dark! a night hath found me now Wherein I mingle with that element Sent madly loose through the wide staring rent In yon tormented branches! I will bow A while unto the storm, and thenceforth grow Into a mighty patience strongly bent Before the unconquering Power which hither sent These winds to fight their battles on my brow!-- Again the loud boughs thunder! and the din Licks up my footfall from the hissing earth!

But I have found a mighty peace within, And I have risen into a home of mirth!

Wildly I climb above the shaking spires, Above the sobbing clouds, up through the steady fires!

_REVERENCE WAKING HOPE_.

A power is on me, and my soul must speak To thee, thou grey, grey man, whom I behold With those white-headed children. I am bold To commune with thy setting, and to wreak My doubts on thy grey hair; for I would seek Thee in that other world, but I am told Thou goest elsewhere and wilt never hold Thy head so high as now. Oh I were weak, Weak even to despair, could I forego The tender vision which will give somehow Thee standing brightly one day even as now!

Thou art a very grey old man, and so I may not pa.s.s thee darkly, but bestow A look of reverence on thy wrinkled brow.

_BORN OF WATER_.

Methought I stood among the stars alone, Watching a grey parched orb which onward flew Half blinded by the dusty winds that blew, Empty as Death and barren as a stone, The pleasant sound of water all unknown!

When, as I looked in wonderment, there grew, High in the air above, a drop of dew, Which, gathering slowly through long cycles, shone Like a great tear; and then at last it fell Clasping the orb, which drank it greedily, With a delicious noise and upward swell Of sweet cool joy that tossed me like a sea; And then the thick life sprang as from a grave, With trees, flowers, boats upon the bounding wave!

_TO A THUNDER-CLOUD._

Oh, melancholy fragment of the night Drawing thy lazy web against the sun, Thou shouldst have waited till the day was done With kindred glooms to build thy fane aright, Sublime amid the ruins of the light!

But thus to shape our glories one by one With fearful hands, ere we had well begun To look for shadows--even in the bright!

Yet may we charm a lesson from thy breast, A secret wisdom from thy folds of thunder: There is a wind that cometh from the west Will rend thy tottering piles of gloom asunder, And fling thee ruinous along the gra.s.s, To sparkle on us as our footsteps pa.s.s!

_SUN AND MOON._