The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 53

And some there are who see him sit Under the church, apart, Counting out coins and coins of gold Heap by heap on the dank death-mould: Alas poor ghost and his sore lack of wit-- They breed in the dust of his heart!

Another miser has now his chest, And it h.o.a.rds wealth more and more; Like ferrets his hands go in and out, Burrowing, tossing the gold about-- Nor heed the heart that, gone from his breast, Is the cold heap's bloodless core.

Now wherein differ old ghosts that sit Counting ghost-coins all day From the man who clings with spirit p.r.o.ne To whatever can never be his own?

Who will leave the world with not one whit But a heart all eaten away?

_THE ASTHMATIC MAN TO THE SATAN THAT BINDS HIM_.

Satan, avaunt!

Nay, take thine hour, Thou canst not daunt, Thou hast no power; Be welcome to thy nest, Though it be in my breast.

Burrow amain; Dig like a mole; Fill every vein With half-burnt coal; Puff the keen dust about, And all to choke me out.

Fill music's ways With creaking cries, That no loud praise May climb the skies; And on my labouring chest Lay mountains of unrest.

My slumber steep In dreams of haste, That only sleep, No rest, I taste-- With stiflings, rimes of rote, And fingers on my throat.

Satan, thy might I do defy; Live core of night I patient lie: A wind comes up the gray Will blow thee clean away.

Christ's angel, Death, All radiant white, With one cold breath Will scare thee quite, And give my lungs an air As fresh as answered prayer.

So, Satan, do Thy worst with me Until the True Shall set me free, And end what he began, By making me a man.

_SONG-SERMON._

Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him!

Though in creation's van, Lord, what is man!

He wills less than he can, Lets his ideal scoff him!

Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him!

_SHADOWS._

All things are shadows of thee, Lord; The sun himself is but thy shade; My spirit is the shadow of thy word, A thing that thou hast said.

Diamonds are shadows of the sun, They gleam as after him they hark: My soul some arrows of thy light hath won.

And feebly fights the dark!

All knowledges are broken shades, In gulfs of dark a scattered horde: Together rush the parted glory-grades-- Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!

My soul, the shadow, still is light Because the shadow falls from thee; I turn, dull candle, to the centre bright, And home flit shadowy.

s.h.i.+ne, Lord; s.h.i.+ne me thy shadow still; The brighter I, the more thy shade!

My motion be thy lovely moveless will!

My darkness, light delayed!

_A WINTER PRAYER._

Come through the gloom of clouded skies, The slow dim rain and fog athwart; Through east winds keen with wrong and lies Come and lift up my hopeless heart.

Come through the sickness and the pain, The sore unrest that tosses still; Through aching dark that hides the gain Come and arouse my fainting will.

Come through the prate of foolish words, The science with no G.o.d behind; Through all the pangs of untuned chords Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.

Through all the fears that spirits bow Of what hath been, or may befall, Come down and talk with me, for thou Canst tell me all about them all.

Hear, hear my sad lone heart entreat, Heart of all joy, below, above!

Come near and let me kiss thy feet, And name the names of those I love!

_SONG OF A POOR PILGRIM_.

Roses all the rosy way!

Roses to the rosier west Where the roses of the day Cling to night's unrosy breast!

Thou who mak'st the roses, why Give to every leaf a thorn?

On thy rosy highway I Still am by thy roses torn!

Pardon! I will not mistake These good thorns that make me fret!

Goads to urge me, stings to wake, For my freedom they are set.

Yea, on one steep mountain-side, Climbing to a fancied fold, Roses grasped had let me slide But the thorns did keep their hold.

Out of darkness light is born, Out of weakness make me strong: One glad day will every thorn Break into a rose of song.

Though like sparrow sit thy bird Lonely on the house-top dark, By the rosy dawning stirred Up will soar thy praising lark;

Roses, roses all his song!

Roses in a gorgeous feast!

Roses in a royal throng, Surging, rosing from the east!

_AN EVENING PRAYER_.

I am a bubble Upon thy ever-moving, resting sea: Oh, rest me now from tossing, trespa.s.s, trouble!

Take me down into thee.

Give me thy peace.

My heart is aching with unquietness: Oh, make its inharmonious beating cease!