The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 59

Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity, Think what it is, not to be pure!

Strong in thy love's essential security, Think upon those who are never secure.

Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity: Fold me in love's security.

O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching!

Help it to ache as much as is needful; Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking, Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful?

Sick of my past, of my own self aching-- Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.

Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel, Proud of myself, I forgot my donor; Down in the dust I began to nestle, Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour!

Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel!

In the dust of thy glory I nestle.

_THE CONSOLER_: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S _Christus Consolator_.

I.

What human form is this? what form divine?

And who are these that gaze upon his face Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace, With whose reflected light the gazers s.h.i.+ne?

Saviour, who does not know it to be thine?

Who does not long to fill a gazer's place?

And yet there is no time, there is no s.p.a.ce To keep away thy servants from thy shrine!

Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes, Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see, Thou art not too far to turn and look on me, To speak to me, and to receive my sighs.

Therefore for ever I forget the skies, And find an everlasting Sun in thee.

II.

Oh let us never leave that happy throng!

From that low att.i.tude of love not cease!

In all the world there is no other peace, In all the world no other s.h.i.+eld from wrong.

But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long-- For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase-- But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong, Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release.

We wander from thy fold's free holy air, Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin!

But if thou keep us evermore within, We never surely can forget thee there-- Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear, And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!

III.

To speak of him in language of our own, Is not for us too daringly to try; But, Saviour, we can read thy history Upon the faces round thy humble throne; And as the flower among the gra.s.s makes known What summer suns have warmed it from the sky, As every human smile and human sigh Is witness that we do not live alone, So in that company--in those sweet tears, The first-born of a rugged melted heart, In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart, And in the words that weeping mother hears, We read the story of two thousand years, And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.

_TO_ ----

I cannot write old verses here, Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young year Is in the summer day.

The roses make the world so sweet, The bees, the birds have such a tune, There's such a light and such a heat And such a joy this June,

One must expand one's heart with praise, And make the memory secure Of suns.h.i.+ne and the woodland days And summer twilights pure.

Oh listen rather! Nature's song Comes from the waters, beating tides, Green-margined rivers, and the throng Of streams on mountain-sides.

So fair those water-spirits are, Such happy strength their music fills, Our joy shall be to wander far And find them on the hills.

_TO A SISTER_.

A fresh young voice that sings to me So often many a simple thing, Should surely not unanswered be By all that I can sing.

Dear voice, be happy every way A thousand changing tones among, From little child's unfinished lay To angel's perfect song.

In dewy woods--fair, soft, and green Like morning woods are childhood's bower-- Be like the voice of brook unseen Among the stones and flowers;

A joyful voice though born so low, And making all its neighbours glad; Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow Even when the winds are sad.

So, strengthen in a peaceful home, And daily deeper meanings bear; And when life's wildernesses come Be brave and faithful there.

Try all the glorious magic range, Wors.h.i.+p, forgive, console, rejoice, Until the last and sweetest change-- So live and grow, dear voice.

_THE SHORTEST AND SWEETEST OF SONGS_.

Come Home.

SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS.

_ANNIE SHE'S DOWIE_.

Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae: What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae, For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day, And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay?

Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud, And the t.i.ther a minnie that cleiks at the goud '.

They lo'ed are anither, and said their say, But the daddy and minnie hae part.i.t the twae!

_O La.s.sIE AYONT THE HILL_!

O la.s.sie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill!

I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.

A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O la.s.sie, come ower the hill!

Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace, And no a sel ava!

I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face, O' my thouchts and mysel and a';