The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 49

Higher than love could dream or dare To ask, he them will set; They shall his cup and baptism share, And share his kingdom yet!

They, entering at his palace-door, Will shun the lofty seat; Will gird themselves, and water pour, And wash each other's feet;

Then down beside their lowly Lord On the Father's throne shall sit: For them who G.o.dlike help afford G.o.d hath prepared it.

IV.

_THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN_.

"Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go; She crieth after us."

Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; Serve not a woman thus.

Their pride, by condescension fed, He shapes with teaching tongue: "It is not meet the children's bread To little dogs be flung."

The words, for tender heart so sore, His voice did seem to rue; The gentle wrath his countenance wore, With her had not to do.

He makes her share the hurt of good, Takes what she would have lent, That those proud men their evil mood May see, and so repent;

And that the hidden faith in her May burst in soaring flame: With childhood deeper, holier, Is birthright not the same?

Ill names, of proud religion born-- She'll wear the worst that comes; Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, To share the healing crumbs!

"Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small Under the table eat The crumbs the little ones let fall-- That is not thought unmeet."

The prayer rebuff could not amate Was not like water spilt: "O woman, but thy faith is great!

Be it even as thou wilt."

Thrice happy she who yet will dare, Who, baffled, prayeth still!

He, if he may, will grant her prayer In fulness of _her_ will!

V.

_THE WIDOW OF NAIN_.

Forth from the city, with the load That makes the trampling low, They walk along the dreary road That dust and ashes go.

The other way, toward the gate Their trampling strong and loud, With hope of liberty elate, Comes on another crowd.

Nearer and nearer draw the twain-- One with a wailing cry!

How could the Life let such a train Of death and tears go by!

"Weep not," he said, and touched the bier: They stand, the dead who bear; The mother knows nor hope nor fear-- He waits not for her prayer.

"Young man, I say to thee, arise."

Who hears, he must obey: Up starts the body; wide the eyes Flash wonder and dismay.

The lips would speak, as if they caught Some converse sudden broke When the great word the dead man sought, And Hades' silence woke.

The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare Gives place to ordered sight; The murmur dies upon the air; The soul is dumb with light.

He brings no news; he has forgot, Or saw with vision weak: Thou sees! all our unseen lot, And yet thou dost not speak.

Hold'st thou the news, as parent might A too good gift, away, Lest we should neither sleep at night, Nor do our work by day?

The mother leaves us not a spark Of her triumph over grief; Her tears alone have left their mark Upon the holy leaf:

Oft grat.i.tude will thanks benumb, Joy will our laughter quell: May not Eternity be dumb With things too good to tell?

Her straining arms her lost one hold; Question she asketh none; She trusts for all he leaves untold; Enough, to clasp her son!

The ebb is checked, the flow begun, Sent rus.h.i.+ng to the gate: Death turns him backward to the sun, And life is yet our fate!

VI.

_THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND_.

For years eighteen she, patient soul, Her eyes had graveward sent; Her earthly life was lapt in dole, She was so bowed and bent.

What words! To her? Who can be near?

What tenderness of hands!

Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere?

New hope, or breaking bands?

The pent life rushes swift along Channels it used to know; Up, up, amid the wondering throng, She rises firm and slow--

To bend again in grateful awe-- For will is power at length-- In homage to the living Law Who gives her back her strength.

Uplifter of the down-bent head!

Unbinder of the bound!

Who seest all the burdened Who only see the ground!

Although they see thee not, nor cry, Thou watchest for the hour To lift the forward-beaming eye, To wake the slumbering power!

Thy hand will wipe the stains of time From off the withered face; Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime Of youthful manhood's grace!

Like summer days from winter's tomb, Shall rise thy women fair; Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, Lo, is not anywhere!

All ills of life shall melt away As melts a cureless woe, When, by the dawning of the day Surprised, the dream must go.

I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, Whate'er the needful cure; The great best only thou wilt do, And hoping I endure.

VII.