The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 55

In that high country whither thou art gone, Right n.o.ble friend, thou walkest with thy peers, The gathered great of many a hundred years!

Few are left like thee--few, I say, not none, Else were thy England soon a Babylon, A land of outcry, mockery, and tears!

Higher than law, a refuge from its fears, Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone.

The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face Was like the sunrise of a morn serene Among the mountains, making sweet their awe.

Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw; Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean, As, whence thou cam'st, it knew the lofty place.

_TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS_.

I.

Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark, And twilight cool thy potent day inclose!

The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows All the night through, sleepless and young and stark.

Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark, More daring: in the midnight of thy woes, Dart through them, higher than earth's shadow goes, Into the Light of which thou art a spark!

Be willing to be blind--that, in thy night, The Lord may bring his Father to thy door, And enter in, and feast thy soul with light.

Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more, Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies, And s.h.i.+ne, G.o.d's house, all radiant in our eyes.

II.

Say thou, his will be done who is the good!

His will be borne who knoweth how to bear!

Who also in the night had need of prayer, Both when awoke divinely longing mood, And when the power of darkness him withstood.

For what is coming take no jot of care: Behind, before, around thee as the air, He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood.

And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer, Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest, Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height, Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share: He needs no eyes who is a s.h.i.+ning light!

_TO AUBREY DE VERE_.

Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere, Forgive my play fantastic with thy name, Distilling its true essence by the flame Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear.

I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer; If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame, Or furthering by failure each high aim; If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear; But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by-- Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod-- We laying down the staff, and He the rod-- So look on me I shall not need to cry-- "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I: We mean the same thing--will the will of G.o.d!"

_GENERAL GORDON_.

I.

Victorious through failure! faithful Lord, Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray From thine own country of eternal day, To s.h.i.+eld thee from the lanterned traitor horde, Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!-- Our long r.e.t.a.r.ded legions, on their way, Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway, To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word, Thou sawest foiled--but glorifiedst him, Over ten cities giving him thy rule!

We will not mourn a star that grew not dim, A soldier-child of G.o.d gone home from school!

A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff, And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff!

II.

Another to the witnesses' roll-call Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out-- With willingness crowned everywhere about, Not the head only, but the body all, In one great nimbus of obedient fall, His heart's blood das.h.i.+ng in the face of doubt-- Love's last victorious stand amid the rout!

--Silence is left, and the untasted gall.

No chariot with ramping steeds of fire The Father sent to fetch his man-child home; His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!"

And like a dove to heaven he did aspire, His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire.

--Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb!

_THE CHRYSALIS_.

Methought I floated sightless, nor did know That I had ears until I heard the cry As of a mighty man in agony: "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow?

The arrows of thy lightning through me go, And sting and torture me--yet here I lie A shapeless ma.s.s that scarce can mould a sigh!"

The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet.

Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead, And looked upon the world: the silence broke!

A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke!

And from that world a mighty angel fled.

_THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR_.

Methought that in a solemn church I stood.

Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, Lay spread from door to door, from street to street.

Midway the form hung high upon the rood Of him who gave his life to be our good; Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet, Among the candles s.h.i.+ning still and sweet.

Men came and went, and wors.h.i.+pped as they could-- And still their dust a woman with her broom, Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door.

Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, Across the church a silent figure come: "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!"

It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more.

_DEATH_.

Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: A fresher birth brings every new year in.

Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.

See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!