The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 57

Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw Thy h.o.a.rdless wealth of gleam and glow!

The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be, Are dead till touched by thee.

Everywhere, Thou art lancing through the air!

Every atom from another Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; Continually, Thou art wetting the wet sea, Bathing its sluggish woods below, Making the salt flowers bud and blow; Silently, Workest thou, and ardently, Waking from the night of nought Into being and to thought;

Influences Every beam of thine dispenses, Potent, subtle, reaching far, Shooting different from each star.

Not an iron rod can lie In circle of thy beamy eye, But its look doth change it so That it cannot choose but show Thou, the worker, hast been there; Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark Even in what men call the dark.

Ever doing, ever showing, Thou dost set our hearts a glowing-- Universal something sent To shadow forth the Excellent!

When the firstborn affections-- Those winged seekers of the world within, That search about in all directions, Some bright thing for themselves to win-- Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs, Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs, Long, long, have followed faces fair, Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air, And darkness is around them and above, Desolate of aught to love, And through the gloom on every side, Strange dismal forms are dim descried, And the air is as the breath From the lips of void-eyed Death, And the knees are bowed in prayer To the Stronger than despair-- Then the ever-lifted cry, _Give us light, or we shall die_, Cometh to the Father's ears, And he hearkens, and he hears:--

As some slow sun would glimmer forth From sunless winter of the north, We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes, Discern and doubt the opening skies.

From a misty gray that lies on Our dim future's far horizon, It grows a fresh aurora, sent Up the spirit's firmament, Telling, through the vapours dun, Of the coming, coming sun!

Tis Truth awaking in the soul!

His Righteousness to make us whole!

And what shall we, this Truth receiving, Though with but a faint believing, Call it but eternal Light?

'Tis the morning, 'twas the night!

All things most excellent Are likened unto thee, excellent thing!

Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent, Came like a lamp, to bring, Across the winds and wastes of night, The everlasting light.

Hail, Word of G.o.d, the telling of his thought!

Hail, Light of G.o.d, the making-visible!

Hail, far-transcending glory brought In human form with man to dwell-- Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less To show, irradiate, and bless; The gathering of the primal rays divine Informing chaos, to a pure suns.h.i.+ne!

Dull horrid pools no motion making!

No bubble on the surface breaking!

The dead air lies, without a sound, Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground.

Rus.h.i.+ng winds and snow-like drift, Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift!

Hair-like vapours madly riven!

Waters smitten into dust!

Lightning through the turmoil driven, Aimless, useless, yet it must!

Gentle winds through forests calling!

Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing!

Solemn waves on sea-sh.o.r.es falling!

White sails on blue waters dancing!

Mountain streams glad music giving!

Children in the clear pool laving!

Yellow corn and green gra.s.s waving!

Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living!

Light, O radiant, it is thou!

Light!--we know our Father now!

Forming ever without form; Showing, but thyself unseen; Pouring stillness on the storm; Breathing life where death had been!

If thy light thou didst draw in, Death and Chaos soon were out, Weltering o'er the slimy sea, Riding on the whirlwind's rout, In wild unmaking energy!

G.o.d, be round us and within, Fighting darkness, slaying sin.

Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable, On whom no changing shadow ever fell!

Thy light we know not, are content to see; Thee we know not, and are content to be!-- Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we!

But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast?

Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee!

The very shadows on our souls that lie, Good witness to the light supernal bear; The something 'twixt us and the sky Could cast no shadow if light were not there!

If children tremble in the night, It is because their G.o.d is light!

The s.h.i.+ning of the common day Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow-- Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies: Thy living light's eternal play, Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?-- Behind the life itself, its fountains rise!

In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place; And we _have_ seen thee in the Saviour's face.

Enlighten me, O Light!--why art thou such?

Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet?

Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch?

Why in thee do the known and unknown meet?

Why swift and tender, strong and delicate?

Simple as truth, yet manifold in might?

Why does one love thee, and another hate?

Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech When I a goodly matter would indite?

Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach?

--In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech, For G.o.d is light.

_TO A. J. SCOTT_.

When, long ago, the daring of my youth Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing, Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth

Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, Made homely by the tenderness and grace Which round thy absolute friends.h.i.+p ever fling

A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

I see thee far before me on thy way Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still; Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate, Searching all truths its prophecy to fill;

But this my joy: throned in thy heart so great, High Love is queen, and sits without a mate.

_May_, 1857.

_I WOULD I WERE A CHILD_.

I would I were a child, That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!

And follow thee with running feet, or rather Be led through dark and wild!