The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 78

"Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"

I said; "mine eyes to thine Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears, But also hear'st with mine:"

"Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay, How trembles my life's node; Thou art the potter, I am the clay-- 'Tis thine to bear the load."

III.

A piece of gold had left my purse, Which I had guarded ill; I feared a lack, but feared yet worse Regret returning still.

I lifted up my feeble prayer To him who maketh strong, That thence no haunting thoughts of care Might do my spirit wrong.

And even before my body slept, Such visions fair I had, That seldom soul with chamber swept Was more serenely glad.

No white-robed angel floated by On slow, reposing wings; I only saw, with inward eye, Some very common things.

First rose the scarlet pimpernel With burning purple heart; I saw within it, and could spell The lesson of its art.

Then came the primrose, child-like flower, And looked me in the face; It bore a message full of power, And confidence, and grace.

And breezes rose on pastures trim And bathed me all about; Wool-m.u.f.fled sheep-bells babbled dim, Or only half spoke out.

Sudden it closed, some door of heaven, But what came out remained: The poorest man my loss had given For that which I had gained!

Thou gav'st me, Lord, a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup Where I bemoaned a sip; How easily thou didst make up For that my fault let slip!

What said the flowers? what message new Embalmed my soul with rest?

I scarce can tell--only they grew Right out of G.o.d's own breast.

They said, to every flower he made G.o.d's thought was root and stem-- Perhaps said what the lilies said When Jesus looked at them.

IV.

Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake, Our souls with visions teem Which to the slumbering brain would take The form of wondrous dream.

Once, with my thought-sight, I descried A plain with hills around; A lordly company on each side Leaves bare the middle ground.

Great terrace-steps at one end rise To something like a throne, And thither all the radiant eyes, As to a centre, shone.

A snow-white glory, dim-defined, Those seeking eyes beseech-- Him who was not in fire or wind, But in the gentle speech.

They see his eyes far-fixed wait: Adown the widening vale They, turning, look; their breath they bate, With dread-filled wonder pale.

In raiment worn and blood-bedewed, With faltering step and numb, Toward the s.h.i.+ning mult.i.tude A weary man did come.

His face was white, and still-composed, As of a man nigh dead; The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed, A faint, wan splendour shed.

Drops on his hair disordered hung Like rubies dull of hue; His hands were pitifully wrung, And stricken through and through.

Silent they stood with tender awe: Between their ranks he came; Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw What made his feet so lame.

He reached the steps below the throne, There sank upon his knees; Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan, And spake in words like these:--

"Father, I am come back. Thy will Is sometimes hard to do."

From all that mult.i.tude so still A sound of weeping grew.

Then mournful-glad came down the One; He kneeled and clasped his child; Lay on his breast the outworn man, And wept until he smiled.

The people, who, in bitter woe And love, had sobbed and cried, Raised aweful eyes at length--and, Lo, The two sat side by side!

V.

Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood High in the gloomy air; One bore a thief, and one the Good; The other waited bare.

A soldier came up to the place, And took me for the third; My eyes they sought the Master's face, My will the Master's word.

He bent his head; I took the sign, And gave the error way; Gesture nor look nor word of mine The secret should betray.

The soldier from the cross's foot Turned. I stood waiting there: That grim, expectant tree, for fruit My dying form must bear.

Up rose the steaming mists of doubt And chilled both heart and brain; They shut the world of vision out, And fear saw only pain.

"Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow!

The nails that rend and pierce!

The shock may stun, but, slow and slow, The torture will grow fierce."

"Alas, the awful fight with death!

The hours to hang and die!

The thirsting gasp for common breath!

The weakness that would cry!"

My soul returned: "A faintness soon Will shroud thee in its fold; The hours will bring the fearful noon; 'Twill pa.s.s--and thou art cold."

"'Tis his to care that thou endure, To curb or loose the pain; With bleeding hands hang on thy cure-- It shall not be in vain."

But, ah, the will, which thus could quail, Might yield--oh, horror drear!

Then, more than love, the fear to fail Kept down the other fear.

I stood, nor moved. But inward strife The bonds of slumber broke: Oh! had I fled, and lost the life Of which the Master spoke?

VI.

Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial The last shades darken, friends say, "_He was good_;"

I struggling fail to speak my faint denial-- They whisper, "_His humility withstood_."

I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; And find the unknown world not all unknown: The bonds that held me from my centre broken, I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.