The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 81

Better to be a little wise Than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil To fill perfection's round.

Better to sit at some man's feet Than thrill a listening state; Better suspect that thou art proud Than be sure that thou art great.

Better to walk the realm unseen Than watch the hour's event; Better the _Well done, faithful slave_!

Than the air with shoutings rent.

Better to have a quiet grief Than many turbulent joys; Better to miss thy manhood's aim Than sacrifice the boy's.

Better a death when work is done Than earth's most favoured birth; Better a child in G.o.d's great house Than the king of all the earth.

_AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT_.

My wife contrived a fleecy thing Her husband to infold, For 'tis the pride of woman still To cover from the cold: My daughter made it a new text For a sermon very old.

The child came trotting to her side, Ready with bootless aid: "Lily make veckit for papa,"

The tiny woman said: Her mother gave the means and ways, And a knot upon her thread.

"Mamma, mamma!--it won't come through!"

In meek dismay she cried.

Her mother cut away the knot, And she was satisfied, Pulling the long thread through and through, In fabricating pride.

Her mother told me this: I caught A glimpse of something more: Great meanings often hide behind The little word before!

And I brooded over my new text Till the seed a sermon bore.

Nannie, to you I preach it now-- A little sermon, low: Is it not thus a thousand times, As through the world we go?

Do we not tug, and fret, and cry-- Instead of _Yes, Lord--No_?

While all the rough things that we meet Which will not move a jot, The hindrances to heart and feet, _The Crook in every Lot_, Mean plainly but that children's threads Have at the end a knot.

This world of life G.o.d weaves for us, Nor spares he pains or cost, But we must turn the web to clothes And s.h.i.+eld our hearts from frost: Shall we, because the thread holds fast, Count labour vain and lost?

If he should cut away the knot, And yield each fancy wild, The hidden life within our hearts-- His life, the undefiled-- Would fare as ill as I should fare From the needle of my child.

As tack and sheet unto the sail, As to my verse the rime,

As mountains to the low green earth-- So hard for feet to climb, As call of striking clock amid The quiet flow of time,

As sculptor's mallet to the birth Of the slow-dawning face, As knot upon my Lily's thread When she would work apace, G.o.d's _Nay_ is such, and worketh so For his children's coming grace.

Who, knowing G.o.d's intent with him, His birthright would refuse?

What makes us what we have to be Is the only thing to choose: We understand nor end nor means, And yet his ways accuse!

This is my sermon. It is preached Against all fretful strife.

Chafe not with anything that is, Nor cut it with thy knife.

Ah! be not angry with the knot That holdeth fast thy life.

_LITTLE ELFIE_.

I have a puppet-jointed child, She's but three half-years old; Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild With looks both shy and bold.

Like little imps, her tiny hands Dart out and push and take; Chide her--a trembling thing she stands, And like two leaves they shake.

But to her mind a minute gone Is like a year ago; And when you lift your eyes anon, Anon you must say _No_!

Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, She has her sleepless fits; Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair The elfish mortal sits;--

Where, if by chance in mood more grave, A hermit she appears Propped in the opening of his cave, Mummied almost with years;

Or like an idol set upright With folded legs for stem, Ready to hear prayers all the night And never answer them.

But where's the idol-hermit thrust?

Her knees like flail-joints go!

Alternate kiss, her mother must, Now that, now this big toe!

I turn away from her, and write For minutes three or four: A tiny spectre, tall and white, She's standing by the door!

Then something comes into my head That makes me stop and think: She's on the table, the quadruped, And dabbling in my ink!

O Elfie, make no haste to lose Thy ignorance of offence!

Thou hast the best gift I could choose, A heavenly confidence.

'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, To put you in the ark!

Sleep, Elfie, G.o.d-infolded lamb, Sleep s.h.i.+ning through the dark.

_RECIPROCITY_.

Her mother, Elfie older grown, One evening, for adieu, Said, "You'll not mind being left alone, For G.o.d takes care of you!"

In child-way her heart's eye did see The correlation's node: "Yes," she said, "G.o.d takes care o' me, An' I take care o' G.o.d."

The child and woman were the same, She changed not, only grew; 'Twixt G.o.d and her no shadow came: The true is always true!

As daughter, sister, promised wife, Her heart with love did brim: Now, sure, it brims as full of life, Hid fourteen years in him!