The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 83

But he whose heart is full of grace To his own kindred all about, Shall find in lowest human face, Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt, More than in Nature's holiest place Where mountains dwell and streams run out.

Coa.r.s.e cries of strife a.s.sailed my ear, In suburb-ways, one summer morn; A wretched alley I drew near Whence on the air the sounds were borne-- Growls breaking into curses clear, And shrill retorts of keener scorn.

Slow from its narrow entrance came, His senses drowned with revels dire, Scarce fit to answer to his name, A man unconscious save of ire; Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame Broke from the embers of his fire.

He cast a glance of stupid hate Behind him, every step he took, Where followed him, like following fate, An aged crone, with bloated look: A something checked his listless gait; She neared him, rating till she shook.

Why stood he still to be disgraced?

What hindered? Lost in his employ, His eager head high as his waist, Half-b.u.t.tressed him a tiny boy, An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced, Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy.

Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled For one poor coin to keep the peace With hunger! or home would have led And given him up to sleep's release: Well he might know the good of bed To make the drunken fever cease!

Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher, But no expostulating word Did in his anxious soul aspire; With humbler care his heart was stirred, With humbler service to his sire.

He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red, Though forward leaning, held his foot Lest on the darling he should tread: A misty sense had taken root Somewhere in his bewildered head That round him kindness hovered mute.

The words his simmering rage did spill Pa.s.sed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn; Safer than bee whose dodging skill And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn, The boy, absorbed in loving will, b.u.t.toned his father's waistcoat worn.

Over his calm, unconscious face No motion pa.s.sed, no change of mood; Still as a pool in its own place, Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood, It kept its quiet shadowy grace, As round it all things had been good.

Was the boy deaf--the tender palm Of him that made him folded round The little head to keep it calm With a _hitherto_ to every sound-- And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound?

Or came in force the happy law That customed things themselves erase?

Or was he too intent for awe?

Did love take all the thinking place?

I cannot tell; I only saw An earnest, fearless, hopeless face.

_THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT_.

The thousand streets of London gray Repel all country sights; But bar not winds upon their way, Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay In depth of summer nights.

And here and there an open spot, Still bare to light and dark, With gra.s.s receives the wanderer hot; There trees are growing, houses not-- They call the place a park.

Soft creatures, with ungentle guides, G.o.d's sheep from hill and plain, Flow thitherward in fitful tides, There weary lie on woolly sides, Or crop the gra.s.s amain.

And from dark alley, yard, and den, In ragged skirts and coats, Come thither children of poor men, Wild things, untaught of word or pen-- The little human goats.

In Regent's Park, one cloudless day, An overdriven sheep, Come a hard, long, and dusty way, Throbbing with thirst and hotness lay, A panting woollen heap.

But help is nearer than we know For ills of every name: Ragged enough to scare the crow, But with a heart to pity woe, A quick-eyed urchin came.

Little he knew of field or fold, Yet knew what ailed; his cap Was ready cup for water cold; Though creased, and stained, and very old, 'Twas not much torn, good hap!

Shaping the rim and crown he went, Till crown from rim was deep; The water gushed from pore and rent, Before he came one half was spent-- The other saved the sheep.

O little goat, born, bred in ill, Unwashed, half-fed, unshorn, Thou to the sheep from breezy hill Wast bishop, pastor, what you will, In London dry and lorn!

And let priests say the thing they please, My faith, though poor and dim, Thinks he will say who always sees, In doing it to one of these Thou didst it unto him.

_THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER_.

When things are holding wonted pace In wonted paths, without a trace Or hint of neighbouring wonder, Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, A scent, a vision, swift, alone, Breaks common life asunder.

Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door, It makes you ponder something more-- Unseen with seen things linking: To neighbours met one festive night, Was given a quaint and lovely sight, That set some of them thinking.

They stand, in music's fetters bound By a clear brook of warbled sound, A canzonet of Haydn, When the door slowly comes ajar-- A little further--just as far As shows a tiny maiden.

Softly she enters, her pink toes Daintily peeping, as she goes, Her long nightgown from under.

The varied mien, the questioning look Were worth a picture; but she took No notice of their wonder.

They made a path, and she went through; She had her little chair in view Close by the chimney-corner; She turned, sat down before them all, Stately as princess at a ball, And silent as a mourner.

Then looking closer yet, they spy What mazedness hid from every eye As ghost-like she came creeping: They see that though sweet little Rose Her settled way unerring goes, Plainly the child is sleeping.

"Play on, sing on," the mother said; "Oft music draws her from her bed."-- Dumb Echo, she sat listening; Over her face the sweet concent Like winds o'er placid waters went, Her cheeks like eyes were glistening.

Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold Like long gra.s.s drooping on the wold Her sightless head is bending; She sits all ears, and drinks her fill, Then rising goes, sedate and still, On silent white feet wending.

Surely, while she was listening so, Glad thoughts in her went to and fro Preparing her 'gainst sorrow, And ripening faith for that sure day When earnest first looks out of play, And thought out of to-morrow.

She will not know from what fair skies Troop hopes to front anxieties-- In what far fields they gather, Until she knows that even in sleep, Yea, in the dark of trouble deep, The child is with the Father.

_A DREAM OF WAKING_.

A child was born in sin and shame, Wronged by his very birth, Without a home, without a name, One over in the earth.

No wifely triumph he inspired, Allayed no husband's fear; Intruder bare, whom none desired, He had a welcome drear.

Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift For knocking at earth's gate, His mother, like an evil gift, Shunned him with sickly hate.

And now the mistress on her knee The unloved baby bore, The while the servant sullenly Prepared to leave her door.

Her eggs are dear to mother-dove, Her chickens to the hen; All young ones bring with them their love, Of sheep, or goats, or men!

This one lone child shall not have come In vain for love to seek: Let mother's hardened heart be dumb, A sister-babe will speak!