The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 11

Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor, The deed thou shalt not rue; Wherever ye do my father's will I always am with you."_

_A MEDITATION OF ST. ELIGIUS_.

_Queen Mary one day Jesus sent To fetch some water, legends tell; The little boy, obedient, Drew a full pitcher from the well;

But as he raised it to his head, The water lipping with the rim, The handle broke, and all was shed Upon the stones about the brim.

His cloak upon the ground he laid And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs x.x.x. 4.]

Obedient there the water staid, And home he bore it plentiful._

Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill: The hands that all the world control, Had here been room for miracle, Had made his mother's pitcher whole!

"Still, some few drops for thirsty need A poor invention even, when told In love of thee the Truth indeed, Like broken pitcher yet may hold:

"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt: I thought to bear the pitcher high; Upon the s.h.i.+ning stones of guilt I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!

_"Master,_ I cried, _no man will drink, No human thirst will e'er be stilled Through me, who sit upon the brink, My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!

"What will they do I waiting left?

They looked to me to bring thy law!

The well is deep, and, sin-bereft, I nothing have wherewith to draw!"_

"But as I sat in evil plight, With dry parched heart and sickened brain, Uprose in me the water bright, Thou gavest me thyself again!"

_THE EARLY BIRD._

A little bird sat on the edge of her nest; Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops; Day-long she had worked almost without rest, And had filled every one of their gibbous crops; Her own she had filled just over-full, And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.

"Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all, Looking like an apple on a feather-bed Poked and rounded and fluffed to a ball, "What's to be done if things don't reform?

I cannot tell where there is one more worm!

"I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each, Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders: Who will dare say I don't do as I preach?

I set an example to all providers!

But what's the use? We want a storm: I don't know where there's a single worm!"

"There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee bird Who woke at the voice of his mother's pain; "I know where there's five!" And with the word He tucked in his head and went off again.

"The folly of childhood," sighed his mother, "Has always been my especial bother!"

Careless the yellow-beaks slept on, They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow; The mother sat outside making her moan-- "I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow!

I have always to say, the night before, Where shall I find one red worm more!"

Her case was this, she had gobbled too many, And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight: A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any!

Could she but get of the great worm-store sight!

The eastern sky was growing red Ere she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed.

Just then, the fellow who knew of five, Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks, Woke, and stirred, and felt alive: "To-day," he said, "I am up to six!

But my mother feels in her lot the crook-- What if I tried my own little hook!"

When his mother awoke, she winked her eyes As if she had dreamed that she was a mole: Could she believe them? "What a huge prize That child is dragging out of its hole!"

The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third!

_And here is a fable to catch the bird!_

_SIR LARK AND KING SUN._

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.

"s.h.i.+ne on me, my lord: I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home!

I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."

"Must I thank you then," said the king, "sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark?

You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, half love to be first.

Some of my subjects serve better my taste: Their watching and waiting means more than your haste."

King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud; Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But higher he flew, for he thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And, scattering his head-gear manifold, He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!"

He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew, But as he rose the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the flas.h.i.+ng hair Brought signal of favour across the air; And his wings felt withered and worn and old, For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.

Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more; He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stone Beside his nest, where, patient, alone, Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!

There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king!

"Welcome, sir Lark!--You look tired!" said he; "_Up_ is not always the best way to me: While you have been racing my turban gray, I have been s.h.i.+ning where you would not stay!"

He had set a coronet round the nest; Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold That sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold; He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone till king Sun went away.

_THE OWL AND THE BELL._

_Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!_ Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home, High in the church-tower, lone and unseen, In a twilight of ivy, cool and green; With his _Bing, Bing, Bim, Bing, Bang, Bome!_ Singing ba.s.s to himself in his house at home.

Said the Owl, on a shadowy ledge below, Like a glimmering ball of forgotten snow, "Pest on that fellow sitting up there, Always calling the people to prayer!

He shatters my nerves with his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_--- Far too big in his house at home!

"I think I will move.--But it suits me well, And one may get used to it, who can tell!"

So he slept again with all his might, Then woke and snooved out in the hush of night When the Bell was asleep in his house at home, Dreaming over his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

For the Owl was born so poor and genteel What could he do but pick and steal?

He scorned to work for honest bread-- "Better have never been hatched!" he said.

So his day was the night, for he dared not roam Till sleep had silenced the _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

When five greedy Owlets chipped the egg He wanted two beaks and another leg, And they ate the more that they did not sleep well: "It's their gizzards," said Owless; said Owl, "It's that Bell!"

For they quivered like leaves of a wind-blown tome When the Bell bellowed out his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_