A Hidden Life and Other Poems, George MacDonald [classic fiction txt] 📗

they know not, but with hope of change,
Of resurrection, or of dreamless death.
Raise thou the buried dead of springs gone by
In maidens' bosoms; raise the autumn fruits
Of old men feebly mournful o'er the life
Which scarce hath memory but the mournfulness.
There is no Past with thee: bring back once more
The summer eves of lovers, over which
The wintry wind that raveth through the world
Heaps wretched leaves, half tombed in ghastly snow;
Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone,
The brother's and the sister's faithfulness;
Bring forth the kingdom of the Son of Man.

They troop around me, children wildly crying;
Women with faded eyes, all spent of tears;
Men who have lived for love, yet lived alone;
And worse than so, whose grief cannot be said.
O God, thou hast a work to do indeed
To save these hearts of thine with full content,
Except thou give them Lethe's stream to drink,
And that, my God, were all unworthy thee.

Dome up, O Heaven! yet higher o'er my head;
Back, back, horizon! widen out my world;
Rush in, O infinite sea of the Unknown!
For, though he slay me, I will trust in God.


MY HEART.


I heard, in darkness, on my bed,
The beating of my heart
To servant feet and regnant head
A common life impart,
By the liquid cords, in every thread
Unbroken as they start.

Night, with its power to silence day,
Filled up my lonely room;
All motion quenching, save what lay
Beyond its passing doom,
Where in his shed the workman gay
Went on despite the gloom.

I listened, and I knew the sound,
And the trade that he was plying;
For backwards, forwards, bound and bound,
'Twas a shuttle, flying, flying;
Weaving ever life's garment round,
Till the weft go out with sighing.

I said, O mystic thing, thou goest
On working in the dark;
In space's shoreless sea thou rowest,
Concealed within thy bark;
All wondrous things thou, wonder, showest,
Yet dost not any mark.

For all the world is woven by thee,
Besides this fleshly dress;
With earth and sky thou clothest me,
Form, distance, loftiness;
A globe of glory spouting free
Around the visionless.

For when thy busy efforts fail,
And thy shuttle moveless lies,
They will fall from me, like a veil
From before a lady's eyes;
As a night-perused, just-finished tale
In the new daylight dies.

But not alone dost thou unroll
The mountains, fields, and seas,
A mighty, wonder-painted scroll,
Like the Patmos mysteries;
Thou mediator 'twixt my soul
And higher things than these.

In holy ephod clothing me
Thou makest me a seer;
In all the lovely things I see,
The inner truths appear;
And the deaf spirit without thee
No spirit-word could hear.

Yet though so high thy mission is,
And thought to spirit brings,
Thy web is but the chrysalis,
Where lie the future wings,
Now growing into perfectness
By thy inwoven things.

Then thou, God's pulse, wilt cease to beat;
But His heart will still beat on,
Weaving another garment meet,
If needful for his son;
And sights more glorious, to complete
The web thou hast begun.


O DO NOT LEAVE ME.


O do not leave me, mother, till I sleep;
Be near me until I forget; sit there.
And the child having prayed lest she should weep,
Sleeps in the strength of prayer.

O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends,
Till I am dead, and resting in my place.
And the girl, having prayed, in silence bends
Down to the earth's embrace.

Leave me not, God, until-nay, until when?
Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind;
Not till the Life is Light in me, and then
Leaving is left behind.


THE HOLY SNOWDROPS.


Of old, with goodwill from the skies,
The holy angels came;
They walked the earth with human eyes,
And passed away in flame.

But now the angels are withdrawn,
Because the flowers can speak;
With Christ, we see the dayspring dawn
In every snowdrop meek.

God sends them forth; to God they tend;
Not less with love they burn,
That to the earth they lowly bend,
And unto dust return.

No miracle in them hath place,
For this world is their home;
An utterance of essential grace
The angel-snowdrops come.


TO MY SISTER.


O sister, God is very good-
Thou art a woman now:
O sister, be thy womanhood
A baptism on thy brow!

For what?-Do ancient stories lie
Of Titans long ago,
The children of the lofty sky
And mother earth below?

Nay, walk not now upon the ground
Some sons of heavenly mould?
Some daughters of the Holy, found
In earthly garments' fold?

He said, who did and spoke the truth:
"Gods are the sons of God."
And so the world's Titanic youth
Strives homeward by one road.

Then live thou, sister, day and night,
An earth-child of the sky,
For ever climbing up the height
Of thy divinity.

Still in thy mother's heart-embrace,
Waiting thy hour of birth,
Thou growest by the genial grace
Of the child-bearing earth.

Through griefs and joys, each sad and sweet,
Thou shalt attain the end;
Till then a goddess incomplete-
O evermore my friend!

Nor is it pride that striveth so:
The height of the Divine
Is to be lowly 'mid the low;
No towering cloud-a mine;

A mine of wealth and warmth and song,
An ever-open door;
For when divinely born ere long,
A woman thou the more.

For at the heart of womanhood
The child's great heart doth lie;
At childhood's heart, the germ of good,
Lies God's simplicity.

So, sister, be thy womanhood
A baptism on thy brow
For something dimly understood,
And which thou art not now;

But which within thee, all the time,
Maketh thee what thou art;
Maketh thee long and strive and climb-
The God-life at thy heart.


OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH!


Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies
Under the cold, sad earth-clods and the snow;
But spring is floating up the southern skies,
And the pale snowdrop silent waits below.

O loved if known! in dull December's day
One scarce believes there is a month of June;
But up the stairs of April and of May
The dear sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

Dear mourner! I love God, and so I rest;
O better! God loves thee, and so rest thou:
He is our spring-time, our dim-visioned Best,
And He will help thee-do not fear the How.


LONGING.


My heart is full of inarticulate pain,
And beats laboriously. Ungenial looks
Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain,
Wise in success, well-read in feeble books,
Do not come near me now, your air is drear;
'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

Beloved, who love beauty and love truth!
Come round me; for too near ye cannot come;
Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth;
Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room;
Speak not a word, for see, my spirit lies
Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes.

O all wide places, far from feverous towns!
Great shining seas! pine forests! mountains wild!
Rock-bosomed shores! rough heaths! and sheep-cropt downs!
Vast pallid clouds! blue spaces undefiled!
Room! give me room! give loneliness and air!
Free things and plenteous in your regions fair.

White dove of David, flying overhead,
Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings,
Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts have fled
To find a home afar from men and things;
Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky,
God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply.

O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces!
O God of freedom and of joyous hearts!
When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces,
There will be room enough in crowded marts;
Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er;
Thy universe my closet with shut door.

Heart, heart, awake! the love that loveth all
Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave.
God in thee, can his children's folly gall?
Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-
Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm;
Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm.


A BOY'S GRIEF.


Ah me! in ages far away,
The good, the heavenly land,
Though unbeheld, quite near them lay,
And men could understand.

The dead yet find it, who, when here,
Did love it more than this;
They enter in, are filled with cheer,
And pain expires in bliss.

Oh, fairly shines the blessed land!
Ah, God! I weep and pray-
The heart thou holdest in thy hand
Loves more this sunny day.

I see the hundred thousand wait
Around the radiant throne:
To me it is a dreary state,
A crowd of beings lone.

I do not care for singing psalms;
I tire of good men's talk;
To me there is no joy in palms,
Or white-robed solemn walk.

I love to hear the wild winds meet,
The wild old winds at night;
To watch the starlight throb and beat,
To wait the thunder-light.

I love all tales of valiant men,
Of women good and fair;
If I were rich and strong, ah then,
I would do something rare.

I see thy temple in the skies
On pillars strong and white;
I cannot love it, though I rise
And try with all my might.

Sometimes a joy lays hold on me,
And I am speechless then;
Almost a martyr I could be,
And join the holy men.

But soon my heart is like a clod,
My spirit wrapt in doubt-
" A pillar in the house of God,
And never more go out! "

No more the sunny, breezy morn;
No more the speechless moon;
No more the ancient hills, forlorn,
A vision, and a boon.

Ah, God! my love will never burn,
Nor shall I taste thy joy;
And Jesus' face is calm and stern-
I am a hapless boy.


THE CHILD-MOTHER.


Heavily lay the warm sunlight
Upon the green blades shining bright,
An outspread grassy sea:
She through the burnished yellow flowers
Went walking in the golden hours
That slept upon the lea.

The bee went past her with a hum;