The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2, George MacDonald [8 ebook reader TXT] 📗

he'll say, Come hither-
And lift us both high up.


THE GIRL THAT LOST THINGS .

There was a girl that lost things-
Nor only from her hand; She lost, indeed-why, most things,
As if they had been sand!

She said, "But I must use them,
And can't look after all! Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!"

That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor: Her eyes were very nimble
But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly,
Her very doll of all! That loss was far from jolly,
But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls
With a ruby in them set; But the dearest girl of girls
Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin;
Ah, that was sorrow dire! He hopped along, and-bob in-
Hopped bob into the fire!

And once she lost a kiss
As she came down the stair; But that she did not miss,
For sure it was somewhere!

Just then she lost her heart too,
But did so well without it She took that in good part too,
And said-not much about it.

But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor, Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!

And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek, But that was very simple-
She was so thin and weak!

And then she lost her mother,
And thought that she was dead; Sure there was not another
On whom to lay her head!

And then she lost her self-
But that she threw away; And God upon his shelf
It carefully did lay.

And then she lost her sight,
And lost all hope to find it; But a fountain-well of light
Came flashing up behind it.

At last she lost the world:
In a black and stormy wind Away from her it whirled-
But the loss how could she mind?

For with it she lost her losses,
Her aching and her weeping, Her pains and griefs and crosses,
And all things not worth keeping;

It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving; 'Mong them she found-why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.

She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died; And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.

And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair; 'Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.

She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white; She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.

She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap, Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.

So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow; And mind you don't beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;

For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys, In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.


A MAKE-BELIEVE .

I will think as thinks the rabbit:-

Oh, delight
In the night
When the moon
Sets the tune
To the woods!
And the broods
All run out,
Frisk about,
Go and come,
Beat the drum-
Here in groups,
There in troops!
Now there's one!
Now it's gone!
There are none! And now they are dancing like chaff! I look, and I laugh, But sit by my door, and keep to my habit- A wise, respectable, clean-furred old rabbit!

Now I'm going,
Business calls me out-
Going, going,
Very knowing,
Slow, long-heeled, and stout,
Loping, lumbering,
Nipping, numbering,
Head on this side and on that,
Along the pathway footed flat,
Through the meadow, through the heather,
Through the rich dusky weather-
Big stars and little moon!

Dews are lighting down in crowds,
Odours rising in thin clouds,
Night has all her chords in tune-
The very night for us, God's rabbits,
Suiting all our little habits! Wind not loud, but playful with our fur, Just a cool, a sweet, a gentle stir! And all the way not one rough bur, But the dewiest, freshest grasses, That whisper thanks to every foot that passes!

I, the king the rest call Mappy,
Canter on, composed and happy,
Till I come where there is plenty
For a varied meal and dainty.
Is it cabbage, I grab it;
Is it parsley, I nab it;
Is it carrot, I mar it;
The turnip I turn up
And hollow and swallow;
A lettuce? Let us eat it!
A beetroot? Let's beat it!
If you are juicy,
Sweet sir, I will use you!
For all kinds of corn-crop
I have a born crop!
Are you a green top?
You shall be gleaned up!
Sucking and feazing,
Crushing and squeezing
All that is feathery,
Crisp, not leathery,
Juicy and bruisy-
All comes proper
To my little hopper
Still on the dance,
Driven by hunger and drouth!

All is welcome to my crunching, Finding, grinding, Milling, munching, Gobbling, lunching, Fore-toothed, three-lipped mouth- Eating side way, round way, flat way, Eating this way, eating that way, Every way at once!

Hark to the rain!- Pattering, clattering, The cabbage leaves battering, Down it comes amain!- Home we hurry Hop and scurry, And in with a flurry! Hustling, jostling Out of the airy land Into the dry warm sand; Our family white tails, The last of our vitals, Following hard with a whisk to them, And with a great sense of risk to them!

Hear to it pouring! Hear the thunder roaring Far off and up high, While we all lie So warm and so dry In the mellow dark, Where never a spark, White or rosy or blue, Of the sheeting, fleeting, Forking, frightening, Lashing lightning Ever can come through!

Let the wind chafe In the trees overhead, We are quite safe In our dark, yellow bed! Let the rain pour! It never can bore A hole in our roof- It is waterproof! So is the cloak We always carry, We furry folk, In sandhole or quarry! It is perfect bliss To lie in a nest So soft as this, All so warmly drest! No one to flurry you! No one to hurry you! No one to scurry you! Holes plenty to creep in! All day to sleep in! All night to roam in! Gray dawn to run home in! And all the days and nights to come after- All the to-morrows for hind-legs and laughter!

Now the rain is over, We are out again, Every merry, leaping rover, On his right leg and his wrong leg, On his doubled, shortened long leg, Floundering amain! Oh, it is merry And jolly-yes, very!

But what-what is that? What can he be at? Is it a cat? Ah, my poor little brother, He's caught in the trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me! there was never, Nor will be for ever- There was never such another, Such a funny, funny bunny, Such a frisking, such a whisking, Such a frolicking brother! He's screeching, beseeching! They're going to-

Ah, my poor foot, It is caught in a root! No, no! 'tis a trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me, I'm forsaken! Ah me, I am taken! I am screeching, beseeching! They are going to-

No more! no more! I must stop this play, Be a boy again, and kneel down and pray To the God of sparrows and rabbits and men, Who never lets any one out of his ken- It must be so, though it be bewild'ring- To save his dear beasts from his cruel children!


THE CHRISTMAS CHILD .

"Little one, who straight hast come Down the heavenly stair, Tell us all about your home, And the father there."

"He is such a one as I, Like as like can be. Do his will, and, by and by, Home and him you'll see."


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER .

Loving looks the large-eyed cow, Loving stares the long-eared ass At Heaven's glory in the grass! Child, with added human birth Come to bring the child of earth Glad repentance, tearful mirth, And a seat beside the hearth At the Father's knee- Make us peaceful as thy cow; Make us patient as thine ass; Make us quiet as thou art now; Make us strong as thou wilt be. Make us always know and see We are his as well as thou.


NO END OF NO-STORY .

There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows and the nests they make with the clay they cake with the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the shallows or out of the hollows will hold together in any weather and the swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and are built very narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing and each so narrow like the head of an arrow is a wonderful barrow to carry the mud he makes for his children's sakes from the wet water flowing and the dry dust blowing to build his nest for her he loves best and the wind cakes it the sun bakes it into a nest for the rest of her he loves best and all their merry children each little fellow with a beak as yellow as the buttercups growing beside the flowing of the singing river always and ever growing and blowing as fast as the sheep awake or asleep crop them and crop and cannot stop their yellowness blowing nor yet the growing of the obstinate daisies the little white praises they grow and they blow they spread out their crown and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done they fold up their crown and sleep every one till over the plain he is