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

The edging moon had drawn her silver pen Across a mirror, making them aware Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.

Therefore they drew aside the window-blind And looked upon the sleeping town below, And on the little church which sat behind As keeping watch upon the scanty row Of steady tombstones-some of which inclined And others upright, in the moon did show Like to a village down below the waves- It was so still and cool among the graves.

But not a word from either mouth did fall, Except it were some very plain remark. Ah! why should such as they be glad at all? For years they had not listened to the lark! The child was dead in them!-yet did there crawl A wish about their hearts; and as the bark Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware Of a strange longing for the open air.

Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun A web of heavy cloud about their brain! And many a sun and moon had come and gone Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain! But now with timéd pace their feet did stun The village echoes into quiet pain: The street appearéd very short and white, And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.

"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say -I knew not which was elder of the two- "Right through the churchyard is our better way." "Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew. I have not seen her grave for many a day; And it is in me that with moonlight too It might be pleasant thinking of old faces, And yet I seldom go into such places."

Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan Sitting about a solitary stone! Stranger than many tales it is to scan The earthy fragment of a human bone; But stranger still to see a grey old man Apart from all his fellows, and alone With the pale night and all its giant quiet; Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.

It was their mother's grave, and here were hid The priceless pulses of a mother's soul. Full sixty years it was since she had slid Into the other world through that deep hole. But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid Grew deaf with sudden hammers!-'twas the mole Niddering about its roots.-Be still, old men, Be very still and ye will hear again.

Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away, But it will stay with you till ye are dead! It is but earthy mould and quiet clay, But it hath power to turn the oldest head. Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say More than a hundred tongues had ever said. So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket Into the centre of a firry thicket.

It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life, An inquest held upon the death of things; And in the naked north full thick and rife The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife; And the trees seemed to gather into rings, Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.

Many strange noises are there among trees, And most within the quiet moony light, Therefore those aged men are on their knees As if they listened somewhat:-Ye are right- Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees! Although ye never heard it till to-night, The mighty mother calleth ever so To all her pale-eyed children from below.

Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways, And heard her voices in the market-place, But ye have never listened what she says When the snow-moon is pressing on her face! One night like this is more than many days To him who hears the music and the bass Of deep immortal lullabies which calm His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.

I know not whether there is power in sleep To dim the eyelids of the shining moon, But so it seemed then, for still more deep She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep A pressure on her; so there came a swoon Among the shadows, which still lay together But in their slumber knew not one another.

But while the midnight gropéd for the chime As she were heavy with excess of dreams, She from the cloud's thick web a second time Made many shadows, though with minished beams; And as she lookéd eastward through the rime Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams, There fell a little snow upon the crown Of a near hillock very bald and brown.

And on its top they found a little spring, A very helpful little spring indeed, Which evermore unwound a tiny string Of earnest water with continual speed- And so the brothers stood and heard it sing; For all was snowy-still, and not a seed Had struck, and nothing came but noises light Of the continual whitening of the night.

There is a kindness in the falling snow- It is a grey head to the spring time mild; So as the creamy vapour bowéd low Crowning the earth with honour undefiled, Within each withered man arose a glow As if he fain would turn into a child: There was a gladness somewhere in the ground Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!

Not through the purple summer or the blush Of red voluptuous roses did it come That silent speaking voice, but through the slush And snowy quiet of the winter numb! It was a barren mound that heard the gush Of living water from two fountains dumb- Two rocky human hearts which long had striven To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!

Now from the village came the onward shout Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer; It was a youthful group that wandered out To do obeisance to the glad new year; And as they passed they sang with voices stout A song which I was very fain to hear, But as they darkened on, away it died, And the two men walked homewards side by side.


FROM NORTH WALES: TO THE MOTHER .

When the summer gave us a longer day, And the leaves were thickest, I went away: Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue, Was that summer-ramble from London and you.

It was but one burst into life and air, One backward glance on the skirts of care, A height on the hills with the smoke below- And the joy that came quickly was quick to go.

But I know and I cannot forget so soon How the Earth is shone on by Sun and Moon; How the clouds hide the mountains, and how they move When the morning sunshine lies warm above.

I know how the waters fall and run In the rocks and the heather, away from the sun; How they hang like garlands on all hill-sides, And are the land's music, those crystal tides.

I know how they gather in valleys fair, Meet valleys those beautiful waves to bear; How they dance through the rocks, how they rest in the pool, How they darken, how sparkle, and how they are cool.

I know how the rocks from their kisses climb To keep the storms off with a front sublime; And how on their platforms and sloping walls The shadow of oak-tree and fir-tree falls.

I know how the valleys are bright from far, Rocks, meadows, and waters, the wood and the scaur; And how the roadside and the nearest hill The foxglove and heather and harebell fill.

I know-but the joy that was quick to go Gave more knowledge to me than words can shew; And you know the story, and how they fare Who love the green earth and the heavenly air.


COME TO ME .

Come to me, come to me, O my God;
Come to me everywhere! Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
And the water and the air!

For thou art so far that I often doubt,
As on every side I stare, Searching within, and looking without,
If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old?
How did they grow so sure? They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
They suffered, and kept themselves pure!

But now they say-neither above the sphere
Nor down in the heart of man, But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true
Which ages have not made old, Which of endless many makes one anew,
And simplicity manifold!

But he taught that they who did his word
The truth of it sure would know: I will try to do it: if he be lord
Again the old faith will glow;

Again the old spirit-wind will blow
That he promised to their prayer; And obeying the Son, I too shall know
His father everywhere!


A FEAR .

O Mother Earth, I have a fear Which I would tell to thee- Softly and gently in thine ear When the moon and we are three.

Thy grass and flowers are beautiful; Among thy trees I hide; And underneath the moonlight cool Thy sea looks broad and wide;

But this I fear-lest thou shouldst grow To me so small and strange, So distant I should never know On thee a shade of change,

Although great earthquakes should uplift Deep mountains from their base, And thy continual motion shift The lands upon thy face;-

The grass, the flowers, the dews that lie Upon them as before- Driven upwards evermore, lest I Should love these things no more.

Even now thou dimly hast a place In deep star galaxies! And I, driven ever on through space, Have lost thee in the skies!


THE LOST HOUSE .

Out of thy door I run to do the thing
That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing About their work, "My God, my father-king!"

I turn in haste to see thy blessed door,
But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds,
And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds
Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!

Ah me! the house of peace is there no more. Was it a dream then?-Walls, fireside, and floor,
And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free,
Are vanished-gone as they had never been!

I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!- And I am kneeling at my father's knee, Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.


THE TALK OF THE ECHOES .

A FRAGMENT.

When the cock crows loud from the glen, And the moor-cock chirrs from the heather, What hear ye and see ye then, Ye children of air and ether?

1 st Echo .
A thunder as of waves at the rising of the moon,
And a darkness on the graves though the day is at its noon.

2nd Echo . A springing as of grass though the air is damp and chill,