In Memorium - Lady Caroline Charteris

    The mountain-stream may humbly boast
    For her the loud waves call;
    The hamlet feeds the nation's host,
    The home-farm feeds the hall;

    And unto earth heaven's Lord doth lend
    The right, of high import,
    The gladsome privilege to send
    New courtiers to Love's court.

    Not strange to thee, O lady dear,
    Life in that palace fair,
    For thou while waiting with us here
    Didst just as they do there!

    Thy heart still open to receive,
    Open thy hand to give,
    God had thee graced with more than leave
    In heavenly state to live!

    And though thou art gone up so high
    Thou art not gone so far
    But that thy love to us comes nigh,
    As starlight from a star.

    And ours must reach where'er thou art,
    In far or near abode,
    For God is of all love the heart,
    And we are all in God.

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

Translations. - The Metaphysician. (From Schiller.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Auld Fisher

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Rejoice

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Death And Birth

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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With A Copy Of "In Memoriam."

            TO E.M. II.

Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
    And here is one for your regard.
    You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;

Already something understand
    For whom he mourns and what he sings,
    And how he wakes with golden strings
The echoes of "the silent land;"

How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,
    Yet loving all and hoping all,
    He gazes where the shadows fall,
And finds in darkness some relief;

And how he sends his cries across,
    His cries for him that comes no more,
    Till one might think that silent shore
Full of the burden of his loss;

And how there comes sublimer cheer--
    Not darkness solacing sad eyes,
    Not the wild joy of mournf...

George MacDonald

To G. M. T

    The sun is sinking in the west,
    Long grow the shadows dim;
    Have patience, sister, to be blest,
    Wait patiently for Him.

    Thou knowest love, much love hast had,
    Great things of love mayst tell,
    Ought'st never to be very sad
    For thou too hast lov'd well.

    His house thou know'st, who on the brink
    Of death loved more than thou,
    Loved more than thy great heart can think,
    And just as then loves now--

    In that great house is one who waits
    For thy slow-coming foot;
    Glad is he with his angel-mates
    Yet often listens mute,

    For he of all men loves thee best:
    He haunts the heavenly clock;
    Ah, he has long been up and drest
    To open to thy knock!

    F...

George MacDonald

At My Window After Sunset

    Heaven and the sea attend the dying day,
    And in their sadness overflow and blend--
    Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray:
    Far out amid them my pale soul I send.

    For, as they mingle, so mix life and death;
    An hour draws near when my day too will die;
    Already I forecast unheaving breath,
    Eviction on the moorland of yon sky.

    Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone,
    Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space!
    At board and hearth from this time forth unknown!
    Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face!

    Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea!
    Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky!
    Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee!
    I am not dead; I live, and cannot die!

George MacDonald

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;<...

George MacDonald

In Memoriam.

(A Tribute to Mrs. George A. Cox.)


    The Golden Rule - the blessed creed
    That shelters frail humanity,
    The tender thought for those in need,
    The charity of word and deed,
    Without which all is vanity -

    This, friend, you made your very own,
    And yours the satisfying part
    To pluck the rose of love full blown,
    To reap the gladness you had sown
    With open hand and kindly heart.

    Simplicity, the jewel rare,
    Whose gleam is ever true and warm -
    That thing of worth beyond compare
    Which none but truly great may wear -
    Adorned your life with power and charm.

    Yours the sincerity that grips
    Fast hold of natures strong and wise;
    It thrilled you to your finger-ti...

Jean Blewett

Verses Written In Westminster Abbey. [1]

Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.[2]
There sleeps the dust of Him for ever gone;
How near the Scene where once his Glory shone!
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, fill'd the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those that lov'd Him living, mourn'd Him dead;
Of those, the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dar'd be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claim'd Him f...

Samuel Rogers