To A Certain Critic

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind
When I my homely dish with care designed;
'Twas certain humble souls I would have fed
Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread:
You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way,
O'erturned the food, and trod it in the clay;
Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt,
Cried, "Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!"

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

This Side An' That.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

How Shall He Sing Who Hath No Song

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - Expectation And Fulfilment. (From Schiller.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Children's Heaven.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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The Critic.

I had a fellow as my guest,
Not knowing he was such a pest,
And gave him just my usual fare;
He ate his fill of what was there,

And for desert my best things swallow'd,
Soon as his meal was o'er, what follow'd?
Led by the Deuce, to a neighbour he went,
And talk'd of my food to his heart's content:
"The soup might surely have had more spice,
The meat was ill-brown'd, and the wine wasn't nice."
A thousand curses alight on his head!
'Tis a critic, I vow! Let the dog be struck dead!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

To Any Friend

    If I did seem to you no more
        Than to myself I seem,
    Not thus you would fling wide the door,
        And on the beggar beam!

    You would not don your radiant best,
        Or dole me more than half!
    Poor palmer I, no angel guest;
        A shaking reed my staff!

    At home, no rich fruit, hanging low,
        Have I for Love to pull;
    Only unripe things that must grow
        Till Autumn's maund be full!

    But I forsake my niggard leas,
        My orchard, too late hoar,
    And wander over lands and seas
        To find the Father's door.

    When I have reached the ancestral farm,
        Have clomb the steepy hill,
    And round me rests the Father's arm,
        Then think me what you will.

George MacDonald

The Donkey In The Cart To The Horse In The Carriage

I.

I say! hey! cousin there! I mustn't call you brother!
Yet you have a tail behind, and I have another!
You pull, and I pull, though we don't pull together:
You have less hardship, and I have more weather!

II.

Your legs are long, mine are short; I am lean, you are fatter;
Your step is bold and free, mine goes pitter-patter;
Your head is in the air, and mine hangs down like lead--
But then my two great ears are so heavy on my head!

III.

You need not whisk your stump, nor turn away your nose;
Poor donkeys ain't so stupid as rich horses may suppose!
I could feed in any manger just as well as you,
Though I don't despise a thistle--with sauce of dust and dew!

IV.

T'other day a bishop's cob stopped before me in a lane,

George MacDonald

Spoken Of Several Philosophers

I pray you, all ye men who put your trust
In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear,
Holding that Nature lives from year to year
In one continual round because she must--
Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust
Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer--
A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,
Which holds a potful, as is right and just!
I will grow clamorous--by the rood, I will,
If thus ye use me like a pewter pot!
Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot--
will not be the lead to hold thy swill,
Nor any lead: I will arise and spill
Thy silly beverage--spill it piping hot!

George MacDonald

From Home

Some men there are who cannot spare
    A single tear until they feel
    The last cold pressure, and the heel
Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think
    The clouds have borrowed winter's wing,
    Sad winter, when the grasses spring
No more about the fountain's brink.

And some would call me coward fool:
    I lay a claim to better blood,
    But yet a heap of idle mud
Hath power to make me sorrowful.

George MacDonald

Life-Weary

O Thou that walkest with nigh hopeless feet
Past the one harbour, built for thee and thine.
Doth no stray odour from its table greet,
No truant beam from fire or candle shine?

At his wide door the host doth stand and call;
At every lattice gracious forms invite;
Thou seest but a dull-gray, solid wall
In forest sullen with the things of night!

Thou cravest rest, and Rest for thee doth crave,
The white sheet folded down, white robe apart.--
Shame, Faithless! No, I do not mean the grave!
I mean Love's very house and hearth and heart.

George MacDonald