George MacDonald

I said, I will arise and work some thing,
Nor be content with growth, but cause to grow
A life around me, clear as yes from no,
That to my restless hand some rest may bring,
And give a vital power to Action's spring:
Thus, I must cease to be! I cried; when, lo!
An angel stood beside me on the snow,
With folded wings that came of pondering.
"God's glory flashes on the silence here
Beneath the moon," he cried, and upward threw
His glorious eyes that swept the utmost blue,
"Ere yet his bounding brooks run forth with cheer
To bear his message to the hidden year
Who cometh up in haste to make his glory new."

    Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
        My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
    Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
        Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.

    'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
        Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
    Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
        Yea, life itself to wait for thee!

    Lord, here I am, empty enough!
        My music but a soundless moan!
    Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
        Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!

    Shall hope too go, that I may trust
        Purely in thee, and spite of all?
    Then turn my very heart to dust--
        On thee, on thee, I yet will call.

    List! list! his wind among the pines
        Hark! hark! that rushi...

    Little one, you must not fret
    That I take your clothes away;
    Better sleep you so will get,
    And at morning wake more gay--
        Saith the children's mother.

    You I must unclothe again,
    For you need a better dress;
    Too much worn are body and brain;
    You need everlastingness--
        Saith the heavenly father.

    I went down death's lonely stair;
    Laid my garments in the tomb;
    Dressed again one morning fair;
    Hastened up, and hied me home--
        Saith the elder brother.

    Then I will not be afraid
    Any ill can come to me;
    When 'tis time to go to bed,
    I will rise and go with thee--
        Saith the little brother.

"What maks ye sae canty, granny dear?
Has some kin' body been for ye to speir?
Ye luik as smilin an' fain an' willin
As gien ye had fun a bonny shillin!"

"Ye think I luik canty, my bonny man,
Sittin watchin the last o' the sun sae gran'?
Weel, an' I'm thinkin ye're no that wrang,
For 'deed i' my hert there's a wordless sang!

"Ken ye the meanin o' canty, my dow?
It's bein i' the humour o' singin, I trow!
An' though nae sang ever crosses my lips
I'm aye like to sing whan anither sun dips.

"For the time, wee laddie, the time grows lang
Sin' I saw the man wha's sicht was my sang--
Yer gran'father, that's--an' the sun's last glim
Says aye to me, 'Lass, ye're a mile nearer him!

"For he's hame afore me, an' lang's the road!
He fain...

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin,
    For fu' well ye ken the gaet;
I' the winter, corn ye're sawin,
    I' the hairst again ye hae't.

I'm gauin hame to see my mither;
    She'll be weel acquant or this!
Sair we'll muse at ane anither
    'Tween the auld word an' new kiss!

Love I'm doobtin may be scanty
    Roun ye efter I'm awa:
Yon kirkyard has happin plenty
    Close aside me, green an' braw!

An' abune there's room for mony;
    'Twasna made for ane or twa,
But was aye for a' an' ony
    Countin love the best ava.

There nane less ye'll be my father;
    Auld names we'll nor tyne nor spare!
A' my sonship I maun gather
    For the Son is king up there.

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin,
    For ye ken fu' we...

Sweep up the flure, Janet;
    Put on anither peat.
It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,
    And nowther cauld nor weet.

It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls
    Whan the bodiless gang aboot;
And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
    For ony that may be oot.

Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;
    Mak ready for quaiet fowk.
Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:
    They comena ilka ook.

There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
    And there's a rowan-berry!
Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,
    Or they'll neither come nor tarry.

Syne set open the outer dure--
    Wide open for wha kens wha?
As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,
    Set baith dures to the wa'.

She set the cheirs back to the wa',
   ...

The warl it's dottit wi' hames
    As thick as gowans o' the green,
Aye bonnier ilk ane nor the lave
    To him wha there opent his een.

An' mony an' bonny's the hame
    That lies neth auld Scotlan's crests,
Her hills an' her mountains they are the sides
    O' a muckle nest o' nests.

His lies i' the dip o' a muir
    Wi' a twa three elder trees,
A lanely cot wi' a sough o' win',
    An' a simmer bum o' bees;

An' mine in a bloomin strath,
    Wi' a river rowin by,
Wi' the green corn glintin i' the sun,
    An' a lowin o' the kye;

An' yours whaur the chimleys auld
    Stan up i' the gloamin pale
Wi' the line o' a gran' sierra drawn
    On the lift as sharp's wi' a nail.

But whether by ingle-neuk
    On a c...

    I am weary, and very lonely,
        And can but think--think.
    If there were some water only
        That a spirit might drink--drink,
        And arise,
        With light in the eyes
    And a crown of hope on the brow,
        To walk abroad in the strength of gladness,
        Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness--
        As now!

    But, Lord, thy child will be sad--
        As sad as it pleases thee;
    Will sit, not seeking to be glad,
        Till thou bid sadness flee,
        And, drawing near,
        With thy good cheer
        Awake thy life in me.

    Of whispering trees the tongues to hear,
    And sermons of the silent stone;
    To read in brooks the print so clear
    Of motion, shadowy light, and tone--
    That man hath neither eye nor ear
    Who careth not for human moan.

    Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste,
    From sin that passeth helpless by;
    The weak antennae of whose taste
    From touch of alien grossness fly--
    Shall, banished to the outer waste,
    Never in Nature's bosom lie.

    But he whose heart is full of grace
    To his own kindred all about,
    Shall find in lowest human face,
    Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt,
    More than in Nature's holiest place
    Where mountains dwell and streams run out.

    Coarse cries of strife assa...

Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret;
    Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief;
She brak the box--it's tellt o' her yet--
    The bonny box for her hert's relief.

Ane was there wha's tale's but brief,
    Yet was ower lang, the gait he cawed;
He luikit a man, and was but a thief,
    Michty the gear to grip and hand.

"What guid," he cried, "sic a boxfu to blaud?
    Wilfu waste I couth never beir!
It micht hae been sellt for ten poun, I wad--
    Sellt for ten poun, and gien to the puir!"

Savin he was, but for love o' the gear;
    Carefu he was, but a' for himsel;
He carried the bag to his hert sae near
    What fell i' the ane i' the ither fell.

And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to hell,
    They war pu'd sae ticht a...

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill,
Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem
Thou art a coward if thy safety seem
To spring too little from a righteous will;
For there is nightmare on thee, nor until
Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam
Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream
By painful introversion; rather fill
Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth;
But see thou cherish higher hope than this,--
hope hereafter that thou shall be fit
Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit
Transparent among other forms of youth
Who own no impulse save to God and bliss.

    A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss,
        With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee,
    Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:
        I only faced the foe, and did not flee.

An unborn bird lies crumpled and curled,
A-dreaming of the world.

Round it, for castle-wall, a shell
Is guarding it well.

Hope is the bird with its dim sensations;
The shell that keeps it alive is Patience.

    Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
    And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy
    Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light
    My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ
    Shall be to revel in unlikely things,
    In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings,
    And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk
    Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea;
    Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk,
    Has grown a paradise for you and me.

    But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth
    Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there--
    That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare,
    How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!--
    The sweetness is but one pined memory flown
    Back from our summer, wandering alone!

"Where is thy crown, O tree of Love?
    Flowers only bears thy root!
Will never rain drop from above
    Divine enough for fruit?"

"I dwell in hope that gives good cheer,
    Twilight my darkest hour;
For seest thou not that every year
    I break in better flower?"

    How shall he sing who hath no song?
    He laugh who hath no mirth?
    Will cannot wake the sleeping song!
    Yea, Love itself in vain may long
    To sing with them that have a song,
    Or, mirthless, laugh with Mirth!
    He who would sing but hath no song
    Must speak the right, denounce the wrong,
    Must humbly front the indignant throng,
    Must yield his back to Satire's thong,
    Nor shield his face from liar's prong,
    Must say and do and be the truth,
    And fearless wait for what ensueth,
    Wait, wait, with patience sweet and strong,
    Until God's glory fill the earth;
    Then shall he sing who had no song,
    He laugh who had no mirth!

    Yea, if in land of stony dearth
    Like barren rock thou sit,
    R...

Father, I cry to thee for bread
    With hungred longing, eager prayer;
Thou hear'st, and givest me instead
    More hunger and a half-despair.

0 Lord, how long? My days decline,
    My youth is lapped in memories old;
I need not bread alone, but wine--
    See, cup and hand to thee I hold!

And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord,
    That still my heart with hunger faints!
The day will come when at thy board
    I sit, forgetting all my plaints.

If rain must come and winds must blow,
    And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart,
Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go,
    And keep the faintness at my heart.

    Father, in the dark I lay,
        Thirsting for the light,
    Helpless, but for hope alway
        In thy father-might.

    Out of darkness came the morn,
        Out of death came life,
    I, and faith, and hope, new-born,
        Out of moaning strife!

    So, one morning yet more fair,
        I shall, joyous-brave,
    Sudden breathing loftier air,
        Triumph o'er the grave.

    Though this feeble body lie
        Underneath the ground,
    Wide awake, not sleeping, I
        Shall in him be found.

    But a morn yet fairer must
        Quell this inner gloom--
    Resurrection from the dust
        Of a deeper tomb!

    Father, wake thy little child;
        Give me bread and wine
   ...