The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

SAINT PETER

 
  O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt?
  Indeed the spray flew fast about,
  But he was there whose walking foot
  Could make the wandering hills take root;
  And he had said, "Come down to me,"
  Else hadst thou not set foot on sea!
  Christ did not call thee to thy grave!
  Was it the boat that made thee brave?
 
 
  "Easy for thee who wast not there
  To think thou more than I couldst dare!
  It hardly fits thee though to mock
  Scared as thou wast that railway shock!
  Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go—
  The plague will soon be here, I know!'
  Who, when thy child slept—not to death—
  Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'"
 
 
  Saint Peter, thou rebukest well!
  It needs no tempest me to quell,
  Not even a spent lash of its spray!
  Things far too little to affray
  Will wake the doubt that's worst of all—
  Is there a God to hear me call?
  But if he be, I never think
  That he will hear and let me sink!
 
 
  Lord of my little faith, my Lord,
  Help me to fear nor fire nor sword;
  Let not the cross itself appall
  Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all;
  Let reeling brain nor fainting heart
  Wipe out the soreness that thou art;
  Dwell farther in than doubt can go,
  And make I hope become I know.
  Then, sure, if thou should please to say,
  "Come to my side," some stormy way,
  My feet, atoning to thy will,
  Shall, heaved and tossed, walk toward thee still;
  No heart of lead shall sink me where
  Prudence lies crowned with cold despair,
  But I shall reach and clasp thy hand,
  And on the sea forget the land!
 

ZACCHAEUS

 
  To whom the heavy burden clings,
    It yet may serve him like a staff;
  One day the cross will break in wings,
    The sinner laugh a holy laugh.
 
 
  The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree,
    His humble stature set him high;
  The Lord the little man did see
    Who sought the great man passing by.
 
 
  Up to the tree he came, and stopped:
    "To-day," he said, "with thee I bide."
  A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped,
    Ripe for the Master, at his side.
 
 
  Sure never host with gladder look
    A welcome guest home with him bore!
  Then rose the Satan of rebuke
    And loudly spake beside the door:
 
 
  "This is no place for holy feet;
    Sinners should house and eat alone!
  This man sits in the stranger's seat
    And grinds the faces of his own!"
 
 
  Outspoke the man, in Truth's own might:
    "Lord, half my goods I give the poor;
  If one I've taken more than right
    With four I make atonement sure!"
 
 
  "Salvation here is entered in;
    This man indeed is Abraham's son!"
  Said he who came the lost to win—
    And saved the lost whom he had won.
 

AFTER THOMAS KEMPIS

I

 
  Who follows Jesus shall not walk
    In darksome road with danger rife;
  But in his heart the Truth will talk,
    And on his way will shine the Life.
 
 
  So, on the story we must pore
    Of him who lives for us, and died,
  That we may see him walk before,
    And know the Father in the guide.
 

II

 
  In words of truth Christ all excels,
    Leaves all his holy ones behind;
  And he in whom his spirit dwells
    Their hidden manna sure shall find.
 
 
  Gather wouldst thou the perfect grains,
    And Jesus fully understand?
  Thou must obey him with huge pains,
    And to God's will be as Christ's hand.
 

III

 
  What profits it to reason high
    And in hard questions court dispute,
  When thou dost lack humility,
    Displeasing God at very root!
 
 
  Profoundest words man ever spake
    Not once of blame washed any clear;
  A simple life alone could make
    Nathanael to his master dear.
 

IV

 
  The eye with seeing is not filled,
    The ear with hearing not at rest;
  Desire with having is not stilled;
    With human praise no heart is blest.
 
 
  Vanity, then, of vanities
    All things for which men grasp and grope!
  The precious things in heavenly eyes
    Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope.
 

V

 
  Better the clown who God doth love
    Than he that high can go
  And name each little star above
    But sees not God below!
 
 
  What if all things on earth I knew,
    Yea, love were all my creed,
  It serveth nothing with the True;
    He goes by heart and deed.
 

VI

 
  If thou dost think thy knowledge good,
    Thy intellect not slow,
  Bethink thee of the multitude
    Of things thou dost not know.
 
 
  Why look on any from on high
    Because thou knowest more?
  Thou need'st but look abroad, to spy
    Ten thousand thee before.
 
 
  Wouldst thou in knowledge true advance
    And gather learning's fruit,
  In love confess thy ignorance,
    And thy Self-love confute.
 

VII

 
  This is the highest learning,
    The hardest and the best—
  From self to keep still turning,
    And honour all the rest.
 
 
  If one should break the letter,
    Yea, spirit of command,
  Think not that thou art better,
    Thou may'st not always stand!
 
 
  We all are weak—but weaker
    Hold no one than thou art;
  Then, as thou growest meeker,
    Higher will go thy heart.
 

VIII

 
  Sense and judgment oft indeed
  Spy but little and mislead,
    Ground us on a shelf!
 
 
  Happy he whom Truth doth teach,
  Not by forms of passing speech,
    But her very self!
 
 
  Why of hidden things dispute,
  Mind unwise, howe'er astute,
    Making that thy task
  Where the Judge will, at the last,
  When disputing all is past,
    Not a question ask?
 
 
  Folly great it is to brood
  Over neither bad nor good,
    Eyes and ears unheedful!
  Ears and eyes, ah, open wide
  For what may be heard or spied
    Of the one thing needful!
 

TO AND OF FRIENDS

TO LADY NOEL BYRON

 
  Men sought, ambition's thirst to slake,
    The lost elixir old
  Whose magic touch should instant make
    The meaner metals gold.
 
 
  A nobler alchymy is thine
    Which love from pain doth press:
  Gold in thy hand becomes divine,
    Grows truth and tenderness.
 

TO THE SAME

 
  Dead, why defend thee, who in life
    For thy worst foe hadst died;
  Who, thy own name a word of strife,
    Didst silent stand aside?
  Grand in forgiveness, what to thee
    The big world's puny prate!
  Or thy great heart hath ceased to be
    Or loveth still its mate!
 

TO AURELIO SAFFI

 
  To God and man be simply true;
Do as thou hast been wont to do;
  Bring out thy treasures, old and new—
Mean all the same when said to you.
 
 
I love thee: thou art calm and strong;
Firm in the right, mild to the wrong;
Thy heart, in every raging throng,
A chamber shut for prayer and song.
 
 
Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know,
Although thy aims so lofty go
They need as long to root and grow
As infant hills to reach the snow.
 
 
Press on and prosper, holy friend!
I, weak and ignorant, would lend
A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send
Prospering onward without end.
 

A THANKSGIVING FOR F. D. MAURICE

 
  The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him
  Who next it stood before us, first so long,
  We see not; but between the cherubim
  The light burns clearer: come—a thankful song!
 
 
  Lord, for thy prophet's calm commanding voice,
  For his majestic innocence and truth,
  For his unswerving purity of choice,
  For all his tender wrath and plenteous ruth;
 
 
  For his obedient, wise, clear-listening care
  To hear for us what word The Word would say,
  For all the trembling fervency of prayer
  With which he led our souls the prayerful way;
 
 
  For all the heavenly glory of his face
  That caught the white Transfiguration's shine
  And cast on us the reflex of thy grace—
  Of all thy men late left, the most divine;
 
 
  For all his learning, and the thought of power
  That seized thy one Idea everywhere,
  Brought the eternal down into the hour,
  And taught the dead thy life to claim and share;
 
 
  For his humility, dove-clear of guile;—
  The sin denouncing, he, like thy great Paul,
  Still claimed in it the greatest share, the while
  Our eyes, love-sharpened, saw him best of all!
 
 
  For his high victories over sin and fear,
  The captive hope his words of truth set free;
  For his abiding memory, holy, dear;
  Last, for his death and hiding now in thee,
 
 
  We praise, we magnify thee, Lord of him:
  Thou hast him still; he ever was thine own;
  Nor shall our tears prevail the path to dim
  That leads where, lowly still, he haunts thy throne.
 
 
  When thou, O Lord, ascendedst up on high
  Good gifts thou sentest down to cheer thy men:
  Lo, he ascends!—we follow with the cry,
  His spirit send thou back in thine again.
 

GEORGE ROLLESTON

 
  Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid
    Over whose couch the saving God did stand—
  "She is not dead but sleepeth," said,
    And took her by the hand!
 
 
  Thee knowledge never from Life's pathway wiled,
    But following still where life's great father led,
  He turned, and taking up his child,
    Raised thee too from the dead,
 
 
  O living, thou hast passed thy second birth,
    Found all things new, and some things lovely strange;
  But thou wilt not forget the earth,
    Or in thy loving change!
 

TO GORDON, LEAVING KHARTOUM

 
  The silence of traitorous feet!
    The silence of close-pent rage!
  The roar, and the sudden heart-beat!
      And the shot through the true heart going,
    The truest heart of the age!
      And the Nile serenely flowing!
 
 
  Carnage and curses and cries!
    He utters never a word;
  Still as a child he lies;
      The wind of the desert is blowing
    Across the dead man of the Lord;
      And the Nile is softly flowing.
 
 
  But the song is stilled in heaven
    To welcome one more king:
  For the truth he hath witnessed and striven,
      And let the world go crowing,
    And Mammon's church-bell go ring,
      And the Nile blood-red go flowing!
 
 
  Man who hated the sword
    Yet wielded the sword and axe—
  Farewell, O arm of the Lord,
      The Lord's own harvest mowing—
    With a wind in the smoking flax
      Where our foul rivers are flowing!
 
 
  In war thou didst cherish peace,
    Thou slewest for love of life:
  Hail, hail thy stormy release
      Go home and await thy sowing,
    The patient flower of thy strife,
      Thy bread on the Nile cast flowing.
 
 
  Not thy earth to our earth alone,
    Thy spirit is left with us!
  Thy body is victory's throne,
      And our hearts around it are glowing:
    Would that we others died thus
      Where the Thames and the Clyde are flowing!
 

SONG OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS,

JANUARY 26, 1885

 
  Gordon, the self-refusing,
  Gordon, the lover of God,
  Gordon, the good part choosing,
  Welcome along the road!
 
 
  Thou knowest the man, O Father!
  To do thy will he ran;
  Men's praises he did not gather:
  There is scarce such another man!
 
 
  Thy black sheep's faithful shepherd
  Who knew not how to flee,
  Is torn by the desert leopard,
  And comes wounded home to thee!
 
 
  Home he is coming the faster
  That the way he could not miss:
  In thy arms, oh take him, Master,
  And heal him with a kiss!
 
 
  Then give him a thousand cities
  To rule till their evils cease,
  And their wailing minor ditties
  Die in a psalm of peace.
 

FAILURE

 
  Farewell, O Arm of the Lord!
  Man who hated the sword,
  Yet struck and spared not the thing abhorred!
  Farewell, O word of the Word!
  Man who knew no failure
  But the failure of the Lord!
 

TO E. G., DEDICATING A BOOK

 
  A broken tale of endless things,
    Take, lady: thou art not of those
  Who in what vale a fountain springs
    Would have its journey close.
 
 
  Countless beginnings, fair first parts,
    Leap to the light, and shining flow;
  All broken things, or toys or hearts,
    Are mended where they go.
 
 
  Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail,
    Float faithful fearless on, loved friend;
  'Tis God that has begun the tale
    And does not mean to end.
 

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!
 
 
  Fear not, doubt not because of those
    On whom earth's keen winds blow;
  God's love shames all our pitying woes,
    Be ready thou to go.
 
 
  Forsaken dream not hearts which here
    Bask in no sunny shine;
  Each shall one coming day be dear
    To love as good as thine.
 

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.
 

END OF VOL. I