The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

THE WIND AND THE MOON

 
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out!
    You stare
    In the air
    As if crying Beware,
Always looking what I am about:
I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!"
 
 
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
    So, deep
    On a heap
    Of clouds, to sleep
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!"
 
 
He turned in his bed: she was there again!
    On high
    In the sky
    With her one ghost-eye
The Moon shone white and alive and plain:
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!"
 
 
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim.
    "With my sledge
    And my wedge
    I have knocked off her edge!
I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim,
And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!"
 
 
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
    "One puff
    More's enough
    To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go that thread!"
 
 
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.
    In the air
    Nowhere
    Was a moonbeam bare;
Larger and nearer the shy stars shone:
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
 
 
The Wind he took to his revels once more;
    On down
    And in town,
   A merry-mad clown,
He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar—
When there was that glimmering thread once more!
 
 
He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
    But in vain
    Was the pain
    Of his bursting brain,
For still the Moon-scrap the broader grew
The more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
 
 
Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,
    And shone
    On her throne
    In the sky alone
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
 
 
Said the Wind, "What a marvel of power am I!
    With my breath,
    In good faith,
    I blew her to death!—
First blew her away right out of the sky,
Then blew her in: what a strength am I!"
 
 
But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair;
    For, high
    In the sky
    With her one white eye,
Motionless miles above the air,
She never had heard the great Wind blare.
 

THE FOOLISH HAREBELL

 
A harebell hung her wilful head:
"I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead."
 
 
She hung her head in the mossy dell:
"If all were over, then all were well!"
 
 
The Wind he heard, and was pitiful,
And waved her about to make her cool.
 
 
"Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell;
"Leave me alone—I am not well."
 
 
The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame,
Sighed to himself and ceased in shame.
 
 
"I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said;
"I am withering up; I wish I was dead!"
 
 
Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case,
And drew a thick veil over his face.
 
 
"Cloud go away, and don't be rude,"
She said; "I do not see why you should!"
 
 
The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried,
"I am faint, so faint!—and no water beside!"
 
 
The Dew came down its millionfold path:
She murmured, "I did not want a bath!"
 
 
The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept;
The Night came down, and the Harebell slept.
 
 
A boy ran past in the morning gray,
Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away.
 
 
The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh!
I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow."
 
 
The Wind blew gently, and did not speak.
She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.
 
 
"Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said.
He shone; but lower she drooped her head.
 
 
"O Rain, I am withering! all the blue
Is fading out of me!—come, please do!"
 
 
The Rain came down as fast as he could,
But for all his good will he could do her no good.
 
 
She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said,
"Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead.
 
 
Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next year
She'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!
 

SONG

 
I was very cold
  In the summer weather;
The sun shone all his gold,
But I was very cold—
Alas, we were grown old,
  Love and I together!
Oh, but I was cold
  In the summer weather!
 
 
Sudden I grew warmer
  Though the brooks were frozen:
"Truly, scorn did harm her!"
I said, and I grew warmer;
"Better men the charmer
  Knows at least a dozen!"
I said, and I grew warmer
  Though the brooks were frozen.
 
 
Spring sits on her nest,
  Daisies and white clover;
And my heart at rest
Lies in the spring's young nest:
My love she loves me best,
  And the frost is over!
Spring sits on her nest,
  Daisies and white clover!
 

AN IMPROVISATION

 
The stars cleave the sky.
  Yet for us they rest,
And their race-course high
  Is a shining nest!
 
 
The hours hurry on.
  But where is thy flight,
Soft pavilion
  Of motionless night?
 
 
Earth gives up her trees
  To the holy air;
They live in the breeze;
  They are saints at prayer!
 
 
Summer night, come from God,
  On your beauty, I see,
A still wave has flowed
  Of eternity!
 

EQUITY

 
No bird can sing in tune but that the Lord
Sits throned in equity above the heaven,
And holds the righteous balance always even;
No heart can true response to love afford
Wherein from one to eight not every chord
Is yet attuned by the spirits seven:
For tuneful no bird sings but that the Lord
Is throned in equity above high heaven.
 
 
Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored,
And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven,
Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven,
Thy rights in love thy God will see restored:
No bird could sing in tune but that the Lord
Sits throned in equity above the heaven.
 

CONTRITION

 
Out of the gulf into the glory,
  Father, my soul cries out to be lifted.
Dark is the woof of my dismal story,
  Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!—
Out of the gulf into the glory,
Lift me, and save my story.
 
 
I have done many things merely shameful;
  I am a man ashamed, my father!
My life is ashamed and broken and blameful—
  The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather!
Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful!
To my judge I flee with my blameful.
 
 
Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity,
  Think what it is, not to be pure!
Strong in thy love's essential security,
  Think upon those who are never secure.
Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity:
Fold me in love's security.
 
 
O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching!
  Help it to ache as much as is needful;
Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking,
  Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful?
Sick of my past, of my own self aching—
Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.
Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel,
 
 
  Proud of myself, I forgot my donor;
Down in the dust I began to nestle,
  Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour!
Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel!
In the dust of thy glory I nestle.
 

THE CONSOLER: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S Christus Consolator

I

 
What human form is this? what form divine?
And who are these that gaze upon his face
Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace,
With whose reflected light the gazers shine?
Saviour, who does not know it to be thine?
Who does not long to fill a gazer's place?
And yet there is no time, there is no space
To keep away thy servants from thy shrine!
Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes,
Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see,
Thou art not too far to turn and look on me,
To speak to me, and to receive my sighs.
Therefore for ever I forget the skies,
And find an everlasting Sun in thee.
 

II

 
Oh let us never leave that happy throng!
From that low attitude of love not cease!
In all the world there is no other peace,
In all the world no other shield from wrong.
But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long—
For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase—
But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong,
Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release.
We wander from thy fold's free holy air,
Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin!
But if thou keep us evermore within,
We never surely can forget thee there—
Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear,
And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!
 

III

 
To speak of him in language of our own,
Is not for us too daringly to try;
But, Saviour, we can read thy history
Upon the faces round thy humble throne;
And as the flower among the grass makes known
What summer suns have warmed it from the sky,
As every human smile and human sigh
Is witness that we do not live alone,
So in that company—in those sweet tears,
The first-born of a rugged melted heart,
In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart,
And in the words that weeping mother hears,
We read the story of two thousand years,
And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.
 

TO ——

 
I cannot write old verses here,
  Dead things a thousand years away,
When all the life of the young year
  Is in the summer day.
 
 
The roses make the world so sweet,
  The bees, the birds have such a tune,
There's such a light and such a heat
  And such a joy this June,
 
 
One must expand one's heart with praise,
  And make the memory secure
Of sunshine and the woodland days
  And summer twilights pure.
 
 
Oh listen rather! Nature's song
  Comes from the waters, beating tides,
Green-margined rivers, and the throng
  Of streams on mountain-sides.
 
 
So fair those water-spirits are,
  Such happy strength their music fills,
Our joy shall be to wander far
  And find them on the hills.
 

TO A SISTER

 
A fresh young voice that sings to me
So often many a simple thing,
Should surely not unanswered be
By all that I can sing.
 
 
Dear voice, be happy every way
A thousand changing tones among,
From little child's unfinished lay
To angel's perfect song.
 
 
In dewy woods—fair, soft, and green
Like morning woods are childhood's bower—
Be like the voice of brook unseen
Among the stones and flowers;
 
 
A joyful voice though born so low,
And making all its neighbours glad;
Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow
Even when the winds are sad.
 
 
So, strengthen in a peaceful home,
And daily deeper meanings bear;
And when life's wildernesses come
Be brave and faithful there.
 
 
Try all the glorious magic range,
Worship, forgive, console, rejoice,
Until the last and sweetest change—
So live and grow, dear voice.
 

THE SHORTEST AND SWEETEST OF SONGS

 
Come
Home.
 

SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS

ANNIE SHE'S DOWIE

 
Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae:
What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae,
For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day,
And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay?
 
 
Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud,
And the tither a minnie that cleiks at the goud '.
They lo'ed are anither, and said their say,
But the daddy and minnie hae partit the twae!
 

O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL!

 
O lassie ayont the hill,
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,
Bidena ayont the hill!
  I'm needin ye sair the nicht,
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.
  A body's sel 's the sairest weicht:
O lassie, come ower the hill!
 
 
Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace,
  And no a sel ava!
I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face,
  O' my thouchts and mysel and a';
 
 
  I'm sick o' the warl' and a';
The win' gangs by wi' a hiss;
  Throu my starin een the sunbeams fa'
But my weary hert they miss!
    O lassie ayont the hill,
      Come ower the tap o' the hill,
    Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,
      Bidena ayont the hill! &c.
 
 
For gien I but saw yer bonnie heid,
  And the sunlicht o' yer hair,
The ghaist o' mysel wud fa' doun deid,
  I wud be mysel nae mair.
  I wud be mysel nae mair,
Filled o' the sole remeid,
  Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair,
Killed by yer body and heid!
    O lassie ayont the hill, &c.
 
 
My sel micht wauk up at the saft fitfa'
  O' my bonnie departin dame;
But gien she lo'ed me ever sae sma'
  I micht bide it—the weary same!
  Noo, sick o' my body and name
Whan it lifts its upsettin heid,
  I turn frae the cla'es that cover my frame
As gien they war roun the deid.
    O lassie ayont the hill, &c.
 
 
But gien ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you
  I wud ring my ain deid knell;
The spectre wud melt, shot through and through
  Wi' the shine o' your sunny sel!
  By the shine o' yer sunny sel,
By the licht aneth yer broo
  I wud dee to mysel, ring my ain deid-bell,
And live again in you!
 
 
O lassie ayont the hill,
Come ower the tap o' the hill,
Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,
  For I want ye sair the nicht!
  I'm needin ye sair the nicht,
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.
  A body's sel 's the sairest weicht:
O lassie, come ower the hill!
 

THE BONNY, BONNY DELL

 
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin sings,
Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings;
Whaur the birks are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht,
And the brume hings its lamps by day and by nicht;
Whaur the burnie comes trottin ower shingle and stane
Liltin bonny havers til 'tsel its lane;
And the sliddery troot wi' ae soop o' its tail
Is ahint the green weed's dark swingin veil!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw
The yorlin, the brume, and the burnie, and a'!
 
 
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses won,
Luikin oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun;
Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame,
And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame;
Whaur the bee swings ower the white-clovery sod,
And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God;
Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow,
The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see
The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!
 
 
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon
As gien she war hearin a soughless tune,
Whan the flooers and the birdies are a' asleep,
And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep;
Whaur the corn-craik craiks i' the lang-heidit rye,
And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry;
Whaur the win' wud fain lie doon on the slope,
And the gloamin waukens the high-reachin hope!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt
The mune and the darkness baith into me melt!
 
 
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in
Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"
Sayin darkness and sorrow a' work for the licht,
And the will o' God was the hert o' the nicht;
Whaur the laverock hings hie, on his ain sang borne,
Wi' bird-shout and tirralee hailin the morn;
Whaur my hert ran ower wi' the lusome bliss
That, come winter, come weather, nocht gaed amiss!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in
Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"
 
 
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie,
Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy;
Whaur the starry gowans wi' rose-dippit tips
War as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips;
Whaur she spread her gowd hert till she saw that I saw,
Syne fauldit it up and gied me it a';
Whaur o' sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen,
For baith war but middlin withoot my Jean!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie,
Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy!
 
 
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies
A' day and a' nicht luikin up to the skies;
Whaur the sheep wauken up i' the simmer nicht,
Tak a bite and lie doon, and await the licht;
Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps;
Whaur the win' comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps;
Whaur my Jeanie's no lyin in a' the lair,
For she's up and awa up the angels' stair!
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies,
Whaur the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!