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

A MEDITATION OF ST. ELIGIUS

 
Queen Mary one day Jesus sent
  To fetch some water, legends tell;
The little boy, obedient,
  Drew a full pitcher from the well;
 
 
But as he raised it to his head,
  The water lipping with the rim,
The handle broke, and all was shed
  Upon the stones about the brim.
 
 
His cloak upon the ground he laid
  And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.]
Obedient there the water staid,
  And home he bore it plentiful._
 
 
Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill:
  The hands that all the world control,
Had here been room for miracle,
  Had made his mother's pitcher whole!
 
 
"Still, some few drops for thirsty need
  A poor invention even, when told
In love of thee the Truth indeed,
  Like broken pitcher yet may hold:
 
 
"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt:
  I thought to bear the pitcher high;
Upon the shining stones of guilt
  I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!
 
 
"Master, I cried, _no man will drink,
  No human thirst will e'er be stilled
Through me, who sit upon the brink,
  My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!
 
 
"What will they do I waiting left?
  They looked to me to bring thy law!
The well is deep, and, sin-bereft,
  I nothing have wherewith to draw!"_
 
 
"But as I sat in evil plight,
  With dry parched heart and sickened brain,
Uprose in me the water bright,
  Thou gavest me thyself again!"
 

THE EARLY BIRD

 
A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;
  Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;
Day-long she had worked almost without rest,
  And had filled every one of their gibbous crops;
Her own she had filled just over-full,
And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.
 
 
"Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head
  Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all,
Looking like an apple on a feather-bed
  Poked and rounded and fluffed to a ball,
"What's to be done if things don't reform?
I cannot tell where there is one more worm!
 
 
"I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each,
  Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders:
Who will dare say I don't do as I preach?
  I set an example to all providers!
But what's the use? We want a storm:
I don't know where there's a single worm!"
 
 
"There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee bird
  Who woke at the voice of his mother's pain;
"I know where there's five!" And with the word
  He tucked in his head and went off again.
"The folly of childhood," sighed his mother,
"Has always been my especial bother!"
 
 
Careless the yellow-beaks slept on,
  They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow;
The mother sat outside making her moan—
  "I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow!
I have always to say, the night before,
Where shall I find one red worm more!"
 
 
Her case was this, she had gobbled too many,
  And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight:
A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any!
  Could she but get of the great worm-store sight!
The eastern sky was growing red
Ere she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed.
 
 
Just then, the fellow who knew of five,
  Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks,
Woke, and stirred, and felt alive:
  "To-day," he said, "I am up to six!
But my mother feels in her lot the crook—
What if I tried my own little hook!"
 
 
When his mother awoke, she winked her eyes
  As if she had dreamed that she was a mole:
Could she believe them? "What a huge prize
  That child is dragging out of its hole!"
The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third!
And here is a fable to catch the bird!
 

SIR LARK AND KING SUN

 
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone
Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.
"Shine on me, my lord: I only am come,
Of all your servants, to welcome you home!
I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear,
To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."
 
 
"Must I thank you then," said the king, "sir Lark,
For flying so high and hating the dark?
You ask a full cup for half a thirst:
Half was love of me, half love to be first.
Some of my subjects serve better my taste:
Their watching and waiting means more than your haste."
 
 
King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud;
Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;
But higher he flew, for he thought, "Anon
The wrath of the king will be over and gone;
And, scattering his head-gear manifold,
He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!"
 
 
He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew,
But as he rose the cloud rose too;
And not one gleam of the flashing hair
Brought signal of favour across the air;
And his wings felt withered and worn and old,
For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.
 
 
Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore,
The strong sun-seeker could do no more;
He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stone
Beside his nest, where, patient, alone,
Sat his little wife on her little eggs,
Keeping them warm with wings and legs.
 
 
Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!
There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king!
"Welcome, sir Lark!—You look tired!" said he;
"Up is not always the best way to me:
While you have been racing my turban gray,
I have been shining where you would not stay!"
 
 
He had set a coronet round the nest;
Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast;
And so glorious was she in russet gold
That sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold;
He popped his head under her wing, and lay
As still as a stone till king Sun went away.
 

THE OWL AND THE BELL

 
Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!
Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home,
High in the church-tower, lone and unseen,
In a twilight of ivy, cool and green;
With his Bing, Bing, Bim, Bing, Bang, Bome!
Singing bass to himself in his house at home.
 
 
Said the Owl, on a shadowy ledge below,
Like a glimmering ball of forgotten snow,
"Pest on that fellow sitting up there,
Always calling the people to prayer!
He shatters my nerves with his Bing, Bang, Bome!—-
Far too big in his house at home!
 
 
"I think I will move.—But it suits me well,
And one may get used to it, who can tell!"
So he slept again with all his might,
Then woke and snooved out in the hush of night
When the Bell was asleep in his house at home,
Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Bome!
 
 
For the Owl was born so poor and genteel
What could he do but pick and steal?
He scorned to work for honest bread—
"Better have never been hatched!" he said.
So his day was the night, for he dared not roam
Till sleep had silenced the Bing, Bang, Bome!
 
 
When five greedy Owlets chipped the egg
He wanted two beaks and another leg,
And they ate the more that they did not sleep well:
"It's their gizzards," said Owless; said Owl, "It's that Bell!"
For they quivered like leaves of a wind-blown tome
When the Bell bellowed out his Bing, Bang, Bome!
 
 
But the Bell began to throb with the fear
Of bringing his house about his one ear;
And his people came round it, quite a throng,
To buttress the walls and make them strong:
A full month he sat, and felt like a mome
Not daring to shout his Bing, Bang, Bome!
 
 
Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said,
"I trust in my heart the old fool is dead!
No more will he scare church-mice with his bounce,
And make them so thin they're scarce worth a pounce!
Once I will see him ere he's laid in the loam,
And shout in his ear Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!"
 
 
"Hoo! hoo!" he cried, as he entered the steeple,
"They've hanged him at last, the righteous people!
His swollen tongue lolls out of his head!
Hoo! hoo! at last the old brute is dead!
There let him hang, the shapeless gnome,
Choked with a throatful of Bing, Bang, Bome!"
 
 
He fluttered about him, singing Too-whoo!
He flapped the poor Bell, and said, "Is that you?
You that never would matters mince,
Banging poor owls and making them wince?
A fig for you now, in your great hall-dome!
Too-whit is better than Bing, Bang, Bome!"
 
 
Still braver he grew, the downy, the dapper;
He flew in and perched on the knob of the clapper,
And shouted Too-whoo! An echo awoke
Like a far-off ghostly Bing-Bang stroke:
"Just so!" he cried; "I am quite at home!
I will take his place with my Bing, Bang, Bome!"
 
 
He hissed with the scorn of his grand self-wonder,
And thought the Bell's tremble his own great thunder:
He sat the Jove of creation's fowl.—
Bang! went the Bell—through the rope-hole the owl,
A fluffy avalanche, light as foam,
Loosed by the boom of the Bing, Bang, Bome!
 
 
He sat where he fell, as if he had meant it,
Ready for any remark anent it.
Said the eldest Owlet, "Pa, you were wrong;
He's at it again with his vulgar song!"
"Child," said the Owl, "of the mark you are wide:
I brought him to life by perching inside."
 
 
"Why did you, my dear?" said his startled wife;
"He has always been the plague of your life!"
"I have given him a lesson of good for evil:
Perhaps the old ruffian will now be civil!"
The Owl sat righteous, he raised his comb.
The Bell bawled on, Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!
 

A MAMMON-MARRIAGE

 
The croak of a raven hoar!
  A dog's howl, kennel-tied!
Loud shuts the carriage-door:
  The two are away on their ghastly ride
To Death's salt shore!
 
 
Where are the love and the grace?
  The bridegroom is thirsty and cold!
The bride's skull sharpens her face!
  But the coachman is driving, jubilant, bold,
The devil's pace.
 
 
The horses shivered and shook
  Waiting gaunt and haggard
With sorry and evil look;
  But swift as a drunken wind they staggered
'Longst Lethe brook.
 
 
Long since, they ran no more;
  Heavily pulling they died
On the sand of the hopeless shore
  Where never swelled or sank a tide,
And the salt burns sore.
 
 
Flat their skeletons lie,
  White shadows on shining sand;
The crusted reins go high
  To the crumbling coachman's bony hand
On his knees awry.
 
 
Side by side, jarring no more,
  Day and night side by side,
Each by a doorless door,
  Motionless sit the bridegroom and bride
On the Dead-Sea-shore.
 

A SONG IN THE NIGHT

 
A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree,
Sang in the moonshine, merrily,
Three little songs, one, two, and three,
A song for his wife, for himself, and me.
 
 
He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high,
Filling the moonlight that filled the sky;
"Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive!
Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!"
 
 
He sang to himself, "What shall I do
With this life that thrills me through and through!
Glad is so glad that it turns to ache!
Out with it, song, or my heart will break!"
 
 
He sang to me, "Man, do not fear
Though the moon goes down and the dark is near;
Listen my song and rest thine eyes;
Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!"
 
 
I folded me up in the heart of his tune,
And fell asleep with the sinking moon;
I woke with the day's first golden gleam,
And, lo, I had dreamed a precious dream!
 

LOVE'S HISTORY

 
Love, the baby,
  Crept abroad to pluck a flower:
One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe;
  One said, Wait the hour.
 
 
Love, the boy,
  Joined the youngsters at their play:
But they gave him little joy,
  And he went away.
 
 
Love, the youth,
  Roamed the country, quiver-laden;
From him fled away in sooth
  Many a man and maiden!
 
 
Love, the man,
  Sought a service all about;
But they called him feeble, one
  They could do without.
 
 
Love, the aged,
  Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,
Read a volume many-paged,
  Full of tears and smiles.
 
 
Love, the weary,
  Tottered down the shelving road:
At its foot, lo, Night, the starry,
  Meeting him from God!
 
 
"Love, the holy,"
  Sang a music in her dome,
Sang it softly, sang it slowly,
  "Love is coming home!"
 

THE LARK AND THE WIND

 
In the air why such a ringing?
  On the earth why such a droning?
 
 
In the air the lark is singing;
  On the earth the wind is moaning.
 
 
"I am blest, in sunlight swinging!"
  "Sad am I: the world lies groaning!"
 
 
In the sky the lark kept singing;
  On the earth the wind kept moaning.
 

A DEAD HOUSE

 
When the clock hath ceased to tick
  Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
  Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
  Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
  On a dead house, not a home!
 
 
But when, like an old sun's ghost,
  Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
  Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound—hark! there again!—
  No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
  Walking through the bare-floored house!
 
 
And with lightning on the stair
  To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
  Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
  From the raging northern coasts,
Then, mid sieging light and sound,
  All the house is live with ghosts!
 
 
Brother, is thy soul a cell
  Empty save of glittering motes,
Where no live loves live and dwell,
  Only notions, things, and thoughts?
Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath
  Tempest-shaking ridge and post,
Find thyself alone with Death
  In a house where walks no ghost.
 

'BELL UPON ORGAN

 
  It's all very well,
Said the Bell,
To be the big Organ below!
But the folk come and go,
Said the Bell,
And you never can tell
What sort of person the Organ will blow!
And, besides, it is much at the mercy of the weather
For 'tis all made in pieces and glued together!
 
 
  But up in my cell
Next door to the sky,
Said the Bell,
I dwell
Very high;
And with glorious go
I swing to and fro;
I swing swift or slow,
I swing as I please,
With summons or knell;
I swing at my ease,
Said the Bell:
Not the tallest of men
Can reach up to touch me,
To smirch me or smutch me,
Or make me do what
I would not be at!
And, then,
The weather can't cause me to shrink or increase:
I chose to be made in one perfect piece!
 

MASTER AND BOY

 
"WHO is this little one lying,"
  Said Time, "at my garden-gate,
Moaning and sobbing and crying,
  Out in the cold so late?"
 
 
"They lurked until we came near,
  Master and I," the child said,
"Then caught me, with 'Welcome, New-year!
  Happy Year! Golden-head!'
 
 
"See Christmas-day, my Master,
  On the meadow a mile away!
Father Time, make me run faster!
  I'm the Shadow of Christmas-day!"
 
 
"Run, my child; still he's in sight!
  Only look well to his track;
Little Shadow, run like the light,
  He misses you at his back!"
 
 
Old Time sat down in the sun
  On a grave-stone—his legs were numb:
"When the boy to his master has run,"
  He said, "Heaven's New Year is come!"