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

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utterance still

        Flowing went on, like spring from hidden store

      Of wasteless waters; but I wept my fill,

        Nor heeded much the comfort of his speech.

        At length he said: "When first I clomb the hill—

      With earthly words I heavenly things would reach—

        Where dwelleth now the man we used to call

        Father, whose voice, oh memory dear! did teach

      Us in our beds, when straight, as once a stall

        Became a temple, holy grew the room,

        Prone on the ground before him I did fall,

      So grand he towered above me like a doom;

        But now I look into the well-known face

        Fearless, yea, basking blessed in the bloom

      Of his eternal youthfulness and grace."

        "But something separates us," yet I cried;

        "Let light at least begin the dark to chase,

      The dark begin to waver and divide,

        And clear the path of vision. In the old time,

        When clouds one heart did from the other hide,

      A wind would blow between! If I would climb,

        This foot must rise ere that can go up higher:

        Some big A teach me of the eternal prime."

      He answered me: "Hearts that to love aspire

        Must learn its mighty harmony ere they can

        Give out one perfect note in its great quire;

      And thereto am I sent—oh, sent of one

        Who makes the dumb for joy break out and sing:

        He opens every door 'twixt man and man;

      He to all inner chambers all will bring."

VIII

      It was enough; Hope waked from dreary swound,

        And Hope had ever been enough for me,

        To kennel driving grim Tomorrow's hound;

      From chains of school and mode she set me free,

        And urged my life to living.—On we went

        Across the stars that underlay the sea,

      And came to a blown shore of sand and bent.

        Beyond the sand a marshy moor we crossed

        Silent—I, for I pondered what he meant,

      And he, that sacred speech might not be lost—

        And came at length upon an evil place:

        Trees lay about like a half-buried host,

      Each in its desolate pool; some fearful race

        Of creatures was not far, for howls and cries

        And gurgling hisses rose. With even pace

      Walking, "Fear not," he said, "for this way lies

        Our journey." On we went; and soon the ground

        Slow from the waste began a gentle rise;

      And tender grass in patches, then all round,

        Came clouding up, with its fresh homely tinge

        Of softest green cold-flushing every mound;

      At length, of lowly shrubs a scattered fringe;

        And last, a gloomy forest, almost blind,

        For on its roof no sun-ray did impinge,

      So that its very leaves did share the mind

        Of a brown shadowless day. Not, all the year,

        Once part its branches to let through a wind,

      But all day long the unmoving trees appear

        To ponder on the past, as men may do

        That for the future wait without a fear,

      And in the past the coming present view.

 IX

      I know not if for days many or few

        Pathless we thrid the wood; for never sun,

        Its sylvan-traceried windows peeping through,

      Mottled with brighter green the mosses dun,

        Or meted with moving shadows Time the shade.

        No life was there—not even a spider spun.

      At length we came into a sky-roofed glade,

        An open level, in a circle shut

        By solemn trees that stood aside and made

      Large room and lonely for a little hut

        By grassy sweeps wide-margined from the wood.

        'Twas built of saplings old, that had been cut

      When those great trees no larger by them stood;

        Thick with an ancient moss, it seemed to have grown

        Thus from the old brown earth, a covert rude,

      Half-house, half-grave; half-lifted up, half-prone.

        To its low door my brother led me. "There

        Is thy first school," he said; "there be thou shown

      Thy pictured alphabet. Wake a mind of prayer,

        And praying enter." "But wilt thou not come,

        Brother?" I said. "No," said he. And I, "Where

      Then shall I find thee? Thou wilt not leave me dumb,

        And a whole world of thoughts unuttered?"

        With half-sad smile and dewy eyes, and some

      Conflicting motions of his kingly head,

        He pointed to the open-standing door.

        I entered: inward, lo, my shadow led!

      I turned: his countenance shone like lightning hoar!

        Then slow he turned from me, and parted slow,

        Like one unwilling, whom I should see no more;

      With voice nor hand said, Farewell, I must go!

        But drew the clinging door hard to the post.

        No dry leaves rustled 'neath his going; no

      Footfalls came back from the departing ghost.

        He was no more. I laid

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