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

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night I brood and choose

      Among past joys. Oh, for the breath of June!

      The feathery light-flakes quavering from the moon

      The slow baptizing dews!

      Oh, the joy-frantic birds!—

      They are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees!

      Aha, the billowy odours! and the bees

      That browse like scattered herds!

      The comfort-whispering showers

      That thrill with gratefulness my youngest shoot!

      The children playing round my deep-sunk root,

      Green-caved from burning hours!

      See, see the heartless dawn,

      With naked, chilly arms latticed across!

      Another weary day of moaning loss

      On the thin-shadowed lawn!

      But icy winter's past;

      Yea, climbing suns persuade the relenting wind:

      I will endure with steadfast, patient mind;

      My leaves will come at last!

      WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER

      Were I a skilful painter,

      My pencil, not my pen,

      Should try to teach thee hope and fear,

      And who would blame me then?—

      Fear of the tide of darkness

      That floweth fast behind,

      And hope to make thee journey on

      In the journey of the mind.

      Were I a skilful painter,

      What should I paint for thee?—

      A tiny spring-bud peeping out

      From a withered wintry tree;

      The warm blue sky of summer

      O'er jagged ice and snow,

      And water hurrying gladsome out

      From a cavern down below;

      The dim light of a beacon

      Upon a stormy sea,

      Where a lonely ship to windward beats

      For life and liberty;

      A watery sun-ray gleaming

      Athwart a sullen cloud

      And falling on some grassy flower

      The rain had earthward bowed;

      Morn peeping o'er a mountain,

      In ambush for the dark,

      And a traveller in the vale below

      Rejoicing like a lark;

      A taper nearly vanished

      Amid the dawning gray,

      And a maiden lifting up her head,

      And lo, the coming day!

      I am no skilful painter;

      Let who will blame me then

      That I would teach thee hope and fear

      With my plain-talking pen!—

      Fear of the tide of darkness

      That floweth fast behind,

      And hope to make thee journey on

      In the journey of the mind.

 FAR AND NEAR. [The fact which suggested this poem is related by Clarke in his Travels.] I

      Blue sky above, blue sea below,

        Far off, the old Nile's mouth,

      'Twas a blue world, wherein did blow

        A soft wind from the south.

      In great and solemn heaves the mass

        Of pulsing ocean beat,

      Unwrinkled as the sea of glass

        Beneath the holy feet.

      With forward leaning of desire

        The ship sped calmly on,

      A pilgrim strong that would not tire

        Or hasten to be gone.

 II

      List!—on the wave!—what can they be,

        Those sounds that hither glide?

      No lovers whisper tremulously

        Under the ship's round side!

      No sail across the dark blue sphere

        Holds white obedient way;

      No far-fled, sharp-winged boat is near,

        No following fish at play!

      'Tis not the rippling of the wave,

        Nor sighing of the cords;

      No winds or waters ever gave

        A murmur so like words;

      Nor wings of birds that northward strain,

        Nor talk of hidden crew:

      The traveller questioned, but in vain—

        He found no answer true.

 III

      A hundred level miles away,

        On Egypt's troubled shore,

      Two nations fought, that sunny day,

        With bellowing cannons' roar.

      The fluttering whisper, low and near,

        Was that far battle's blare;

      A lipping, rippling motion here,

        The blasting thunder there.

 IV

      Can this dull sighing in my breast

        So faint and undefined,

      Be the worn edge of far unrest

        Borne on the spirit's wind?

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