The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald - George MacDonald

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Into the Light of which thou art a spark!

       Be willing to be blind—that, in thy night,

       The Lord may bring his Father to thy door,

       And enter in, and feast thy soul with light.

       Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more,

       Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies,

       And shine, God's house, all radiant in our eyes.

      II.

      Say thou, his will be done who is the good!

       His will be borne who knoweth how to bear!

       Who also in the night had need of prayer,

       Both when awoke divinely longing mood,

       And when the power of darkness him withstood.

       For what is coming take no jot of care:

       Behind, before, around thee as the air,

       He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood.

       And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer,

       Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest,

       Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest

       With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height,

       Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share:

       He needs no eyes who is a shining light!

      TO AUBREY DE VERE.

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      Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere,

       Forgive my play fantastic with thy name,

       Distilling its true essence by the flame

       Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear.

       I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer;

       If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame,

       Or furthering by failure each high aim;

       If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear;

       But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by—

       Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod—

       We laying down the staff, and He the rod—

       So look on me I shall not need to cry—

       "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I:

       We mean the same thing—will the will of God!"

      GENERAL GORDON.

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      I.

      Victorious through failure! faithful Lord,

       Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray

       From thine own country of eternal day,

       To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde,

       Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!—

       Our long retarded legions, on their way,

       Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway,

       To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word,

       Thou sawest foiled—but glorifiedst him,

       Over ten cities giving him thy rule!

       We will not mourn a star that grew not dim,

       A soldier-child of God gone home from school!

       A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff,

       And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff!

      II.

      Another to the witnesses' roll-call

       Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out—

       With willingness crowned everywhere about,

       Not the head only, but the body all,

       In one great nimbus of obedient fall,

       His heart's blood dashing in the face of doubt—

       Love's last victorious stand amid the rout!

       —Silence is left, and the untasted gall.

       No chariot with ramping steeds of fire

       The Father sent to fetch his man-child home;

       His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!"

       And like a dove to heaven he did aspire,

       His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire.

       —Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb!

      THE CHRYSALIS.

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      Methought I floated sightless, nor did know

       That I had ears until I heard the cry

       As of a mighty man in agony:

       "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow?

       The arrows of thy lightning through me go,

       And sting and torture me—yet here I lie

       A shapeless mass that scarce can mould a sigh!"

       The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below

       Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet.

       Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead,

       And looked upon the world: the silence broke!

       A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat

       Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke!

       And from that world a mighty angel fled.

      THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR.

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      Methought that in a solemn church I stood.

       Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet,

       Lay spread from door to door, from street to street.

       Midway the form hung high upon the rood

       Of him who gave his life to be our good;

       Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet,

       Among the candles shining still and sweet.

       Men came and went, and worshipped as they could—

       And still their dust a woman with her broom,

       Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door.

       Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom,

       Across the church a silent figure come:

       "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!"

       It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more.

      DEATH.

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