The poetical works of George MacDonald - LightNovelsOnl.com
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The third morn clear and calm came out: No anch.o.r.ed s.h.i.+p was there!
The golden strand in the cable stout Was not all of maidens' hair.
_THE DEAD HAND_.
The witch lady walked along the strand, Heard a roaring of the sea, On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand, Good thing for a witch lady!
Lightly she stepped across the rocks, Came where the dead man lay: Now pretty maid with your merry mocks, Now I shall have my way!
On a finger shone a sapphire blue In the heart of six rubies red: Come back to me, my promise true, Come back, my ring, she said.
She took the dead hand in the live, And at the ring drew she; The dead hand closed its fingers five, And it held the witch lady.
She swore the storm was not her deed, Dark spells she backward spoke; If the dead man heard he took no heed, But held like a cloven oak.
Deathly cold, crept up the tide, Sure of her, made no haste; Crept up to her knees, crept up each side, Crept up to her wicked waist.
Over the blue sea sailed the bride In her love's own sailing s.h.i.+p, And the witch she saw them across the tide As it rose to her lying lip.
Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead Are strong hasps they to hold!
Fled the true dove with the kite's new love, And left the false kite with the old.
MINOR DITTIES.
_IN THE NIGHT_.
As to her child a mother calls, "Come to me, child; come near!"
Calling, in silent intervals, The Master's voice I hear.
But does he call me verily?
To have me does he care?
Why should he seek my poverty, My selfishness so bare?
The dear voice makes his gladness brim, But not a child can know Why that large woman cares for him, Why she should love him so!
Lord, to thy call of me I bow, Obey like Abraham: Thou lov'st me because thou art thou, And I am what I am!
Doubt whispers, _Thou art such a blot He cannot love poor thee_: If what I am he loveth not, He loves what I shall be.
Nay, that which can be drawn and wooed, And turned away from ill, Is what his father made for good: He loves me, I say still!
_THE GIVER._
To give a thing and take again Is counted meanness among men; To take away what once is given Cannot then be the way of heaven!
But human hearts are crumbly stuff, And never, never love enough, Therefore G.o.d takes and, with a smile, Puts our best things away a while.
Thereon some weep, some rave, some scorn, Some wish they never had been born; Some humble grow at last and still, And then G.o.d gives them what they will.
_FALSE PROPHETS._
Would-be prophets tell us We shall not re-know Them that walked our fellows In the ways below!
Smoking, smouldering Tophets Steaming hopeless plaints!
Dreary, mole-eyed prophets!
Mean, skin-pledging saints!
Knowing not the Father What their prophecies!
Grapes of such none gather, Only thorns and lies.
Loving thus the brother, How the Father tell?
Go without each other To your heavenly h.e.l.l!
_LIFE-WEARY_.
O Thou that walkest with nigh hopeless feet Past the one harbour, built for thee and thine.
Doth no stray odour from its table greet, No truant beam from fire or candle s.h.i.+ne?
At his wide door the host doth stand and call; At every lattice gracious forms invite; Thou seest but a dull-gray, solid wall In forest sullen with the things of night!
Thou cravest rest, and Rest for thee doth crave, The white sheet folded down, white robe apart.-- Shame, Faithless! No, I do not mean the grave!
I mean Love's very house and hearth and heart.
_APPROACHES_.
When thou turn'st away from ill, Christ is this side of thy hill.
When thou turnest toward good, Christ is walking in thy wood.
When thy heart says, "Father, pardon!"
Then the Lord is in thy garden.
When stern Duty wakes to watch, Then his hand is on the latch.
