The poetical works of George MacDonald - LightNovelsOnl.com
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The preacher says a Christian must Do all the good he can:-- I must be n.o.ble, true, and just, Because I am a man!
They say a man must watch, and keep Lamp burning, garments white, Else he shall sit without and weep When Christ comes home at night:--
A man must hold his honour free, His conscience must not stain, Or soil, I say, the dignity Of heart and blood and brain!
Yes, I say well--said words are cheap!
For action man was born!
What praise will my one talent reap?
What grapes are on my thorn?
Have high words kept me pure enough?
In evil have I no part?
Hath not my bosom "perilous stuff That weighs upon the heart"?
I am not that which I do praise; I do not that I say; I sit a talker in the ways, A dreamer in the day!
VIII.
The preacher's words are true, I know-- That man may lose his life; That every man must downward go Without the upward strife.
'Twere well my soul should cease to roam, Should seek and have and hold!
It may be there is yet a home In that religion old.
Again I kneel, again I pray: _Wilt thou be G.o.d to me?
Wilt thou give ear to what I say, And lift me up to thee_?
Lord, is it true? Oh, vision high!
The clouds of heaven dispart; An opening depth of loving sky Looks down into my heart!
There _is_ a home wherein to dwell-- The very heart of light!
Thyself my sun immutable, My moon and stars all night!
I thank thee, Lord. It must be so, Its beauty is so good.
Up in my heart thou mad'st it go, And I have understood.
The clouds return. The common day Falls on me like a _No_; But I have seen what might be--may, And with a hope I go.
IX.
I am a stranger in the land; It gives no welcome dear; Its lilies bloom not for my hand, Its roses for my cheer.
The suns.h.i.+ne used to make me glad, But now it knows me not; This weight of brightness makes me sad-- It isolates a blot.
I am forgotten by the hills, And by the river's play; No look of recognition thrills The features of the day.
Then only am I moved to song, When down the darkening street, While vanishes the scattered throng, The driving rain I meet.
The rain pours down. My thoughts awake, Like flowers that languished long; From bare cold hills the night-winds break, From me the unwonted song.
X.
I read the Bible with my eyes, But hardly with my brain; Should this the meaning recognize, My heart yet reads in vain.
These words of promise and of woe Seem but a tinkling sound; As through an ancient tomb I go, With dust-filled urns around.
Or, as a sadly searching child, Afar from love and home, Sits in an ancient chamber, piled With scroll and musty tome,
So I, in these epistles old From men of heavenly care, Find all the thoughts of other mould Than I can love or share.
No sympathy with mine they show, Their world is not the same; They move me not with joy or woe, They touch me not with blame.
I hear no word that calls my life, Or owns my struggling powers; Those ancient ages had their strife, But not a strife like ours.
Oh, not like men they move and speak, Those pictures in old panes!
They alter not their aspect meek For all the winds and rains!
Their thoughts are full of figures strange, Of Jewish forms and rites: A world of air and sea I range, Of mornings and of nights!
XI.
I turn me to the gospel-tale:-- My hope is faint with fear That hungriest search will not avail To find a refuge here.
A misty wind blows bare and rude From dead seas of the past; And through the clouds that halt and brood, Dim dawns a shape at last:
A sad worn man who bows his face, And treads a frightful path, To save an abject hopeless race From an eternal wrath.
Kind words he speaks--but all the time As from a formless height To which no human foot can climb-- Half-swathed in ancient night.
Nay, sometimes, and to gentle heart, Unkind words from him go!
Surely it is no saviour's part To speak to women so!
Much rather would I refuge take With Mary, dear to me, To whom that rough hard speech he spake-- _What have I to do with thee_?
Surely I know men tenderer, Women of larger soul, Who need no prayer their hearts to stir, Who always would make whole!
Oftenest he looks a weary saint, Embalmed in pallid gleam; Listless and sad, without complaint, Like dead man in a dream.
And, at the best, he is uplift A spectacle, a show:-- The worth of such an outworn gift I know too much to know!
How find the love to pay my debt?-- He leads me from the sun!-- Yet it is hard men should forget A good deed ever done!--
Forget that he, to foil a curse, Did, on that altar-hill, Sun of a sunless universe, Hang dying, patient, still!
But what is He, whose pardon slow At so much blood is priced?-- If such thou art, O Jove, I go To the Promethean Christ!
