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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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That bears my body to the welcoming grave.
As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave,
But smile as those that lay aside the vain;
To me it is a thing of poor disdain,
A clod I would not give a sigh to save!
I follow, careless, in the funeral train,
My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave.
I follow to the grave with growing pain—
Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave!
And turn in gladness from the yawning cave—
Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain:
They also follow, in their funeral train,
Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave!
A PRAYER
When I look back upon my life nigh spent,
Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on,
I more of follies than of sins repent,
Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan.
With self, O Father, leave me not alone—
Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled;
Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own:
A fool I bring thee to be made a child.
HOME FROM THE WARS
A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss,
With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee,
Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:
I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
GOD; NOT GIFT
Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.
'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
Yea, life itself to wait for thee!
Lord, here I am, empty enough!
My music but a soundless moan!
Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!
Shall hope too go, that I may trust
Purely in thee, and spite of all?
Then turn my very heart to dust—
On thee, on thee, I yet will call.
List! list! his wind among the pines
Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's!
O Father, these are but thy signs!—
For thee I hunger, not for these!
Not joy itself, though pure and high—
No gift will do instead of thee!
Let but my spirit know thee nigh,
And all the world may sleep for me!
TO ANY FRIEND
If I did seem to you no more
Than to myself I seem,
Not thus you would fling wide the door,
And on the beggar beam!
You would not don your radiant best,
Or dole me more than half!
Poor palmer I, no angel guest;
A shaking reed my staff!
At home, no rich fruit, hanging low,
Have I for Love to pull;
Only unripe things that must grow
Till Autumn's maund be full!
But I forsake my niggard leas,
My orchard, too late hoar,
And wander over lands and seas
To find the Father's door.
When I have reached the ancestral farm,
Have clomb the steepy hill,
And round me rests the Father's arm,
Then think me what you will.
VIOLIN SONGS
HOPE DEFERRED.
Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy
Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light
As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave,
But smile as those that lay aside the vain;
To me it is a thing of poor disdain,
A clod I would not give a sigh to save!
I follow, careless, in the funeral train,
My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave.
I follow to the grave with growing pain—
Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave!
And turn in gladness from the yawning cave—
Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain:
They also follow, in their funeral train,
Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave!
A PRAYER
When I look back upon my life nigh spent,
Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on,
I more of follies than of sins repent,
Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan.
With self, O Father, leave me not alone—
Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled;
Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own:
A fool I bring thee to be made a child.
HOME FROM THE WARS
A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss,
With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee,
Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:
I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
GOD; NOT GIFT
Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.
'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
Yea, life itself to wait for thee!
Lord, here I am, empty enough!
My music but a soundless moan!
Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!
Shall hope too go, that I may trust
Purely in thee, and spite of all?
Then turn my very heart to dust—
On thee, on thee, I yet will call.
List! list! his wind among the pines
Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's!
O Father, these are but thy signs!—
For thee I hunger, not for these!
Not joy itself, though pure and high—
No gift will do instead of thee!
Let but my spirit know thee nigh,
And all the world may sleep for me!
TO ANY FRIEND
If I did seem to you no more
Than to myself I seem,
Not thus you would fling wide the door,
And on the beggar beam!
You would not don your radiant best,
Or dole me more than half!
Poor palmer I, no angel guest;
A shaking reed my staff!
At home, no rich fruit, hanging low,
Have I for Love to pull;
Only unripe things that must grow
Till Autumn's maund be full!
But I forsake my niggard leas,
My orchard, too late hoar,
And wander over lands and seas
To find the Father's door.
When I have reached the ancestral farm,
Have clomb the steepy hill,
And round me rests the Father's arm,
Then think me what you will.
VIOLIN SONGS
HOPE DEFERRED.
Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy
Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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