The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2 by George MacDonald (red queen ebook .TXT) 📖

his worst; The creature is, but not his work, accurst; Thou hating him, he is as a thing dead." Then I lay still, nor thought, only endured. At last I said, "Lo, now I am inured A burgess of Pain's town!" The pain grew worse. Then I cried out as if my heart would break. But he, whom, in the fretting, sickening ache, I had forgotten, spoke: "The law of the universe Is this," he said: "Weakness shall be the nurse Of strength. The help I had will serve thee too." So I took courage and did bear anew. At last, through bones and flesh and shrinking skin, Lo, the thing ate his way, and light came in, And the thing died. I knew then what it meant, And, turning, saw the Lord on whom I leant.


LYCABAS:

A name of the Year. Some say the word means a march of wolves , which wolves, running in single file, are the Months of the Year. Others say the word means the path of the light .

O ye months of the year, Are ye a march of wolves? Lycabas! Lycabas! twelve to growl and slay? Men hearken at night, and lie in fear, Some men hearken all day!

Lycabas, verily thou art a gallop of wolves, Gaunt gray wolves, gray months of the year, hunting in twelves, Running and howling, head to tail, In a single file, over the snow, A long low gliding of silent horror and fear! On and on, ghastly and drear, Not a head turning, not a foot swerving, ye go, Twelve making only a one-wolf track! Onward ye howl, and behind we wail; Wail behind your narrow and slack Wallowing line, and moan and weep, As ye draw it on, straight and deep, Thorough the night so swart! Behind you a desert, and eyes a-weary, A long, bare highway, stony and dreary, A hungry soul, and a wolf-cub wrapt, A live wolf-cub, sharp-toothed, steel-chapt, In the garment next the heart!

Lycabas! One of them hurt me sore! Two of them hurt and tore! Three of them made me bleed! The fourth did a terrible deed, Rent me the worst of the four! Rent me, and shook me, and tore, And ran away with a growl! Lycabas, if I feared you a jot, You, and your devils running in twelves, Black-mouthed, hell-throated, straight-going wolves, I would run like a wolf, I too, and howl! I live, and I fear you not.

But shall I not hate you, low-galloping wolves Hunting in ceaseless twelves? Ye have hunted away my lambs! Ye ran at them open-mouthed, And your mouths were gleamy-toothed, And their whiteness with red foam frothed, And your throats were a purple-black gulf: My lambs they fled, and they came not back! Lovely white lambs they were, alack! They fled afar and they left a track Which at night, when the lone sky clears, Glistens with Nature's tears! Many a shepherd scarce thinks of a lamb But he hears behind it the growl of a wolf, And behind that the wail of its dam!

They ran, nor cried, but fled From day's sweet pasture, from night's soft bed: Ah me, the look in their eyes! For behind them rushed the swallowing gulf, The maw of the growl-throated wolf, And they fled as the thing that speeds or dies: They looked not behind, But fled as over the grass the wind.

Oh my lambs, I would drop away Into a night that never saw day That so in your dear hearts you might say, " All is well for ever and aye! " Yet it was well to hurry away, To hurry from me, your shepherd gray: I had no sword to bite and slay, And the wolfy Months were on your track! It was well to start from work and play, It was well to hurry from me away- But why not once look back?

The wolves came panting down the lea- What was left you but somewhere flee! Ye saw the Shepherd that never grows old, Ye saw the great Shepherd, and him ye knew, And the wolves never once came near to you; For he saw you coming, threw down his crook, Ran, and his arms about you threw; He gathered you into his garment's fold, He kneeled, he gathered, he lifted you, And his bosom and arms were full of you. He has taken you home to his stronghold: Out of the castle of Love ye look; The castle of Love is now your home, From the garden of Love you will never roam, And the wolves no more shall flutter you.

Lycabas! Lycabas! For all your hunting and howling and cries, Your yelling of woe ! and alas ! For all your thin tongues and your fiery eyes, Your questing thorough the windy grass, Your gurgling gnar, and your horrent hair, And your white teeth that will not spare- Wolves, I fear you never a jot, Though you come at me with your mouths red-hot, Eyes of fury, and teeth that foam: Ye can do nothing but drive me home! Wolves, wolves, you will lie one day- Ye are lying even now, this very day, Wolves in twelves, gaunt and gray, At the feet of the Shepherd that leads the dams, At the feet of the Shepherd that carries the lambs!

And now that I see you with my mind's eye, What are you indeed? my mind revolves. Are you, are you verily wolves? I saw you only through twilight dark, Through rain and wind, and ill could mark! Now I come near-are you verily wolves? Ye have torn, but I never saw you slay! Me ye have torn, but I live to-day, Live, and hope to live ever and aye! Closer still let me look at you!- Black are your mouths, but your eyes are true!- Now, now I know you!-the Shepherd's sheep-dogs! Friends of us sheep on the moors and bogs, Lost so often in swamps and fogs! Dear creatures, forgive me; I did you wrong; You to the castle of Love belong: Forgive the sore heart that made sharp the tongue! Your swift-flying feet the Shepherd sends To gather the lambs, his little friends, And draw the sheep after for rich amends! Sharp are your teeth, my wolves divine, But loves and no hates in your deep eyes shine! No more will I call you evil names, No more assail you with untrue blames! Wake me with howling, check me with biting, Rouse up my strength for the holy fighting: Hunt me still back, nor let me stray Out of the infinite narrow way, The radiant march of the Lord of Light Home to the Father of Love and Might, Where each puts Thou in the place of I, And Love is the Law of Liberty.


BALLADS


THE UNSEEN MODEL .

Forth to his study the sculptor goes
In a mood of lofty mirth: "Now shall the tongues of my carping foes
Confess what my art is worth! In my brain last night the vision arose,
To-morrow shall see its birth!"

He stood like a god; with creating hand
He struck the formless clay: "Psyche, arise," he said, "and stand;
In beauty confront the day. I have sought nor found thee in any land;
I call thee: arise; obey!"

The sun was low in the eastern skies
When spoke the confident youth; Sweet Psyche, all day, his hands and eyes
Wiled from the clay uncouth, Nor ceased when the shadows came up like spies
That dog the steps of Truth.

He said, "I will do my will in spite
Of the rising dark; for, see, She grows to my hand! The mar-work night
Shall hurry and hide and flee From the glow of my lamp and the making might
That passeth out of me!"

In the flickering lamplight the figure swayed,
In the shadows did melt and swim: With tool and thumb he modelled and made,
Nor knew that feature and limb Half-obeying, half-disobeyed,
And mocking eluded him.

At the dawning Psyche of his brain
Joyous he wrought all night: The oil went low, and he trimmed in vain,
The lamp would not burn bright; But he still wrought on: through the high roof-pane
He saw the first faint light!

The dark retreated; the morning spread;
His creatures their shapes resume; The plaster stares dumb-white and dead;
A faint blue liquid bloom Lies on each marble bosom and head;
To his Psyche clings the gloom.

Backward he stept to see the clay:
His visage grew white and sear; No beauty ideal confronted the day,
No Psyche from upper sphere, But a once loved shape that in darkness lay,
Buried a lonesome year!

From maidenhood's wilderness fair and wild
A girl to his charm had hied: He had blown out the lamp of the trusting child,
And in the darkness she died; Now from the clay she sadly smiled,
And the sculptor stood staring-eyed.

He had summoned Psyche-and Psyche crept
From a half-forgotten tomb; She brought her sad smile, that still she kept,
Her eyes she left in the gloom! High grace had found him, for now he wept,
And love was his endless doom!

Night-long he pined, all day did rue;
He haunted her form with sighs: As oft as his clay to a lady grew
The carvers, with dim surmise, Would whisper, "The same shape come to woo,
With its blindly beseeching eyes!"


THE HOMELESS GHOST .

Through still, bare streets, and cold moonshine
His homeward way he bent; The clocks gave out the midnight sign
As lost in thought he went Along the rampart's ocean-line, Where, high above the tossing brine,
Seaward his lattice leant.

He knew not why he left the throng,
Why there he could not rest, What something pained him in the song
And mocked him in the jest, Or why, the flitting crowd among, A moveless moonbeam lay so long
Athwart one lady's breast!

He watched, but saw her speak to none,
Saw no one speak to her; Like one decried, she stood alone,
From the window did not stir; Her hair by a haunting gust was blown, Her eyes in the shadow strangely shown,
She looked a wanderer.

He reached his room, he sought a book
His brooding to beguile; But ever he saw her pallid look,
Her face too still to smile. An hour he sat in his fireside nook, The time flowed past like a silent brook,
Not a word he read the while.

Vague thoughts absorbed his passive brain
Of love that bleeding lies, Of hoping ever and hoping in vain,
Of a sorrow that never dies- When a sudden spatter of angry rain Smote against every window-pane,
And he heard far sea-birds' cries.

He looked from the lattice: the misty moon
Hardly a glimmer gave; The wind was like one that hums a tune,
The first low gathering stave; The ocean lay in a