A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

Without the mountain there were no abyss.

       Our spirits, inward cast upon themselves,

       Because the delicate ether, which doth make

       The mediator with the outer world,

       Is troubled and confused with stormy pain;

       Not glad, because confined to shuttered rooms,

       Which let the sound of slanting rain be heard,

       But show no sparkling sunlight on the drops,

       Or ancient rainbow dawning in the west;—

       Cast on themselves, I say, nor finding there

       The thing they need, because God has not come,

       And, claiming all their Human his Divine,

       Revealed himself in all their inward parts,

       Go wandering up and down a dreary house.

       Thus reasoned he. Yet up and down the house

       He wandered moaning. Till his soul and frame,

       In painful rest compelled, full oft lay still,

       And suffered only. Then all suddenly

       A light would break from forth an inward well—

       God shone within him, and the sun arose.

       And to its windows went the soul and looked:—

       Lo! o'er the bosom of the outspread earth

       Flowed the first waves of sunrise, rippling on.

      Much gathered he of patient faith from off

       These gloomy heaths, this land of mountains dark,

       By moonlight only, like the sorcerer's weeds;

       As testify these written lines of his

       Found on his table, when his empty chair

       Stood by the wall, with yet a history

       Clinging around it for the old man's eyes.

      I am weary, and something lonely;

       And can only think, think.

       If there were some water only,

       That a spirit might drink, drink!

       And rise

       With light in the eyes,

       And a crown of hope on the brow;

       And walk in outgoing gladness—

       Not sit in an inward sadness—

       As now!

      But, Lord, thy child will be sad,

       As sad as it pleaseth thee;

       Will sit, not needing to be glad,

       Till thou bid sadness flee;

       And drawing near

       With a simple cheer,

       Speak one true word to me.

      Another song in a low minor key

       From awful holy calm, as this from grief,

       I weave, a silken flower, into my web,

       That goes straight on, with simply crossing lines,

       Floating few colours upward to the sight.

      Ah, holy midnight of the soul,

       When stars alone are high;

       When winds are dead, or at their goal,

       And sea-waves only sigh!

      Ambition faints from out the will;

       Asleep sad longing lies;

       All hope of good, all fear of ill,

       All need of action dies;

      Because God is; and claims the life

       He kindled in thy brain;

       And thou in Him, rapt far from strife,

       Diest and liv'st again.

      It was a changed and wintry time to him;

       But visited by April airs and scents,

       That came with sudden presence, unforetold;

       As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring

       In the new singing world, by winds of sighs,

       That wandering swept across the glad To be. Strange longings that he never knew till now, A sense of want, yea of an infinite need, Cried out within him—rather moaned than cried. And he would sit a silent hour and gaze Upon the distant hills with dazzling snow Upon their peaks, and thence, adown their sides, Streaked vaporous, or starred in solid blue. And then a shadowy sense arose in him, As if behind those world-inclosing hills, There sat a mighty woman, with a face As calm as life, when its intensity Pushes it nigh to death, waiting for him, To make him grand for ever with a kiss, And send him silent through the toning worlds.

      The father saw him waning. The proud sire

       Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold

       Down, down to the warm earth; and gave God thanks

       That he was old. But evermore the son

       Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news,

       Across the waste, of primrose-buds and flowers.

       Then again to his father he would come

       Seeking for comfort, as a troubled child,

       And with the same child's hope of comfort there.

       Sure there is one great Father in the heavens,

       Since every word of good from fathers' lips

       Falleth with such authority, although

       They are but men as we: God speaks in them.

       So this poor son who neared the unknown death,

       Took comfort in his father's tenderness,

       And made him strong to die. One day he came,

       And said: "What think you, father, is it hard,

       This dying?" "Well, my boy," he said, "We'll try

       And make it easy with the present God.

       But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight,

       It seemeth harder to the lookers on,

       Than him that dieth. It may be, each breath,

       That they would call a gasp, seems unto him

       A sigh of pleasure; or, at most, the sob

       Wherewith the unclothed spirit, step by step,

       Wades forth into the cool eternal sea.

       I think, my boy, death has two sides to it,

       One sunny, and one dark; as this round earth

       Is every day half sunny and half dark.

       We on the dark side call the mystery death; They on the other, looking down in light, Wait the glad birth, with other tears than ours." "Be near me, father, when I die;" he said. "I will, my boy, until a better sire Takes your hand out of mine, and I shall say: I give him back to thee; Oh! love him, God; For he needs more than I can ever be. And then, my son, mind and be near in turn, When my time comes; you in the light beyond, And knowing all about it; I all dark."

      And so the days went on, until the green

       Shone through the snow in patches, very green:

       For, though the snow was white, yet the green shone.

       And hope of life awoke within his heart;

       For the spring drew him, warm, soft, budding spring,

       With promises. The father better knew.

       God, give us heaven. Remember our poor hearts.

       We never grasp the zenith of