The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2 by George MacDonald (best large ebook reader txt) 📕

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I will seek no more; That the holiest Grail is, which
Helps the need most sore!"

And he spake with speech more true
Than his thought indeed, For not yet the good knight knew
His own sorest need.

IV.

How sir Galahad sought yet again for the Grail.

On he rode, to succour bound,
But his faith grew dim; Wells for thirst he many found,
Water none for him.

Never more from drinking deep
Rose he up and laughed; Never more did prayerful sleep
Follow on the draught.

Good the water which they bore,
Plenteously it flowed, Quenched his thirst, but, ah, no more
Eased his bosom's load!

For the Best no more he sighed;
Rode as in a trance; Life grew poor, undignified,
And he spake of chance.

Then he dreamed through Jesus' hand
That he drove a nail- Woke and cried, "Through every land,
Lord, I seek thy Grail!"

V.

That sir Galahad found the Grail.

Up the quest again he took,
Rode through wood and wave; Sought in many a mossy nook,
Many a hermit-cave;

Sought until the evening red
Sunk in shadow deep; Sought until the moonlight fled;
Slept, and sought in sleep.

Where he wandered, seeking, sad,
Story doth not say, But at length sir Galahad
Found it on a day;

Took the Grail with holy hand,
Had the cup of joy; Carried it about the land,
Gleesome as a boy;

Laid his sword where he had found
Boot for every bale, Stuck his spear into the ground,
Kept alone the Grail.

VI.

How sir Galahad carried about the Grail.

Horse and crested helmet gone,
Greaves and shield and mail, Caroling loud the knight walked on,
For he had the Grail;

Caroling loud walked south and north,
East and west, for years; Where he went, the smiles came forth,
Where he left, the tears.

Glave nor dagger mourned he,
Axe nor iron flail: Evil might not brook to see
Once the Holy Grail.

Wilds he wandered with his staff,
Woods no longer sad; Earth and sky and sea did laugh
Round sir Galahad.

Bitter mere nor trodden pool
Did in service fail, Water all grew sweet and cool
In the Holy Grail.

Without where to lay his head,
Chanting loud he went; Found each cave a palace-bed,
Every rock a tent.

Age that had begun to quail
In the gathering gloom, Counselled he to seek the Grail
And forget the tomb.

Youth with hope or passion pale,
Youth with eager eyes, Taught he that the Holy Grail
Was the only prize.

Maiden worn with hidden ail,
Restless and unsure, Taught he that the Holy Grail
Was the only cure.

Children rosy in the sun
Ran to hear his tale How twelve little ones had won
Each of them the Grail.

VII.

How sir Galahad hid the Grail.

Very still was earth and sky
When he passing lay; Oft he said he should not die,
Would but go away.

When he passed, they reverent sought,
Where his hand lay prest, For the cup he bare, they thought,
Hidden in his breast.

Hope and haste and eager thrill
Turned to sorrowing wail: Hid he held it deeper still,
Took with him the Grail.


THE FAILING TRACK .

Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past! With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.

Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;
By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes; The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky
Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.

Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;
There all the ships tear each its track of gray; Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:
In each a magic finger points the way.

No finger finely touched, no eye of lark
Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail? Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,
Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder vale!

The backward way one hour is plain to thee,
Hard hap were hers who saw no trace behind! Back to confession at thy mother's knee,
Back to the question and the childlike mind!

Then start afresh, but toward unending end,
The goal o'er which hangs thy own star all night; So shalt thou need no footprints to befriend,
Child-heart and shining star will guide thee right.


TELL ME.

"Traveller, what lies over the hill?
Traveller, tell to me: Tip-toe-high on the window-sill
Over I cannot see."

"My child, a valley green lies there,
Lovely with trees, and shy; And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care,
Or I'll drown you by and by!'"

"And what comes next?"-"A little town,
And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys up and down,
And a river now and then."

"And what comes next?"-"A lonely moor
Without one beaten way, And slow clouds drifting dull before
A wind that will not stay."

"And then?"-"Dark rocks and yellow sand,
Blue sea and a moaning tide." "And then?"-"More sea, and then more land,
With rivers deep and wide."

"And then?"-"Oh, rock and mountain and vale,
Ocean and shores and men, Over and over, a weary tale,
And round to your home again!"

"And is that all? From day to day,
Like one with a long chain bound, Should I walk and walk and not get away,
But go always round and round?"

"No, no; I have not told you the best,
I have not told you the end: If you want to escape, away in the west
You will see a stair ascend,

"Built of all colours of lovely stones,
A stair up into the sky Where no one is weary, and no one moans,
Or wishes to be laid by."

"Is it far away?"-"I do not know:
You must fix your eyes thereon, And travel, travel through thunder and snow,
Till the weary way is gone.

"All day, though you never see it shine,
You must travel nor turn aside, All night you must keep as straight a line
Through moonbeams or darkness wide."

"When I am older!"-"Nay, not so!"
"I have hardly opened my eyes!" "He who to the old sunset would go,
Starts best with the young sunrise."

"Is the stair right up? is it very steep?"
"Too steep for you to climb; You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap
And patient wait your time."

"How long?"-"Nay, that I cannot tell."
"In wind, and rain, and frost?" "It may be so; and it is well
That you should count the cost.

"Pilgrims from near and from distant lands
Will step on you lying there; But a wayfaring man with wounded hands
Will carry you up the stair."


BROTHER ARTIST!

Brother artist, help me; come!
Artists are a maimed band:
I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail-
Vassal-words their hasting chief,
On the white awaiting leaf Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Had I hers of music-might,
I would shake the air with storm
Till the red clouds trailed enorm Boreal dances through the night.

Had I his whose foresight rare
Piles the stones with lordliest art,
From the quarry of my heart Love should climb a heavenly stair!

Had I his whose wooing slow
Wins the marble's hidden child,
Out in passion undefiled Stood my Psyche, white as snow!

Maimed, a little help I pray;
Words suffice not for my end;
Let thy hand obey thy friend, Say for me what I would say.

Draw me, on an arid plain
With hoar-headed mountains nigh,
Under a clear morning sky Telling of a night of rain,

Huge and half-shaped, like a block
Chosen for sarcophagus
By a Pharaoh glorious, One rude solitary rock.

Cleave it down along the ridge
With a fissure yawning deep
To the heart of the hard heap, Like the rent of riving wedge.

Through the cleft let hands appear,
Upward pointed with pressed palms
As if raised in silent psalms For salvation come anear.

Turn thee now-'tis almost done!-
To the near horizon's verge:
Make the smallest arc emerge Of the forehead of the sun.

One thing more-I ask too much!-
From a brow which hope makes brave
Sweep the shadow of the grave With a single golden touch.

Thanks, dear painter; that is all.
If thy picture one day should
Need some words to make it good, I am ready to thy call.


AFTER AN OLD LEGEND.

The monk was praying in his cell,
With bowed head praying sore; He had been praying on his knees
For two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly,
His eyelids opened wide; Before him on the ground he saw
A man's feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came down
A garment wove throughout; Such garment he had never seen
In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly
Until a hand they spied: A chisel-scar on it he saw,
And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face,
His heart gave one wild bound, Then stood as if its work were done-
The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell
Told him the poor did wait His hand to give the daily bread
Doled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him passionate,
And with Duty wrestled strong; And the bell kept calling all the time
With merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at him
He rose up with a sigh: "He will be gone when I come back
I go to him by and by!"

He chid his heart,