The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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       His goodness ever went before his word,

       Embodying itself unconsciously

       In understanding of the need that prayed,

       And cheerful help that would outrun the prayer.

      When from great cities came the old sad news

       Of crime and wretchedness, and children sore

       With hunger, and neglect, and cruel blows,

       He would walk sadly all the afternoon,

       With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow;

       Arriving ever at the same result—

       Concluding ever: "The best that I can do

       For the great world, is the same best I can

       For this my world. What truth may be therein

       Will pass beyond my narrow circumstance,

       In truth's own right." When a philanthropist

       Said pompously: "It is not for your gifts

       To spend themselves on common labours thus:

       You owe the world far nobler things than such;"

       He answered him: "The world is in God's hands,

       This part of it in mine. My sacred past,

       With all its loves inherited, has led

       Hither, here left me: shall I judge, arrogant,

       Primaeval godlike work in earth and air,

       Seed-time and harvest—offered fellowship

       With God in nature—unworthy of my hands?

       I know your argument—I know with grief!—

       The crowds of men, in whom a starving soul

       Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes

       For bare humanity, nay, room to grow!—

       Would I could help them! But all crowds are made

       Of individuals; and their grief and pain,

       Their thirst and hunger—all are of the one,

       Not of the many: the true, the saving power

       Enters the individual door, and thence

       Issues again in thousand influences

       Besieging other doors. I cannot throw

       A mass of good into the general midst,

       Whereof each man may seize his private share;

       And if one could, it were of lowest kind,

       Not reaching to that hunger of the soul.

       Now here I labour whole in the same spot

       Where they have known me from my childhood up

       And I know them, each individual:

       If there is power in me to help my own,

       Even of itself it flows beyond my will,

       Takes shape in commonest of common acts,

       Meets every humble day's necessity:

       —I would not always consciously do good,

       Not always work from full intent of help,

       Lest I forget the measure heaped and pressed

       And running over which they pour for me,

       And never reap the too-much of return

       In smiling trust and beams from kindly eyes.

       But in the city, with a few lame words,

       And a few wretched coins, sore-coveted,

       To mediate 'twixt my cannot and my would, My best attempts would never strike a root; My scattered corn would turn to wind-blown chaff; I should grow weak, might weary of my kind, Misunderstood the most where almost known, Baffled and beaten by their unbelief: Years could not place me where I stand this day High on the vantage-ground of confidence: I might for years toil on, and reach no man. Besides, to leave the thing that nearest lies, And choose the thing far off, more difficult— The act, having no touch of God in it, Who seeks the needy for the pure need's sake, Must straightway die, choked in its selfishness." Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good Held his poor peace, and went his trackless way.

      What of the vision now? the vision fair

       Sent forth to meet him, when at eve he went

       Home from his first day's ploughing? Oft he dreamed

       She passed him smiling on her stately horse;

       But never band or buckle yielded more;

       Never again his hands enthroned the maid;

       He only worshipped with his eyes, and woke.

       Nor woke he then with foolish vain regret;

       But, saying, "I have seen the beautiful,"

       Smiled with his eyes upon a flower or bird,

       Or living form, whate'er, of gentleness,

       That met him first; and all that morn, his face

       Would oftener dawn into a blossomy smile.

      And ever when he read a lofty tale,

       Or when the storied leaf, or ballad old,

       Or spake or sang of woman very fair,

       Or wondrous good, he saw her face alone;

       The tale was told, the song was sung of her.

       He did not turn aside from other maids,

       But loved their faces pure and faithful eyes.

       He may have thought, "One day I wed a maid,

       And make her mine;" but never came the maid,

       Or never came the hour: he walked alone.

       Meantime how fared the lady? She had wed

       One of the common crowd: there must be ore

       For the gold grains to lie in: virgin gold

       Lies in the rock, enriching not the stone.

       She was not one who of herself could be; And she had found no heart which, СКАЧАТЬ