JANET'S TRYST
by George MacDonald

"Sweep up the flure, Janet,
Put on anither peat.
It's a lown and starry nicht, Janet,
And neither cold nor weet.

And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
For ony that may be oot;
It's the nicht atween the Sancts an' Souls
Whan the bodiless gang aboot.

Set the chairs back to the wall, Janet,
Mak' ready for quaiet fowk,
Hae a' thing as clean as a windin'-sheet—
They comena ilka ook.

There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
And there's a rowan berry.
Sweep them into the fire, Janet,—
They'll be welcomer than merry.

Syne set open the door, Janet,—
Wide open for wha kens wha:
As ye come to your bed, Janet,
Set it open to the wa'."

She set the chairs back to the wa',
But ane made of the birk,
She swept the flure, but left ane spale,
A long spale o' the aik.

The nicht was lown, and the stars sat still
A-glintin' doon the sky:
And the sauls crept oot o' their mooly graves,
A' dank wi' lyin' by.

When midnight came the mither rase—
She wad gae see an' hear.
Back she cam' wi' a glowrin' face,
An' sloomin' wi' verra fear.

"There's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire!
Janet, gae na to see;
Ye left a chair afore the fire,
Whaur I tauld ye nae chair sud be."

Janet she smiled in her mither's face:
She had brunt the roddin reid:
And she left aneath the birken chair
The spale frae a coffin lid.

She rase and she gaed but the hoose,
Aye steekin' door and door,
Three hours gaed by ere her mother heard
Her fit upo' the flure.

But whan the grey cock crew she heard
The soun' o' shoeless feet,
Whan the red cock crew she heard the door
An' a sough o' wind an' weet.

An' Janet cam' back wi' a wan face,
But never a word said she;
No man ever heard her voice lood oot—
It cam' like frae ower the sea.

And no man ever heard her lauch,
Nor yet say alas nor wae;
But a smile aye glimmert on her wan face
Like the moonlicht on the sea.

And ilka nicht 'twixt the Sancts an' Souls
Wide open she set the door;
And she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair
And that spale upo' the flure.

And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose,
Aye steekin' door and door.
Whan the red cock crew she cam' ben the hoose,
Aye wanner than before.

Wanner her face and sweeter her smile,
Till the seventh All-Souls Eve
Her mither she heard the shoeless feet,
Says "She's comin', I believe."

But she camna ben, an' her mither lay;
For fear she cudna stan',
But up she rase an' ben she gaed
Whan the gowden cock hed crawn.

And Janet sat upo' the chair,
White as the day did daw,
Her smile was as sunlight left on the sea
Whan the sun has gane awa.

AUTUMN'S GOLD

by George MacDonald

Along the tops of all the yellow trees,
  The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies;
  And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise
Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses;
And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze,
  Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes--
  Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies,
And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore
  That make the western river-beds so bright,
  The briar and the furze are all alight!
Perhaps the year will be so fair no more,
  But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay,
  And autumn old has shone into a Day!

AN AUTUMN SONG
by George MacDonald

Are the leaves falling round about
  The churchyard on the hill?
Is the glow of autumn going out?
  Is that the winter chill?
And yet through winter's noise, no doubt
  The graves are very still!

Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare?
  On sodden leaves do you tread?
Is nothing left of all those fair?
  Is the whole summer fled?
Well, so from this unwholesome air
  Have gone away these dead!

The seasons pierce me; like a leaf
  I feel the autumn blow,
And tremble between nature's grief
  And the silent death below.
O Summer, thou art very brief!
  Where do these exiles go?

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

by George MacDonald

Suggested by a drawing of Thomas Moran, the American painter.

This must be the very night!
The moon knows it!--and the trees!
They stand straight upright,
Each a sentinel drawn up,
As if they dared not know
Which way the wind might blow!
The very pool, with dead gray eye,
Dully expectant, feels it nigh,
And begins to curdle and freeze!
And the dark night,
With its fringe of light,
Holds the secret in its cup!

II. What can it be, to make
The poplars cease to shiver and shake,
And up in the dismal air
Stand straight and stiff as the human hair
When the human soul is dizzy with dread--
All but those two that strain
Aside in a frenzy of speechless pain,
Though never a wind sends out a breath
To tunnel the foggy rheum of death?
What can it be has power to scare
The full-grown moon to the idiot stare
Of a blasted eye in the midnight air?
Something has gone wrong;
A scream will come tearing out ere long!

III. Still as death,
Although I listen with bated breath!
Yet something is coming, I know--is coming!
With an inward soundless humming
Somewhere in me, or if in the air
I cannot tell, but it is there!
Marching on to an unheard drumming
Something is coming--coming--
Growing and coming!
And the moon is aware,
Aghast in the air
At the thing that is only coming
With an inward soundless humming
And an unheard spectral drumming!

IV. Nothing to see and nothing to hear!
Only across the inner sky
The wing of a shadowy thought flits by,
Vague and featureless, faceless, drear--
Only a thinness to catch the eye:
Is it a dim foreboding unborn,
Or a buried memory, wasted and worn
As the fading frost of a wintry sigh?
Anon I shall have it!--anon!--it draws nigh!
A night when--a something it was took place
That drove the blood from that scared moon-face!
Hark! was that the cry of a goat,
Or the gurgle of water in a throat?
Hush! there is nothing to see or hear,
Only a silent something is near;
No knock, no footsteps three or four,
Only a presence outside the door!
See! the moon is remembering!--what?
The wail of a mother-left, lie-alone brat?
Or a raven sharpening its beak to peck?
Or a cold blue knife and a warm white neck?
Or only a heart that burst and ceased
For a man that went away released?
I know not--know not, but something is coming
Somehow back with an inward humming!

V. Ha! look there! look at that house,
Forsaken of all things, beetle and mouse!
Mark how it looks! It must have a soul!
It looks, it looks, though it cannot stir!
See the ribs of it, how they stare!
Its blind eyes yet have a seeing air!
It knows it has a soul!
Haggard it hangs o'er the slimy pool,
And gapes wide open as corpses gape:
It is the very murderer!
The ghost has modelled himself to the shape
Of this drear house all sodden with woe
Where the deed was done, long, long ago,
And filled with himself his new body full--
To haunt for ever his ghastly crime,
And see it come and go--
Brooding around it like motionless time,
With a mouth that gapes, and eyes that yawn
Blear and blintering and full of the moon,
Like one aghast at a hellish dawn!--
The deed! the deed! it is coming soon!

VI. For, ever and always, when round the tune
Grinds on the barrel of organ-Time,
The deed is done. And it comes anon:
True to the roll of the clock-faced moon,
True to the ring of the spheric chime,
True to the cosmic rhythm and rime,
Every point, as it first fell out,
Will come and go in the fearsome bout.
See! palsied with horror from garret to core,
The house cannot shut its gaping door;
Its burst eye stares as if trying to see,
And it leans as if settling heavily,
Settling heavy with sickness dull:

It also is hearing the soundless humming
Of the wheel that is turning--the thing that is coming!
On the naked rafters of its brain,
Gaunt and wintred, see the train
Of gossiping, scandal-mongering crows
That watch, all silent, with necks a-strain,
Wickedly knowing, with heads awry
And the sharpened gleam of a cunning eye--
Watch, through the cracks of the ruined skull,
How the evil business goes!--
Beyond the eyes of the cherubim,
Beyond the ears of the seraphim,
Outside, forsaken, in the dim
Phantom-haunted chaos grim
He stands, with the deed going on in him!

VII. O winds, winds, that lurk and peep
Under the edge of the moony fringe!
O winds, winds, up and sweep,
Up and blow and billow the air,
Billow the air with blow and swinge,
Rend me this ghastly house of groans!
Rend and scatter the skeleton's bones
Over the deserts and mountains bare!
Blast and hurl and shiver aside
Nailed sticks and mortared stones!
Clear the phantom, with torrent and tide,
Out of the moon and out of my brain,
That the light may fall shadowless in again!

VIII. But, alas, then the ghost
O'er mountain and coast
Would go roaming, roaming! and never was swine
That, grubbing and talking with snork and whine
On Gadarene mountains, had taken him in
But would rush to the lake to unhouse the sin!
For any charnel
This ghost is too carnal;
There is no volcano, burnt out and cold,
Whose very ashes are gray and old,
But would cast him forth in reviving flame
To blister the sky with a smudge of shame!

IX. Is there no help? none anywhere
Under the earth or above the air?--
Come, sad woman, whose tender throat
Has a red-lipped mouth that can sing no note!
Child, whose midwife, the third grim Fate,
Shears in hand, thy coming did wait!
Father, with blood-bedabbled hair!
Mother, all withered with love's despair!
Come, broken heart, whatever thou be,
Hasten to help this misery!
Thou wast only murdered, or left forlorn:
He is a horror, a hate, a scorn!
Come, if out of the holiest blue
That the sapphire throne shines through;
For pity come, though thy fair feet stand
Next to the elder-band;
Fling thy harp on the hyaline,
Hurry thee down the spheres divine;
Come, and drive those ravens away;
Cover his eyes from the pitiless moon,
Shadow his brain from her stinging spray;
Droop around him, a tent of love,
An odour of grace, a fanning dove;
Walk through the house with the healing tune
Of gentle footsteps; banish the shape
Remorse calls up thyself to ape;
Comfort him, dear, with pardon sweet;
Cool his heart from its burning heat
With the water of life that laves the feet
Of the throne of God, and the holy street!

X. O God, he is but a living blot,
Yet he lives by thee--for if thou wast not,
They would vanish together, self-forgot,
He and his crime:--one breathing blown
From thy spirit on his would all atone,
Scatter the horror, and bring relief
In an amber dawn of holy grief!
God, give him sorrow; arise from within,
His primal being, deeper than sin!

XI. Why do I tremble, a creature at bay?
'Tis but a dream--I drive it away.
Back comes my breath, and my heart again
Pumps the red blood to my fainting brain
Released from the nightmare's nine-fold train:
God is in heaven--yes, everywhere,
And Love, the all-shining, will kill Despair!--
To the wall's blank eyeless space
I turn the picture's face.

XII. But why is the moon so bare, up there?
And why is she so white?
And why does the moon so stare, up there--
Strangely stare, out of the night?
Why stand up the poplars
That still way?
And why do those two of them
Start astray?
And out of the black why hangs the gray?
Why does it hang down so, I say,
Over that house, like a fringed pall
Where the dead goes by in a funeral?--
Soul of mine,
Thou the reason canst divine:
Into thee the moon doth stare
With pallid, terror-smitten air!
Thou, and the Horror lonely-stark,
Outcast of eternal dark,
Are in nature same and one,
And thy story is not done!
So let the picture face thee from the wall,
And let its white moon stare!

THE DEAD HAND

by George MacDonald

The witch lady walked along the strand,
  Heard a roaring of the sea,
On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand,
  Good thing for a witch lady!

Lightly she stepped across the rocks,
  Came where the dead man lay:
Now pretty maid with your merry mocks,
  Now I shall have my way!

On a finger shone a sapphire blue
  In the heart of six rubies red:
Come back to me, my promise true,
  Come back, my ring, she said.

She took the dead hand in the live,
  And at the ring drew she;
The dead hand closed its fingers five,
  And it held the witch lady.

She swore the storm was not her deed,
  Dark spells she backward spoke;
If the dead man heard he took no heed,
  But held like a cloven oak.

Deathly cold, crept up the tide,
  Sure of her, made no haste;
Crept up to her knees, crept up each side,
  Crept up to her wicked waist.

Over the blue sea sailed the bride
  In her love's own sailing ship,
And the witch she saw them across the tide
  As it rose to her lying lip.

Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead
  Are strong hasps they to hold!
Fled the true dove with the kite's new love,
  And left the false kite with the old.

A DEAD HOUSE

by George MacDonald

When the clock hath ceased to tick
  Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
  Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
  Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
  On a dead house, not a home!

But when, like an old sun's ghost,
  Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
  Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound--hark! there again!--
  No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
  Walking through the bare-floored house!

And with lightning on the stair
  To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
  Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
  From the raging northern coasts,
Then, mid sieging light and sound,
  All the house is live with ghosts!

Brother, is thy soul a cell
  Empty save of glittering motes,
Where no live loves live and dwell,
  Only notions, things, and thoughts?
Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath
  Tempest-shaking ridge and post,
Find thyself alone with Death
  In a house where walks no ghost.