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Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong:

Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song.

xciv

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore—but was I sober when I swore I
And then and then came Spring, and Rosoin-
hand

My thread-bare Penitence a pieces tore,
xcv

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—Well,

I wonder often what the Vintners buy-
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

XCVI

Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rosel

That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!

The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows I

xcvii

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,

To which the fainting Traveller might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field.

XCVIII

Would but some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!

xcix

Ah Love! could you and 1 with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things Entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits—and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's desire!

0

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;

How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!

CI

And when like her, oh Saki, yon shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter M on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot

Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass!

TAMAM"

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
(1819-1861)

IX A LECTURE-ROOM

Away, haunt thou not me,

Thou vain Philosophy!

Little hast thou bestead,

Save to perplex the head,

And leave the spirit dead.

Unto thy brokeu cisterns wherefore go,

While from the secret treasure-depths below,

Fed by the skyey shower,

And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high,
Wisdom at once, and Power,
Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, inces-
santly?

Why labour at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,
And the strong current flowing,
Right onward to the Eternal Shore)

QUA CURSUM VENTUS*

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,

Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side.; 8

E 'en so, but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged,

Brief absence joined anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered—

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! 16

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,

Through winds and tides one compass guides—-
To that, and your own selves, be true.

is "Thp end."

• "As the wind (directs) the course." The poem Is metaphorical of the divergence of men's creeds. See Eng. Lit., p. :il.">.

But O blithe breeze! anil O great seas.
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,

On your wide plain they join again,

Together lead them home at last. 24

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose bold where 'er they fare,—

0 bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there!

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT
AVAILETH

Say not the struggle nought .Tfwilcth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor failetn,

And as tilings have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field. 8

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, through creeks and inlets making.
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.t

And not by eastern windows only.

When daylight comes, comes in the light,

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright. 1*

ITE DOMUM SATUR.E, VENIT
HESPERUS*

The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Paliei),

The rainy clouds are filing fast below,
Ami wet will be the path, and wet shall we.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

Ah dear, and where is he. a year agone,
Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on?
My sweetheart wanders far away from me,
In foreign land or on a foreign sea, 8
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie),

And through the vale the rains go sweeping by;
Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

1 "The Pale One"—n name of ohvlous significance.

like "Blanche" or "Brlndle." t "Perhaps dough's greatest title to poetic fame

is this exquisite and exquisitely expressed

image of the rising tide."- fJenrge Salntshnry. t "Oo home, now that you have fed, evening

conies."—Virgil. Erlug. x. 77.

Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they
O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and L.i
Palie).

And doth he e 'er, I wonder, bring to mind
The pleasant huts and herds he left behind! 20
And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see
The feeding kine, and doth he think of me.
My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

The thunder bellows far from snow lo snow
(Home, Rose, and home. Provence and La
Palie),

And loud and louder roars the flood below.
Heigho! but soon in shelter shall we be:
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

Or shall he find before his term be sped SO
Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed?
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie.)

For weary is work, and weary day by day
To have your comfort miles on miles away.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

Or may it be that I shall find my mate,

And he returning see himself too late?

For work we must, and what we see, we see.

And God he knows, and what must be, must be.

When sweethearts wander far away from me. 40

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.

The sky behind is brightening up anew
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie),

The rain is ending, and our journey too:
Heigho! aha! for here at home are we:—
In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie.

ALL IS WELL

Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed,
Keep, keep it snug within your breast.
And lay you down and take your rest;
Forget in sleep the doubt and pain,
And when you wake, to work again.
The wind it blows, the vessel goes,
And where and whither, no one knows.

'Twill all be well: no need of care;

Though how it will, and when, and where.

We cannot see, and can't declare. 10

In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,

'Tis not in vain, and not for nought,

The wind it blows, the ship it goes.

Though where and whither, no one knows.

MATTHEW ARNOLD
(1822-1888)

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN*

Come, dear children, lot us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses' play,
Champ and chafe and toss in tbe spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

i all her once before you go— 1* Call once yet!

In a voice that she will know:
'' Margaret! Margaret!''
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain—
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
"Mother dear, we cannot stay! -«]
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!

One last look at the white-walled town,

And the little gray church on the windy shore,

Then come down!

She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday 30

We heard the sweet bells over the bay f

In the caverns where we lay,

Through the surf and through the swell,

The far-off sound of a silver bell.'

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,

Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam.

Where the salt weed sways in the stream,

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,

Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground; 40

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine.

Dry their mail and bask in the brine;

Where great whales come sailing by,

Sail and sail, with unshut eye,

i The breakers.

* This poem Is based on it legend which Is found in the literature of various nations. Sec

Eng. !.»., p. "11.

I Kound the w orld for ever and aye I
j When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday 1

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me, BO
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it
well,

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.''

I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 60 Say thy prayer, and conic back to the kind sea-caves!''

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone! "The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say;

Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf

in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sca-stoeks bloom, to the white-walled

town;

Through the narrow-paved streets, where all was still, 70

To the little gray church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,

And we gazed up the aisle through the small

leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart,'' I said, '' we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.''
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!

She Hits at her wheel in the humming town,

Hinging most joyfully.

Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy,

.For the humming street, and the child with its

toy! »0 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!" And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the

sand,

And over the sand at the sea;

And her eyes are set in a stare; 1**

And anon there breaks a sigh,

And anon there drops a tear,

From a sorrow-clouded eye,

And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh;

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children;
Come children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows coldly; 110
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.

Singing: "Here came a mortal, 120
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea.''

Hut, children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow,

When clear falls the moonlight,

When spring tides are low;

When sweet airs come seaward

From heaths starred with broom,

And high rocks throw mildly 130

On the blanched sands a gloom;

Up the still, glistening beaches,

Up the creeks we will hie,

Over banks of bright seaweed

The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze, from the sand-hills,

At the white, sleeping town;

At the church on the hillside—

And then come back down.

I Singing: "There dwells a loved one, HO
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."

TO A FRIEND*

Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind f—

He much, the old man, who, clearest-sou led of men,

Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.
Much he, whose friendship 1 not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But
be his

My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul.
From first youth tested up to extreme old age,
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;
Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;
The mellow glory of the Attic stage.
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.

SHAKESPEARE

Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask—Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill.
Who to the stars uncrownB his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-
place,

Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foiled searching of mortality;
And thou, who didst the stars anil sunbeams
know,

Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honoured, selfsecure,

Didst tread on earth unguessed at.—Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which
bow,

Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.

* This sonnet gives expression to Arnold's steady reliance, for mental and moral support, upon the great poets and philosophers—his constant recourse to "the best that is known and thought in the world." The three "props" mentioned here are Homer, the blind bard whom the city of Smyrna In Asia Minor claimed as her son; Eplctetus. the lame philosopher who had been a slave, and who. when Domitian banished the philosophers from Rome, went to Nicopolis in Greece and taught his Stole principles to Arrian; and Sophocles, the Athenian dramatist, author of (Eoipus at Colonus and other tragedies. Arnold explains the third line by pointing ont that the name Europe means "the wide prospect," and Asia probably means "marshy." The twelfth line has passed into familiar quotation.

AUSTEBITY OF POETRY

That son of Italy who tried to blow,i
Kre Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sat with his bride to see a public show.
Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong—
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,
'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she
lay!

Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and found

A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young,

gay.

Kadiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.

MEMORIAL VERSES

April, 1850

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
But one such death remained to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb—
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.

When Byron's eyes were shut in death,

We bowed our head and held our breath.

He taught us little; but our soul

Had felt him like the thunder's roll.

With shivering heart the strife we saw 10

Of passion with eternal law;

And yet with reverential awe

\V*e watched the fount of fiery life

Which served for that Titanic strife.

When Goethe's death was told, wp said:

Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest bead.

Physician of the iron age,

Goethe has done his pilgrimage.

He took the suffering human race,

He read each wound, each weakness clear; 20

And struck his finger on the place,

And said: Thou ailcst here, and here.'

He looked on Europe's dying hour

Of fitful dream and feverish power;

His eye plunged down the weltering strife,

The turmoil of expiring life—

He said: The end is everywhere,

Art still has truth, take refuge there!

l Jacopone da Tod I. who was, says Gaspary, a "true type of tlio mediaeval Christian ascetic" According to the legend, he was turned by the Incident which Arnold relates from a life of gayety to one of rigorous self-imposed pen ances.

And he was happy, if to know

Causes of things, and far below 30

His feet to see the lurid flow

Of terror, and insane distress,

And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!—Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!

For never has such soothing voice

Been to your shadowy world conveyed,

Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade

Heard the clear song of Orpheus come

Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.

Wordsworth has gone from us—and ye, *0

Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!

He too upon a wintry clime

Had fallen—on this iron time

Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.

He found us when the age had bound

Our souls in its benumbing round;

He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.

He laid us as we lay at birth

On the cool flowery lap of earth,

Smiles broke from us and we had case; 60

The hil's were round us, and the breeze

Went o 'er the sun-lit fields again;

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.

Our youth returned; for there was shed

On spirits that had long been dead,

Spirits dried up and closely furled,

The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light

Man's prudence and man's fiery might,

Time may restore us in his course 00

Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force;

But where will Europe's latter hour

Again find Wordsworth's healing power!

Others will teach us how to dare,

And against fear our breast to steel;

Others will strengthen us to bear—

But who, ah! who, will make us feel?

The cloud of mortal destiny,

Others will front it fearlessly—

But who, like him, will put it by! 70

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,

0 Rotha,1 with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

SELF-DEPENDENCE

Weary of myself, and sick of asking

What I am, and what I ought to be,

At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me

Forwards, forwards, o 'er the starlit sea.

1 The stream which flows past the churchyard of

Urasmere where Wordsworth is burled.

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