(Soften 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Hontion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1894 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 PREFACE 
 
 THE poems by Arthur Hugh Clough given in 
 this selection are placed in order of time, except 
 the "Bothie," which, written in 1848, at the 
 moment of his leaving Oxford, should chron- 
 ologically have followed the Early Poems. 
 These were written between 1837 and 1847, 
 between the ages of nineteen and twenty-nine, 
 and correspond with his life at Oxford as Under- 
 graduate, Fellow, and Tutor. "Dipsychus" and 
 the " Amours de Voyage " were written in 1849 
 and 1850, called forth by Italian journeys made 
 during his three years' residence in London. 
 
 The Miscellaneous Poems also belong to this 
 time, except the Sea Songs, which were written 
 during his voyage to America in 1852. "Come, 
 Poet, Come ! " also belongs to a later time. 
 
 After his return to England in 1853, when 
 he entered the Education Office, he wrote no 
 more during the last eight years of his life till
 
 VI PREFACE 
 
 the last year, when the enforced leisure caused 
 by ill health seemed to renew in him the 
 creative impulse. Among other things he 
 then produced the group of poems called 
 " Mari Magno." These, however, are not re- 
 presented here, not seeming well adapted for 
 selections. In 1861 he died, aged forty-two, 
 leaving us to wonder what might have come 
 later had longer life been granted him. 
 
 B. M. S. C. 
 
 March 1894.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH . i 
 
 EARLY POEMS- 
 REVIVAL 113 
 
 IN A LECTURE-ROOM 114 
 
 A SONG OF AUTUMN 115 
 
 rb KO.X&V . . . . . . .116 
 
 Xpvcr^o, /cXi/s tnl yX&ffffq. . . . . .117 
 
 THE Music OF THE WORLD AND OF THE 
 
 SOUL 118 
 
 ' QUA CURSUM VENTUS ' . . .121 
 
 ' WEN GOTT BETRUGT, IST WOHL BETROGEN ' 123 
 
 THE NEW SINAI 125 
 
 THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT .... 130 
 
 BETHESDA . . . . . . . 132 
 
 ' Qui LABORAT, ORAT ' .... 134 
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 137 
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' . . .155
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 ' WITH WHOM is NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER 
 
 SHADOW OF TURNING ' . . . . 173 
 THE LATEST DECALOGUE . . . -174 
 
 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE . . . 175 
 
 'THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY' . . . 177 
 AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN ! . . -179 
 
 ' ITE DOMUM SATURJE, VENIT HESPERUS ' . 180 
 
 A LONDON IDYLL . 182 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 184 
 
 IN A LONDON SQUARE 185 
 
 THE SHADOW 186 
 
 EASTER DAY I 189 
 
 EASTER DAY II 195 
 
 PESCHIERA 197 
 
 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 199 
 
 SONGS WRITTEN ON SHIP-BOARD . . . 200 
 
 COME, POET, COME ! 207
 
 THE 
 
 BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 
 
 A LONG-VACATION PASTORAL 
 
 Nunc formosissimus annus 
 Ite mecefelix quondam pecus, ite camence
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 
 
 I 
 Socii crater a corona nt 
 
 IT was the afternoon ; and the sports were now at 
 
 the ending. 
 Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and 
 
 thrown the hammer ; 
 
 Up the perpendicular hill, Sir Hector so called it, 
 Eight stout gillies had run, with speed and agility 
 
 wondrous ; 
 Run too the course on the level had been ; the 
 
 leaping was over : 
 Last in the show of dress, a novelty recently 
 
 added, 
 Noble ladies their prizes adjudged for costume 
 
 that was perfect, 
 Turning the clansmen about, as they stood with 
 
 upraised elbows ; 
 Bowing their eye -glassed brows, and fingering 
 
 kilt and sporran. 
 It was four of the clock, and the sports were come 
 
 to the ending, 
 Therefore the Oxford party went off to adorn for 
 
 the dinner.
 
 4 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Be it recorded in song who was first, who last, 
 in dressing. 
 
 Hope was first, black -tied, white -waistcoated, 
 simple, His Honpur ; 
 
 For the postman made out he was heir to the 
 earldom of Hay 
 
 (Being the younger son of the younger brother, 
 the Colonel), 
 
 Treated him therefore with special respect ; doffed 
 bonnet, and ever 
 
 Called him His Honour ; His Honour he therefore 
 was at the cottage ; 
 
 Always His Honour at least, sometimes the Vis- 
 count of Hay. 
 
 Hope was first, His Honour, and next to His 
 . Honour the Tutor. 
 
 Still more plain the Tutor, the grave man, nick- 
 named Adam, 
 
 White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square- 
 cut waistcoat 
 
 Formal, unchanged, of black cloth, but with sense 
 and feeling beneath it ; 
 
 Skilful in Ethics and Logic, in Pindar and Poets 
 unrivalled ; 
 
 Shady in Latin, said Lindsay, but topping in Plays 
 
 and Aldrich. 
 
 Somewhat more splendid in dress, in a waist- 
 coat work of a lady, 
 
 Lindsay succeeded ; the lively, the cheery, cigar- 
 loving Lindsay, 
 
 Lindsay the ready of speech, the Piper, the 
 Dialectician,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 5 
 
 This was his title from Adam because of the 
 
 words he invented, 
 Who in three weeks had created a dialect new for 
 
 the party ; 
 This was his title from Adam, but mostly they 
 
 called him the Piper. 
 
 Lindsay succeeded, the lively, the cheery, cigar- 
 loving Lindsay. 
 Hewson and Hobbes were down at the matutine 
 
 bathing ; of course too 
 Arthur, the bather of bathers, par excellence, 
 
 Audley by surname, 
 Arthur they called him for love and for euphony ; 
 
 they had been bathing, 
 Where in the morning was custom, where over a 
 
 ledge of granite 
 
 Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended, 
 Only a step from the cottage, the road and larches 
 
 between them. 
 Hewson and Hobbes followed quick upon Adam ; 
 
 on them followed Arthur. 
 Airlie descended the last, effulgent as god of 
 
 Olympus ; 
 Blue, perceptibly blue, was the coat that had 
 
 white silk facings, 
 Waistcoat blue, coral-buttoned, the white tie finely 
 
 adjusted, 
 Coral moreover the studs on a shirt as of crochet 
 
 of women : 
 When the fourwheel for ten minutes already had 
 
 stood at the gateway, 
 He, like a god, came leaving his ample Olympian 
 
 chamber.
 
 6 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 And in the fourwheel they drove to the place of 
 
 the clansmen's meeting. 
 So in the fourwheel they came ; and Donald 
 
 the innkeeper showed them 
 Up to the barn where the dinner should be. Four 
 
 tables were in it ; 
 Two at the top and the bottom, a little upraised 
 
 from the level, 
 These for Chairman and Croupier, and gentry fit 
 
 to be with them, 
 Two lengthways in the midst for keeper and gillie 
 
 and peasant. 
 Here were clansmen many in kilt and bonnet 
 
 assembled, 
 Keepers a dozen at least ; the Marquis's targeted 
 
 gillies ; 
 Pipers five or six, among them the young one, the 
 
 drunkard ; 
 Many with silver brooches, and some with those 
 
 brilliant crystals 
 Found amid granite-dust on the frosty scalp of the 
 
 Cairn-Gorm ; 
 But with snuff-boxes all, and all of them using the 
 
 boxes. 
 Here too were Catholic Priest, and Established 
 
 Minister standing : 
 Catholic Priest ; for many still clung to the Ancient 
 
 Worship, 
 And Sir Hector's father himself had built them a 
 
 chapel ; 
 So stood Priest and Minister, near to each other, 
 
 but silent, 
 One to say grace before, the other after the dinner.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 7 
 
 Hither anon too came the shrewd, ever-ciphering 
 
 Factor, 
 Hither anon the Attache, the Guardsman mute 
 
 and stately, 
 Hither from lodge and bothie in all the adjoining 
 
 shootings 
 Members of Parliament many, forgetful of votes 
 
 and bluebooks, 
 Here, amid heathery hills, upon beast and bird of 
 
 the forest 
 Venting the murderous spleen of the endless 
 
 Railway Committee. 
 Hither the Marquis of Ayr, and Dalgarnish Earl 
 
 and Croupier, 
 And at their side, amid murmurs of welcome, long 
 
 looked-for, himself too 
 Eager, the grey, but boy-hearted Sir Hector, the 
 
 Chief and the Chairman. 
 Then was the dinner served, and the Minister 
 
 prayed for a blessing, 
 And to the viands before them with knife and with 
 
 fork they beset them : 
 Venison, the red and the roe, with mutton ; and 
 
 grouse succeeding ; 
 Such was the feast, with whisky of course, and 
 
 at top and bottom 
 Small decanters of sherry, not overchoice, for the 
 
 gentry. 
 So to the viands before them with laughter and 
 
 chat they beset them. 
 And, when on flesh and on fowl had appetite duly 
 
 been sated.
 
 8 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Up rose the Catholic Priest and returned God 
 thanks for the dinner. 
 
 Then on all tables were set black bottles of well- 
 mixed toddy, 
 
 And, with the bottles and glasses before them, 
 they sat, digesting, 
 
 Talking, enjoying, but chiefly awaiting the toasts 
 and speeches. 
 
 Spare me, O great Recollection ! for words to 
 
 the task were unequal, 
 Spare me, O mistress of Song ! nor bid me 
 
 remember minutely 
 All that was said and done o'er the well-mixed 
 
 tempting toddy ; 
 How were healths proposed and drunk ' with all 
 
 the honours,' 
 Glasses and bonnets waving, and three-times-three 
 
 thrice over, 
 Queen, and Prince, and Army, and Landlords all, 
 
 and Keepers ; 
 Bid me not, grammar defying, repeat from 
 
 grammar-defiers 
 Long constructions strange and plusquam-Thucy- 
 
 didean ; 
 Tell how, as sudden torrent in time of speat l in 
 
 the mountain 
 Hurries six ways at once, and takes at last to the 
 
 roughest, 
 
 Or as the practised rider at Astley's or Franconi's 
 Skilfully, boldly bestrides many steeds at once in 
 
 the gallop, 
 
 1 Flood.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 9 
 
 Crossing from this to that, with one leg here, one 
 
 yonder, 
 So, less skilful, but equally bold, and wild as the 
 
 torrent, 
 All through sentences six at a time, unsuspecting 
 
 of syntax, 
 Hurried the lively good-will and garrulous tale of 
 
 Sir Hector. 
 Left to oblivion be it, the memory, faithful as 
 
 ever, 
 
 How the Marquis of Ayr, with wonderful gesticula- 
 tion, 
 Floundering on through game and mess-room 
 
 recollections, 
 Gossip of neighbouring forest, praise of targeted 
 
 gillies, 
 
 Anticipation of royal visit, skits at pedestrians, 
 Swore he would never abandon his country, nor 
 
 give up deer-stalking ; 
 How, too, more brief, and plainer, in spite of the 
 
 Gaelic accent, 
 Highland peasants gave courteous answer to 
 
 flattering nobles. 
 Two orations alone the memorial song will 
 
 render ; 
 For at the banquet's close spake thus the lively 
 
 Sir Hector, 
 Somewhat husky with praises exuberant, often 
 
 repeated, 
 Pleasant to him and to them, of the gallant 
 
 Highland soldiers 
 Whom he erst led in the fight ; something husky, 
 
 but ready, though weary,
 
 io POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Up to them rose and spoke the grey but gladsome 
 
 chieftain : 
 Fill up your glasses, my friends, once more, 
 
 With all the honours ! 
 There was a toast I forgot, which our gallant 
 
 Highland homes have 
 Always welcomed the stranger, delighted, I may 
 
 say, to see such 
 Fine young men at my table My friends ! are you 
 
 ready ? the Strangers. 
 Gentlemen, here are your healths, and I wish you 
 
 With all the honours ! 
 So he said, and the cheers ensued, and all the 
 
 honours, 
 All our Collegians were bowed to, the Attache 
 
 detecting His Honour, 
 Guardsman moving to Arthur, and Marquis sidling 
 
 to Airlie, 
 And the small Piper below getting up and nodding 
 
 to Lindsay. 
 But, while the healths were being drunk, was 
 
 much tribulation and trouble, 
 Nodding and beckoning across, observed of 
 
 Attache and Guardsman : 
 Adam wouldn't speak, indeed it was certain he 
 
 couldn't ; 
 Hewson could, and would if they wished ; Philip 
 
 Hewson a poet, 
 Hewson a radical hot, hating lords and scorning 
 
 ladies, 
 
 Silent mostly, but often reviling in fire and fury 
 Feudal tenures, mercantile lords, competition and 
 
 bishops,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICII 11 
 
 Liveries, armorial bearings, amongst other matters 
 
 the Game-laws : 
 He could speak, and was asked to by Adam ; but 
 
 Lindsay aloud cried, 
 (Whisky was hot in his brain), Confound it, no, 
 
 not Hewson, 
 Ain't he cock-sure to bring in his eternal political 
 
 humbug ? 
 However, so it must be, and after due pause of 
 
 silence, 
 Waving his hand to Lindsay, and smiling oddly 
 
 to Adam, 
 Up to them rose and spoke the poet and radical 
 
 Hewson : 
 I am, I think, perhaps the most perfect stranger 
 
 present. 
 I have not, as have some of my friends, in my 
 
 veins some tincture, 
 Some few ounces of Scottish blood ; no, nothing 
 
 like it. 
 I am therefore perhaps the fittest to answer and 
 
 thank you. 
 
 So I thank you, sir, for myself and for my com- 
 panions, 
 
 Heartily thank you all for this unexpected greeting, 
 All the more welcome, as showing you do not 
 
 account us intruders, 
 Are not unwilling to see the north and the south 
 
 forgather. 
 And, surely, seldom have Scotch and English 
 
 more thoroughly mingled ; 
 Scarcely with warmer hearts, and clearer feeling 
 
 of manhood,
 
 12 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Even in tourney, and foray, and fray, and regular 
 
 battle, 
 Where the life and the strength came out in the 
 
 tug and tussle, 
 
 Scarcely, where man met man, and soul encoun- 
 tered with soul, as 
 Close as do the bodies and twining limbs of the 
 
 wrestlers, 
 When for a final bout are a day's two champions 
 
 mated, 
 In the grand old times of bows, and bills, and 
 
 claymores, 
 At the old Flodden- field or Bannockburn or 
 
 Culloden. 
 (And he paused a moment, for breath, and 
 
 because of some cheering) 
 We are the better friends, I fancy, for that old 
 
 fighting, 
 Better friends, inasmuch as we know each other 
 
 the better, 
 We can now shake hands without pretending or 
 
 shuffling. 
 On this passage followed a great tornado of 
 
 cheering, 
 Tables were rapped, feet stamped, a glass or two 
 
 got broken : 
 He, ere the cheers died wholly away, and while 
 
 still there was stamping, 
 Added, in altered voice, with a smile, his doubtful 
 
 conclusion. 
 I have, however, less claim than others perhaps 
 
 to this honour,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 13 
 
 For, let me say, I am neither game-keeper, nor 
 
 game-preserver. 
 So he said, and sat down, but his satire had 
 
 not been taken. 
 
 Only the men, who were all on their legs as con- 
 cerned in the thanking, 
 
 Were a trifle confused, but mostly sat down with- 
 out laughing ; 
 Lindsay alone, close -facing the chair, shook his 
 
 fist at the speaker. 
 
 Only a Liberal member, away at the end of the table, 
 Started, remembering sadly the cry of a coining 
 
 election, 
 Only the Attache glanced at the Guardsman, who 
 
 twirled his moustachio, 
 Only the Marquis faced round, but, not quite clear 
 
 of the meaning, 
 Joined with the joyous Sir Hector, who lustily beat 
 
 on the table. 
 And soon after the chairman arose, and the 
 
 feast was over : 
 Now should the barn be cleared and forthwith 
 
 adorned for the dancing, 
 And, to make way for this purpose, the Tutor and 
 
 pupils retiring 
 Were by the chieftain addressed and invited to 
 
 come to the castle. 
 But ere the door-way they quitted, a thin man 
 
 clad as the Saxon, 
 Trouser and cap and jacket of homespun blue, 
 
 hand-woven, 
 Singled out, and said with determined accent, to 
 
 Hewson,
 
 i 4 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Touching his arm : Young man, if ye pass through 
 
 the Braes o' Lochaber, 
 See by the loch-side ye come to the Bothie of 
 
 Tober-na-vuolich. 
 
 ii 
 
 Et certamen erat, Corydon cum Thyrside, magnum 
 
 MORN, in yellow and white, came broadening out 
 
 from the mountains, 
 Long ere music and reel were hushed in the barn 
 
 of the dancers. 
 Duly in matntine bathed, before eight some two 
 
 of the party, 
 Where in the morning was custom, where over a 
 
 ledge of granite 
 
 Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended. 
 There two plunges each took Philip and Arthur 
 
 together, 
 Duly in matutine bathed, and read, and waited 
 
 for breakfast : 
 Breakfast commencing at nine, lingered lazily on 
 
 to noon-day. 
 Tea and coffee were there ; a jug of water for 
 
 Hewson ; 
 Tea and coffee ; and four cold grouse upon the 
 
 sideboard ; 
 Gaily they talked, as they sat, some late and lazy 
 
 at breakfast, 
 Some professing a book, some smoking outside 
 
 at the window.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 15 
 
 By an aurora soft-pouring a still sheeny tide to 
 
 the zenith, 
 Hewson and Arthur, with Adam, had walked and 
 
 got home by eleven ; 
 Hope and the others had stayed till the round sun 
 
 lighted them bedward. 
 They of the lovely aurora, but these of the lovelier 
 
 women 
 Spoke of noble ladies and rustic girls, their 
 
 partners. 
 Turned to them Hewson, the Chartist, the poet, 
 
 the eloquent speaker. 
 Sick of the very names of your Lady Augustas 
 
 and Floras 
 Am I, as ever I was of the dreary botanical 
 
 titles 
 
 Of the exotic plants, their antitypes in the hot- 
 house : 
 Roses, violets, lilies for me ! the out-of-door 
 
 beauties ; 
 Meadow and woodland sweets, forget-me-nots and 
 
 heart's-ease ! 
 Pausing awhile, he proceeded anon, for none 
 
 made answer. 
 Oh, if our high-born girls knew only the grace, 
 
 the attraction, 
 Labour, and labour alone, can add* to the beauty 
 
 of women, 
 Truly the milliner's trade would quickly, I think, 
 
 be at discount, 
 All the waste and loss in silk and satin be saved 
 
 us,
 
 16 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Saved for purposes truly and widely produc- 
 tive 
 
 That's right, 
 Take off your coat to it, Philip, cried Lindsay, 
 
 outside in the garden, 
 Take off your coat to it, Philip. 
 
 Well, then, said Hevvson, resuming ; 
 Laugh if you please at my novel economy ; listen 
 
 to this, though ; 
 As for myself, and apart from economy wholly, 
 
 believe me, 
 Never I properly felt the relation between men 
 
 and women, 
 Though to the dancing-master I went perforce, 
 
 for a quarter, 
 Where, in dismal quadrille, were good-looking girls 
 
 in abundance, 
 Though, too, school -girl cousins were mine a 
 
 bevy of beauties 
 Never (of course you will laugh, but of course all 
 
 the same I shall say it), 
 Never, believe me, I knew of the feelings between 
 
 men and women, 
 Till in some village fields in holidays now getting 
 
 stupid, 
 
 One day sauntering ' long and listless,' as Tenny- 
 son has it*, 
 Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbadiboy- 
 
 hood, 
 Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless, bonnetless 
 
 maiden, 
 Bending with three -pronged fork in a garden 
 
 uprooting potatoes.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 17 
 
 Was it the air ? who can say ? or herself, or the 
 
 charm of the labour ? 
 But a new thing was in me ; and longing delicious 
 
 possessed me, 
 Longing to take her and lift her, and put her 
 
 away from her slaving. 
 Was it embracing or aiding was most in my mind ? 
 
 hard question ! 
 But a new thing was in me ; I, too, was a youth 
 
 among maidens : 
 Was it the air ? who can say ! but in part 'twas 
 
 the charm of the labour. 
 Still, though a new thing was in me, the poets 
 
 revealed themselves to me, 
 And in my dreams by Miranda, her Ferdinand, 
 
 often I wandered, 
 Though all the fuss about girls, the giggling and 
 
 toying and coying, 
 Were not so strange as before, so incomprehensible 
 
 purely ; 
 Still, as before (and as now), balls, dances, and 
 
 evening parties, 
 Shooting with bows, going shopping together, and 
 
 hearing them singing, 
 Dangling beside them, and turning the leaves on 
 
 the dreary piano, 
 Offering unneeded arms, performing dull farces 
 
 .of escort, 
 Seemed like a sort of unnatural up-in-the-air 
 
 balloon-work 
 (Or what to me is as hateful, a riding about in a 
 
 carriage), 
 
 c
 
 i8 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Utter removal from work, mother earth, and the 
 objects of living. 
 
 Hungry and fainting for food, you ask me to join 
 you in snapping 
 
 What but a pink-paper comfit, with motto romantic 
 inside it ? 
 
 Wishing to stock me a garden, I'm sent to a table 
 of nosegays ; 
 
 Better a crust of black bread than a mountain of 
 paper confections, 
 
 Better a daisy in earth than a dahlia cut and 
 gathered, 
 
 Better a cowslip with root than a prize carnation 
 
 without it. 
 That I allow, said Adam. 
 
 But he, with the bit in his teeth, scarce 
 
 Breathed a brief moment, and hurried exultingly 
 on with his rider, 
 
 Far over hillock, and runnel, and bramble, away 
 in the champaign, 
 
 Snorting defiance and force, the white foam fleck- 
 ing his flanks, the 
 
 Rein hanging loose to his neck, and head project- 
 ing before him. 
 
 Oh, if they knew and considered, unhappy ones ! 
 oh, could they see, could 
 
 But for a moment discern, how the blood of .true 
 gallantry kindles, 
 
 How the old knightly religion, the chivalry semi- 
 quixotic 
 
 Stirs in the veins of a man at seeing some delicate 
 woman
 
 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 19 
 
 Serving him, toiling for him, and the world ; 
 
 some tenderest girl, now 
 Over-weighted, expectant, of him, is it ? who shall, 
 
 if only 
 Duly her burden be lightened, not wholly removed 
 
 from her, mind you, 
 Lightened if but by the love, the devotion man 
 
 only can offer, 
 Grand on her pedestal rise as urn-bearing statue 
 
 of Hellas ; 
 Oh, could they feel at such moments how man's 
 
 heart, as into Eden 
 Carried anew, seems to see, like the gardener of 
 
 earth uncorrupted, 
 Eve from the hand of her Maker advancing, an 
 
 help meet for him, 
 Eve from his own flesh taken, a spirit restored to 
 
 his spirit, 
 
 Spirit but not spirit only, himself whatever him- 
 self is, 
 Unto the mystery's end sole helpmate meet to be 
 
 with him ; 
 Oh, if they saw it and knew it ; we soon should 
 
 see them abandon 
 
 Boudoir, toilette, carriage, drawing-room, and ball- 
 room, 
 Satin for worsted exchange, gros-de-naples for 
 
 plain linsey-woolsey, 
 Sandals of silk for clogs, for health lackadaisical 
 
 fancies ! 
 So, feel women, not dolls ; so feel the sap of 
 
 existence
 
 20 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGII 
 
 Circulate up through their roots from the far-away 
 
 centre of all things, 
 Circulate up from the depths to the bud on the 
 
 twig that is topmost ! 
 
 Yes, we should see them delighted, delighted our- 
 selves in the seeing, 
 Bending with blue cotton gown skirted up over 
 
 striped linsey-woolsey, 
 Milking the kine in the field, like Rachel, watering 
 
 cattle, 
 Rachel, when at the well the predestined beheld 
 
 and kissed her, 
 
 Or, with pail upon head, like Dora beloved of Alexis, 
 Comely, with well-poised pail over neck arching 
 
 soft to the shoulders, 
 Comely in gracefullest act, one arm uplifted to 
 
 stay it, 
 Home from the river or pump moving stately and 
 
 calm to the laundry ; 
 Ay, doing household work, as many sweet girls I 
 
 have looked at, 
 Needful household work, which some one, after 
 
 all, must do, 
 Needful, graceful therefore, as washing, cooking, 
 
 and scouring, 
 Or, if you please, with the fork in the garden 
 
 uprooting potatoes. 
 Or, high-kilted perhaps, cried Lindsay, at last 
 
 successful, 
 Lindsay this long time swelling with scorn and 
 
 pent-up fury, 
 Or high-kilted perhaps, as once at Dundee I saw 
 
 them,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 21 
 
 Petticoats up to the knees, or even, it might be, 
 above them, 
 
 Matching their lily-white legs with the clothes 
 
 that they trod in the wash-tub ! 
 Laughter ensued at this ; and seeing the Tutor 
 embarrassed, 
 
 It was from them, I suppose, said Arthur, smiling 
 sedately, 
 
 Lindsay learnt the tune we all have learnt from 
 Lindsay, 
 
 For ok, he was a roguey, the Piper d Dundee. 
 Laughter ensued again ; and the Tutor, recover- 
 ing slowly, 
 
 Said, Are not these perhaps as doubtful as other 
 attractions ? 
 
 There is a truth in your view, but I think extremely 
 distorted ; 
 
 Still there is a truth, I own, I understand you 
 
 entirely. 
 
 While the Tutor was gathering his purposes, 
 Arthur continued, 
 
 Is not all this the same that one hears at common- 
 room breakfasts, 
 
 Or perhaps Trinity wines, about Gothic buildings 
 
 and Beauty ? 
 
 And with a start from the sofa came Hobbes ; 
 with a cry from the sofa, 
 
 Where he was laid, the great Hobbes, contempla- 
 tive, corpulent, witty, 
 
 Author forgotten and silent of currentest phrases 
 and fancies, 
 
 Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at in- 
 tervals playing,
 
 22 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Mute and abstracted, or strong and abundant as 
 
 rain in the tropics ; 
 Studious ; careless of dress ; inobservant : by 
 
 smooth persuasions 
 Lately decoyed into kilt on example of Hope and 
 
 the Piper, 
 Hope an Antinoiis mere, Hyperion of calves the 
 
 Piper. 
 Beautiful ! cried he up-leaping, analogy perfect 
 
 to madness ! 
 O inexhaustible source of thought, shall I call it, 
 
 or fancy ! 
 Wonderful spring, at whose touch doors fly, what 
 
 a vista disclosing ! 
 Exquisite germ ; Ah no, crude fingers shall not 
 
 soil thee ; 
 Rest, lovely pearl, in my brain, and slowly mature 
 
 in the oyster. 
 While at the exquisite pearl they were laughing 
 
 and corpulent oyster, 
 Ah, could they only be taught, he resumed, by a 
 
 Pugin of women, 
 How even churning and washing, the dairy, the 
 
 scullery duties, 
 Wait but a touch to redeem and convert them to 
 
 charms and attractions, 
 Scrubbing requires for true grace but frank and 
 
 artistical handling, 
 And the removal of slops to be ornamentally 
 
 treated. 
 Philip who speaks like a book (retiring and 
 
 pausing he added),
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 23 
 
 Philip, here, who speaks like a folio say'st thou, 
 
 Piper ? 
 Philip shall write us a book, a Treatise upon The 
 
 Laws of 
 
 Architectural Beauty in Application to Women; 
 Illustrations, of course, and a Parker's Glossary 
 
 pendent, 
 Where shall in specimen seen be the sculliony 
 
 stumpy-columnar 
 (Which to a reverent taste is perhaps the most 
 
 moving of any), 
 Rising to grace of true woman in English the 
 
 Early and Later, 
 Charming us still in fulfilling the Richer and 
 
 Loftier stages, 
 Lost, ere we end, in the Lady-Debased and the 
 
 Lady-Flamboyant : 
 Whence why in satire and spite too merciless 
 
 onward pursue her 
 
 Hither to hideous close, Modern-Florid, modern- 
 fine-lady ? 
 No, I will leave it to you, my Philip, my Pugin of 
 
 women. 
 Leave it to Arthur, said Adam, to think of, and 
 
 not to play with. 
 You are young, you know, he said, resuming, to 
 
 Philip, 
 You are young, he proceeded, with something of 
 
 fervour to Hewson. 
 You are a boy ; when you grow to a man you'll 
 
 find things alter. 
 You will then seek only the good, will scorn the 
 
 attractive,
 
 24 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Scorn all mere cosmetics, as now of rank and 
 
 fashion, 
 Delicate hands, and wealth, so then of poverty 
 
 also, 
 Poverty truly attractive, more truly, I bear you 
 
 witness. 
 Good, wherever it's found, you will choose, be it 
 
 humble or stately, 
 
 Happy if only you find, and finding do not lose it. 
 Yes, we must seek what is good, it always and it 
 
 only; 
 Not indeed absolute good, good for us, as is said 
 
 in the Ethics, 
 That which is good for ourselves, our proper 
 
 selves, our best selves. 
 Ah, you have much to learn, we can't know all 
 
 things at twenty. 
 Partly you rest on truth, old truth, the duty of 
 
 Duty, 
 Partly on error, you long for equality. 
 
 Ay, cried the Piper, 
 That's what it is, that confounded egalite, French 
 
 manufacture, 
 He is the same as the Chartist who spoke at a 
 
 meeting in Ireland, 
 What, and is not one man, fellow-men, as good as 
 
 another ? 
 Faith, replied Pat, and a deal better too ! 
 
 So rattled the Piper : 
 But undisturbed in his tenor, the Tutor. 
 
 Partly in error 
 Seeking equality, is not one woman as good as 
 
 another ?
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 25 
 
 I with the Irishman answer, Yes, better too; the 
 
 poorer 
 Better full oft than richer, than loftier better the 
 
 lower, 
 Irrespective of wealth and of poverty, pain and 
 
 enjoyment, 
 Women all have their duties, the one as well as 
 
 the other ; 
 
 Are all duties alike ? Do all alike fulfil them ? 
 However noble the dream of equality, mark you, 
 
 Philip, 
 Nowhere equality reigns in all the world of 
 
 creation, 
 Star is not equal to star, nor blossom the same as 
 
 blossom ; 
 Herb is not equal to herb, any more than planet 
 
 to planet. 
 
 There is a glory of daisies, a glory again of carna- 
 tions ; 
 
 Were the carnation wise, in gay parterre by green- 
 house, 
 Should it decline to accept the nurture the 
 
 gardener gives it, 
 Should it refuse to expand to sun and genial 
 
 summer, 
 Simply because the field-daisy that grows in the 
 
 grass-plat beside it, 
 Cannot, for some cause or other, develop and be a 
 
 carnation ? 
 Would not the daisy itself petition its scrupulous 
 
 neighbour ? 
 Up, grow, bloom, and forget me ; be beautiful even 
 
 to proudness,
 
 26 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 E'en for the sake of myself and other poor daisies 
 
 like me. 
 
 Education and manners, accomplishments and re- 
 finements, 
 Waltz, peradventure, and polka, the knowledge of 
 
 music and drawing, 
 All these things are Nature's, to Nature dear and 
 
 precious, 
 We have all something to do, man, woman alike, 
 
 I own it ; 
 We all have something to do, and in my judgment 
 
 should do it 
 In our station ; not thinking about it, but not 
 
 disregarding ; 
 Holding it, not for enjoyment, but simply because 
 
 we are in it. 
 Ah ! replied Philip, Alas ! the noted phrase of 
 
 the Prayer-book, 
 Doing our duty in that state of life to which God 
 
 has called us, 
 Seems to me always to mean, when the little rich 
 
 boys say it, 
 Standing in velvet frock by mamma's brocaded 
 
 flounces, 
 Eyeing her gold-fastened book and the watch and 
 
 chain at her bosom, 
 Seems to me always to mean, Eat, drink, and 
 
 never mind others. 
 Nay, replied Adam, smiling, so far your economy 
 
 leads me, 
 Velvet and gold and brocade are nowise to my 
 
 fancy. 
 Nay, he added, believe me, I like luxurious living
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 27 
 
 Even as little as you, and grieve in my soul not 
 
 seldom, 
 More for the rich indeed than the poor, who are 
 
 not so guilty. 
 So the discussion closed ; and, said Arthur, 
 
 Now it is my turn, 
 How will my argument please you ? To-morrow 
 
 we start on our travel. 
 And took up Hope the chorus, 
 
 To-morrow we start on our travel. 
 Lo, the weather is golden, the weather-glass, say 
 
 they, rising ; 
 Four weeks here have we read ; four weeks will 
 
 we read hereafter ; 
 Three weeks hence will return and think of classes 
 
 and classics. 
 
 Fare ye well, meantime, forgotten, unnamed, un- 
 dreamt of, 
 History, Science, and Poets ! lo, deep in dustiest 
 
 cupboard, 
 Thookydid, Oloros' son, Halimoosian, here lieth 
 
 buried ! 
 Slumber in Liddell-and-Scott, O musical chaff of 
 
 old Athens, 
 Dishes, and fishes, bird, beast, and sesquipedalian 
 
 blackguard ! 
 Sleep, weary ghosts, be at peace and abide in 
 
 your lexicon-limbo ! 
 Sleep, as in lava for ages your Herculanean 
 
 kindred, 
 Sleep, for aught that I care, ' the sleep that knows 
 
 no waking,'
 
 28 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 yschylus, Sophocles, Homer, Herodotus, Pindar, 
 
 and Plato. 
 Three weeks hence be it time to exhume our 
 
 dreary classics. 
 And in the chorus joined Lindsay, the Piper, 
 
 the Dialectician, 
 Three weeks hence we return to the shop and 
 
 the wash-hand-stand-basin 
 (These are the Piper's names for the bathing-place 
 
 and the cottage), 
 Three weeks hence unbury Thicksides and hairy 
 
 Aldrich. 
 But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick-named 
 
 Adam, 
 Who are they that go, and when do they promise 
 
 returning ? 
 And a silence ensued, and the Tutor himself 
 
 continued, 
 Airlie remains, I presume, he continued, and 
 
 Hobbes and Hewson. 
 Answer was made him by Philip, the poet, the 
 
 eloquent speaker : 
 Airlie remains, I presume, was the answer, and 
 
 Hobbes, peradventure ; 
 
 Tarry let Airlie May-fairly, and Hobbes, brief- 
 kilted hero, 
 Tarry let Hobbes in kilt, and Airlie 'abide in his 
 
 breeches ; ' 
 Tarry let these, and read, four Pindars apiece an' 
 
 it like them ! 
 
 Weary of reading am I, and weary of walks pre- 
 scribed us ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 29 
 
 Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more 
 
 weary, 
 Eager to range over heather unfettered of gillie 
 
 and marquis, 
 I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal 
 
 classics. 
 And to the Tutor rejoining, Be mindful ; you go 
 
 up at Easter, 
 This was the answer returned by Philip, the Pugin 
 
 of women. 
 Good are the Ethics I wis ; good absolute, not for 
 
 me, though ; 
 Good, too, Logic, of course ; in itself, but not in 
 
 fine weather. 
 Three weeks hence, with the rain, to Prudence, 
 
 Temperance, Justice, 
 Virtues Moral and Mental, with Latin prose 
 
 included ; 
 Three weeks hence we return to cares of classes 
 
 and classics. 
 I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal 
 
 classics. 
 
 But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick- 
 named Adam, 
 Where do you mean to go, and whom do you 
 
 mean to visit ? 
 And he was answered by Hope, the Viscount, 
 
 His Honour, of Hay. 
 Kitcat, a Trinity coach, has a party at Drumna- 
 
 drochet, 
 Up on the side of Loch Ness, in the beautiful 
 
 valley of Urquhart ;
 
 30 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Mainwaring says they will lodge us, and feed us, 
 
 and give us a lift too : 
 Only they talk ere long to remove to Glenmorison. 
 
 Then at 
 Castleton, high in Braemar, strange home, with 
 
 his earliest party, 
 Harrison, fresh from the schools, has James and 
 
 Jones and Lauder. 
 Thirdly, a Cambridge man I know, Smith, a senior 
 
 wrangler, 
 
 With a mathematical score hangs-out at Inveraray. 
 Finally, too, from the kilt and the sofa said 
 
 Hobbes in conclusion, 
 Finally, Philip must hunt for that home of the 
 
 probable poacher, 
 Hid in the braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of 
 
 What-did-he-call-it. 
 Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises 
 
 hopeless, 
 Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more 
 
 weary, 
 There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely 
 
 potato-uprooter, 
 
 Study the question of sex in the Bothie of What- 
 did-he-call-it. 
 
 in 
 
 Namque canebat uti 
 
 So in the golden morning they parted and went 
 to the westward. 
 
 And in the cottage with Airlie and Hobbes re- 
 mained the Tutor ;
 
 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 31 
 
 Reading nine hours a day with the Tutor, Hobbes 
 
 and Airlie ; 
 One between bathing and breakfast, and six before 
 
 it was dinner 
 (Breakfast at eight, at four, after bathing again, 
 
 the dinner), 
 Finally, two after walking and tea, from nine to 
 
 eleven. 
 Airlie and Adam at evening their quiet stroll 
 
 together 
 Took on the terrace-road, with the western hills 
 
 before them ; 
 Hobbes, only rarely a third, now and then in the 
 
 cottage remaining, 
 E'en after dinner, eupeptic, would rush yet again 
 
 to his reading ; 
 
 Other times, stung by the oestrum of some swift- 
 working conception, 
 Ranged, tearing on in his fury, an lo-cow through 
 
 the mountains, 
 Heedless of scenery, heedless of bogs, and of 
 
 perspiration, 
 On the high peaks, unwitting, the hares and 
 
 ptarmigan starting. 
 And the three weeks past, the three weeks, 
 
 three days over, 
 
 Neither letter had come, nor casual tidings any, 
 And the pupils grumbled, the Tutor became 
 
 uneasy, 
 And in the golden weather they wondered, and 
 
 watched to the westward. 
 There is a stream (I name not its name, lest 
 
 inquisitive tourist
 
 32 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into 
 
 guide-books), 
 Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the 
 
 folds of great mountains, 
 Falling two miles through rowan and stunted 
 
 alder, enveloped 
 Then for four more in a forest of pine, where 
 
 broad and ample 
 Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heathery 
 
 slopes on both sides : 
 Broad and fair the stream, with occasional falls 
 
 and narrows ; 
 But, where the glen of its course approaches the 
 
 vale of the river, 
 Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of 
 
 granite, 
 Scarce by a channel deep- cut, raging up, and 
 
 raging onward, 
 Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a 
 
 lady would step it. 
 There, across the great rocky wharves, a wooden 
 
 bridge goes, 
 Carrying a path to the forest ; below, three 
 
 hundred yards, say, 
 Lower in level some twenty-five feet, through flats 
 
 of shingle, 
 Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open 
 
 valley. 
 But in the interval here the boiling pent-up 
 
 water 
 
 Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin, 
 Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness 
 
 and fury
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 33 
 
 Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a 
 mirror ; 
 
 Beautiful there for the colour derived from green 
 rocks under ; 
 
 Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam up- 
 rising 
 
 Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate 
 hue of the stillness, 
 
 Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent 
 birch boughs, 
 
 Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge 
 and pathway, 
 
 Still more enclosed from below by wood and 
 rocky projection. 
 
 You are shut in, left alone with yourself and per- 
 fection of water, 
 
 Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the 
 
 goddess of bathing. 
 
 Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride the 
 fall and clear it ; 
 
 Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in beaded 
 sparklings, 
 
 Here into pure green depth drop down from lofty 
 
 ledges. 
 
 Hither, a month agone, they had come, and 
 discovered it ; hither 
 
 (Long a design, but long unaccountably left un- 
 accomplished), 
 
 Leaving the well-known bridge and pathway above 
 to the forest, 
 
 Turning below from the track of the carts over 
 stone and shingle, 
 
 D
 
 34 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Piercing a wood, and skirting a narrow and natural 
 
 causeway 
 Under the rocky wall that hedges the bed of the 
 
 streamlet, 
 Rounded a craggy point, and saw on a sudden 
 
 before them 
 Slabs of rock, and a tiny beach, and perfection of 
 
 water, 
 Picture -like beauty, seclusion sublime, and the 
 
 goddess of bathing. 
 There they bathed, of course, and Arthur, the Glory 
 
 of headers, 
 Leapt from the ledges with Hope, he twenty feet, 
 
 he thirty ; 
 There, overbold, great Hobbes from a ten -foot 
 
 height descended, 
 Prone, as a quadruped, prone with hands and feet 
 
 protending ; 
 There in the sparkling champagne, ecstatic, they 
 
 shrieked and shouted. 
 ' Hobbes's gutter ' the Piper entitles the spot, 
 
 profanely, 
 Hope ' the Glory ' would have, after Arthur, the 
 
 Glory of headers : 
 But, for before they departed, in shy and fugitive 
 
 reflex, 
 Here in the eddies and there did the splendour of 
 
 Jupiter glimmer ; 
 Adam adjudged it the name of Hesperus, star of 
 
 the evening. 
 Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star of evening 
 
 above them,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 35 
 
 Come in their lonelier walk the pupils twain and 
 Tutor ; 
 
 Turned from the track of the carts, and passing 
 the stone and shingle, 
 
 Piercing the wood, and skirting the stream by the 
 natural causeway, 
 
 Rounded the craggy point, and now at their ease 
 looked up ; and 
 
 Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant, the Glory of 
 headers, 
 
 Lo, on the beach, expecting the plunge, not cigar- 
 less, the Piper, 
 
 And they looked, and wondered, incredulous, 
 looking yet once more. 
 
 Yes, it was he, on the ledge, bare-limbed, an Apollo, 
 down-gazing, 
 
 Eyeing one moment the beauty, the life, ere he 
 flung himself in it, 
 
 Eyeing through eddying green waters the green- 
 tinting floor underneath them, 
 
 Eyeing the bead on the surface, the bead, like a 
 cloud rising to it, 
 
 Drinking- in, deep in his soul, the beautiful hue 
 and the clearness, 
 
 Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the unboasting, the 
 Glory of headers ; 
 
 Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his knapsack, 
 spectator and critic, 
 
 Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper, the Cloud- 
 compeller. 
 
 Yes, they were come ; were restored to the party, 
 its grace and its gladness,
 
 36 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Yes, were here, as of old ; the light-giving orb of 
 
 the household, 
 Arthur, the shapely, the tranquil, the strength-and- 
 
 contentment diffusing, 
 In the pure presence of whom none could quarrel 
 
 long, nor be pettish, 
 And, the gay fountain of mirth, their dearly beloved 
 
 of Pipers ; 
 Yes, they were come, were here : but Hewson and 
 
 Hope where they then ? 
 Are they behind, travel -sore, or ahead, going 
 
 straight, by the pathway ? 
 And from his seat and cigar spoke the Piper, 
 
 the Cloud-compeller. 
 Hope with the uncle abideth for shooting. Ah 
 
 me, were I with him ! 
 Ah, good boy that I am, to have stuck to my word 
 
 and my reading ! 
 Good, good boy to be here, far away, who might 
 
 be at Balloch ! 
 Only one day to have stayed who might have been 
 
 welcome for seven, 
 Seven whole days in castle and forest gay in the 
 
 mazy 
 Moving, imbibing the rosy, and pointing a gun at 
 
 the horny ! 
 
 And the Tutor impatient, expectant, interrupted. 
 Hope with the uncle, and Hewson with him ? or 
 
 where have you left him ? 
 And from his seat and cigar spoke the Piper, the 
 
 Cloud-compeller. 
 Hope with the uncle, and Hewson Why, Hewson 
 
 we left in Rannoch,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 37 
 
 15y the lochside and the pines, in a farmer's house, 
 
 reflecting 
 Helping to shear, 1 and dry clothes, and bring in 
 
 peat from the peat-stack. 
 And the Tutor's countenance fell ; perplexed, 
 
 dumb-foundered 
 Stood he, slow and with pain disengaging jest 
 
 from earnest. 
 He is not far from home, said Arthur from the 
 
 water, 
 He will be with us to-morrow, at latest, or the 
 
 next day, 
 And he was even more reassured by the Piper's 
 
 rejoinder. 
 Can he have come by the mail, and have got to 
 
 the cottage before us ? 
 So to the cottage they went, and Philip was 
 
 not at the cottage ; 
 But by the mail was a letter from Hope, who 
 
 himself was to follow. 
 Two whole days and nights succeeding brought 
 
 not Philip, 
 Two whole days and nights exhausted not question 
 
 and story. 
 For it was told, the Piper narrating, corrected 
 
 of Arthur. 
 Often by word corrected, more often by smile and 
 
 motion, 
 How they had been to lona, to Staffa, to Skye, to 
 
 Culloden, 
 
 Seen Loch Awe, Loch Tay, Loch Fyne, Loch 
 Ness, Loch Arkaig, 
 
 1 Reap.
 
 38 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Been up Ben-nevis, Ben-more, Ben-cruachan, Ben- 
 
 muick-dhui ; 
 How they had walked, and eaten, and drunken, 
 
 and slept in kitchens, 
 Slept upon floors of kitchens, and tasted the real 
 
 Glenlivat, 
 Walked up perpendicular hills, and also down 
 
 them, 
 Hither and thither had been, and this and that 
 
 had witnessed, 
 Left not a thing to be done, and had not a copper 
 
 remaining. 
 For it was told withal, he telling, and he 
 
 correcting, 
 How in the race they had run, and beaten the 
 
 gillies of Rannoch, 
 
 How in forbidden glens, in Mar and midmost Athol, 
 Philip insisting hotly, and Arthur and Hope 
 
 compliant, 
 They had defied the keepers ; the Piper alone 
 
 protesting, 
 Liking the fun, it was plain, in his heart, but 
 
 tender of game-law ; 
 Yea, too, in Mealy glen, the heart of Lochiel's 
 
 fair forest, 
 Where Scotch firs are darkest and amplest, and 
 
 intermingle 
 Grandly with rowan and ash in Mar you have 
 
 no ashes, 
 There the pine is alone, or relieved by the birch 
 
 and the alder 
 How in Mealy glen, while stags were starting 
 
 before, they
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICII 39 
 
 Made the watcher believe they were guests from 
 
 Achnacarry. 
 And there was told moreover, he telling, the 
 
 other correcting, 
 Often by word, more often by mute significant 
 
 motion, 
 Much of the Cambridge coach and his pupils at 
 
 Inveraray, 
 Huge barbarian pupils, Expanded in Infinite 
 
 Series, 
 Firing-off signal guns (great scandal) from window 
 
 to window 
 (For they were lodging perforce in distant and 
 
 numerous houses), 
 Signals, when, one retiring, another should go to 
 
 the Tutor : 
 Much too of Kitcat, of course, and the party at 
 
 Drumnadrochet, 
 Mainwaring, Foley, and Eraser, their idleness 
 
 horrid and dog-cart ; 
 Drumnadrochet was seedy, Glenmorison adequate, 
 
 but at 
 Castleton, high in Braemar, were the clippingest 
 
 places for bathing ; 
 One by the bridge in the village, indecent, the 
 
 Town Hall christened, 
 Where had Lauder howbeit been bathing, and 
 
 Harrison also, 
 Harrison even, the Tutor ; another like Hesperus 
 
 here, and 
 Up the water of Eye, half-a-dozen at least, all 
 
 stunners.
 
 40 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 And it was told, the Piper narrating and Arthur 
 correcting, 
 
 Colouring he, dilating, magniloquent, glorying in 
 picture, 
 
 He to a matter-of-fact still softening, paring, 
 abating, 
 
 He to the great might-have-been upsoaring, sublime 
 and ideal, 
 
 He to the merest it-was restricting, diminishing, 
 dwarfing, 
 
 River to streamlet reducing, and fall to slope 
 subduing : 
 
 So was it told, the Piper narrating, corrected of 
 Arthur, 
 
 How under Linn of Dee, where over rocks, 
 between rocks, 
 
 Freed from prison the river comes, pouring, rolling, 
 rushing, 
 
 Then at a sudden descent goes sliding, gliding, 
 unbroken, 
 
 Falling, sliding, gliding, in narrow space collected, 
 
 Save for a ripple at last, a sheeted descent un- 
 broken, 
 
 How to the element offering their bodies, down- 
 shooting the fall, they 
 
 Mingled themselves with the flood and the force 
 
 of imperious water. 
 
 And it was told too, Arthur narrating, the 
 Piper correcting, 
 
 How, as one comes to the level, the weight of the 
 downward impulse 
 
 Carries the head under water, delightful, unspeak- 
 able ; how the
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 41 
 
 Piper, here ducked and blinded, got stray, and 
 
 borne-off by the current 
 Wounded his lily-white thighs, below, at the 
 
 craggy corner. 
 And it was told, the Piper resuming, corrected 
 
 of Arthur, 
 More by word than motion, change ominous, 
 
 noted of Adam, 
 
 How at the floating-bridge of Laggan, one morn- 
 ing at sunrise, 
 Came, in default of the ferryman, out of her bed 
 
 a brave lassie ; 
 And as Philip and she together were turning the 
 
 handles, 
 Winding the chain by which the boat works over 
 
 the water, 
 Hands intermingled with hands, and at last, as 
 
 they stepped from the boatie, 
 Turning about, they saw lips also mingle with lips ; 
 
 but 
 That was flatly denied and loudly exclaimed at by 
 
 Arthur : 
 How at the General's hut, the Inn by the Foyers 
 
 Fall, where 
 Over the loch looks at you the summit of Meal- 
 
 fourvonie, 
 How here too he was hunted at morning, and 
 
 found in the kitchen 
 Watching the porridge being made, pronouncing 
 
 them smoked for certain, 
 Watching the porridge being made, and asking 
 
 the lassie that made them
 
 42 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGII 
 
 What was the Gaelic for girl, and what was the 
 
 Gaelic for pretty ; 
 How in confusion he shouldered his knapsack, yet 
 
 blush ingly stammered, 
 Waving a hand to the lassie, that blushingly bent 
 
 o'er the porridge, 
 Something outlandish 5/rtw-something, Slan leaf, 
 
 he believed, Caleg Looach 
 That was the Gaelic, it seemed, for ' I bid you 
 
 good-bye, bonnie lassie ; ' 
 Arthur admitted it true, not of Philip, but of the 
 
 Piper. 
 And it was told by the Piper, while Arthur 
 
 looked out at the window, 
 How in thunder and in rain it is wetter far to 
 
 the westward 
 Thunder and rain and wind, losing heart and 
 
 road, they were welcomed, 
 Welcomed, and three days detained at a farm by 
 
 the lochside of Rannoch ; 
 
 How in the three days' detention was Philip ob- 
 served to be smitten, 
 Smitten by golden-haired Katie, the youngest and 
 
 comeliest daughter ; 
 Was he not seen, even Arthur observed it, from 
 
 breakfast to bedtime, 
 Following her motions with eyes ever brightening, 
 
 softening ever ? 
 Did he not fume, fret, and fidget to find her stand 
 
 waiting at table ? 
 Was he not one mere St. Vitus' dance, when he 
 
 saw her at nightfall
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICII 43 
 
 Go through the rain to fetch peat, through beating 
 
 rain to the peat-stack ? 
 How too a dance, as it happened, was given by 
 
 Grant of Glenurchie, 
 And with the farmer they went as the farmer's 
 
 guests to attend it ; 
 Philip stayed dancing till daylight, and evermore 
 
 with Katie ; 
 How the whole next afternoon he was with her 
 
 away in the shearing, 1 
 And the next morning ensuing was found in the 
 
 ingle beside her 
 Kneeling, picking the peats from her apron, 
 
 blowing together, 
 Both, between laughing, with lips distended, to 
 
 kindle the embers ; 
 Lips were so near to lips, one living cheek to 
 
 another, 
 Though, it was true, he was shy, very shy, yet 
 
 it wasn't in nature, 
 Wasn't in nature, the Piper averred, there shouldn't 
 
 be kissing ; 
 So when at noon they had packed up the things, 
 
 and proposed to be starting, 
 Philip professed he was lame, would leave in the 
 
 morning and follow ; 
 Follow he did not ; do burns, when you go up a 
 
 glen, follow after ? 
 Follow, he had not, nor left ; do needles leave the 
 
 loadstone ? 
 Nay, they had turned after starting, and looked 
 
 through the trees at the corner, 
 1 Reaping.
 
 44 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Lo, on the rocks by the lake there he was, the 
 
 lassie beside him, 
 Lo, there he was, stooping by her, and helping 
 
 with stones from the water 
 Safe in the wind to keep down the clothes she 
 
 would spread for the drying. 
 There they had left him, and there, if Katie was 
 
 there, was Philip, 
 There drying clothes, making fires, making love, 
 
 getting on too by this time, 
 Though he was shy, so exceedingly shy. 
 
 You may say so, said Arthur, 
 For the first time they had known with a peevish 
 
 intonation, 
 Did not the Piper himself flirt more in a single 
 
 evening, 
 Namely, with Janet the elder, than Philip in all 
 
 our sojourn ? 
 Philip had stayed, it was true ; the Piper was 
 
 loth to depart too, 
 Harder his parting from Janet than e'en from the 
 
 keeper at Balloch ; 
 And it was certain that Philip was lame. 
 
 Yes, in his excuses, 
 Answered the Piper, indeed ! 
 
 But tell me, said Hobbes interposing, 
 Did you not say she was seen every day in her 
 
 beauty and bedgown 
 Doing plain household work, as washing, cooking, 
 
 scouring ? 
 How could he help but love her ? nor lacked there 
 
 perhaps the attraction
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 45 
 
 That, in a blue cotton print tucked up over striped 
 
 linsey-woolsey, 
 Barefoot, barelegged, he beheld her, with arms 
 
 bare up to the elbows, 
 
 Bending with fork in her hand in a garden up- 
 rooting potatoes ? 
 
 Is not Katie as Rachel, and is not Philip a Jacob ? 
 Truly Jacob, supplanting a hairy Highland Esau ? 
 Shall he not, love-entertained, feed sheep for the 
 
 Laban of Rannoch ? 
 Patriarch happier he, the long servitude ended of 
 
 wooing, 
 If when he wake in the morning he find not a 
 
 Leah beside him ! 
 But the Tutor inquired, who had bit his lip to 
 
 bleeding, 
 How far off is the place ? who will guide me 
 
 thither to-morrow ? 
 
 But by the mail, ere the morrow, came Hope, 
 
 and brought new tidings ; 
 Round by Rannoch had come, and Philip was not 
 
 at Rannoch ; 
 He had left at noon, an hour ago. 
 
 With the lassie ? 
 With her ? the Piper exclaimed. Undoubtedly ! 
 
 By great Jingo ! 
 And upon that he arose, slapping both his thighs 
 
 like a hero, 
 Partly for emphasis only, to mark his conviction, 
 
 but also 
 Part in delight at the fun, and the joy of eventful 
 
 living.
 
 46 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Hope couldn't tell him, of course, but thought 
 
 it improbable wholly ; 
 Janet, the Piper's friend, he had seen, and she 
 
 didn't say so, 
 Though she asked a good deal about Philip, and 
 
 where he was gone to : 
 One odd thing, by the bye, he continued, befell 
 
 me while with her ; 
 Standing beside her, I saw a girl pass ; I thought 
 
 I had seen her, 
 Somewhat remarkable -looking, elsewhere; and 
 
 asked what her name was ; 
 Elspie Mackaye, was the answer, the daughter of 
 
 David ! she's stopping 
 Just above here, with her uncle. And David 
 
 Mackaye, where lives he ? 
 It's away west, she said ; they call it Tober-na- 
 
 vuolich. 
 
 IV 
 
 Ut vidi, ut peril, nt me mains abstulit error 
 
 So in the golden weather they waited. But 
 
 Philip returned not. 
 Sunday six days thence a letter arrived in his 
 
 writing. 
 But, O Muse, that encompassest Earth like the 
 
 ambient ether, 
 Swifter than steamer or railway or magical missive 
 
 electric, 
 Belting like Ariel the sphere with the star-like 
 
 trail of thy travel,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 47 
 
 Thou with thy Poet, to mortals mere post-office 
 
 second-hand knowledge 
 Leaving, wilt seek in the moorland of Rannoch 
 
 the wandering hero. 
 There is it, there, or in lofty Lochaber, where, 
 
 silent upheaving, 
 Heaving from ocean to sky, and under snow-winds 
 
 of September, 
 Visibly whitening at morn to darken by noon in 
 
 the shining, 
 Rise on their mighty foundations the brethren 
 
 huge of Ben-nevis ? 
 
 There, or westward away, where roads are un- 
 known to Loch Nevish, 
 And the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the 
 
 westernmost islands ? 
 There is it ? there ? or there ? we shall find our 
 
 wandering hero ? 
 Here, in Badenoch, here, in Lochaber anon, in 
 
 Lochiel, in 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ard- 
 
 namurchan, 
 Here I see him and here : I see him ; anon I lose 
 
 him ! 
 
 Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from moun- 
 tain to mountain, 
 Leaving the crest of Ben-more to be palpable next 
 
 on Ben-vohrlich, 
 Or like to hawk of the hill which ranges and soars 
 
 in its hunting, 
 Seen and unseen by turns, now here, now in ether 
 
 eludent.
 
 48 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Wherefore, as cloud of Ben-more or hawk 
 
 over-ranging the mountains, 
 Wherefore in Badenoch drear, in lofty Lochaber, 
 
 Lochiel, and 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ard- 
 
 namurchan, 
 Wandereth he who should either with Adam be 
 
 studying logic, 
 Or by the lochside of Rannoch on Katie his 
 
 rhetoric using ; 
 He who, his three weeks past, past now long ago, 
 
 to the cottage 
 Punctual promised return to cares of classes and 
 
 classics, 
 He who, smit to the heart by that youngest 
 
 comeliest daughter, 
 Bent, unregardful of spies, at her feet, spreading 
 
 clothes from her wash-tub ? 
 Can it be with him through Badenoch, Morrer, 
 
 and Ardnamurchan ; 
 Can it be with him he beareth the golden-haired 
 
 lassie of Rannoch ? 
 This fierce, furious walking o'er mountain-top 
 
 and moorland, 
 Sleeping in shieling and bothie, with drover on 
 
 hill-side sleeping, 
 Folded in plaid, where sheep are strewn thicker 
 
 than rocks by Loch Awen, 
 This fierce, furious travel unwearying cannot in 
 
 truth be 
 Merely the wedding tour succeeding the week of 
 
 wooing !
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 49 
 
 No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not ; 
 
 I see him, 
 Lo, and he sitteth alone, and these are his words 
 
 in the mountain. 
 Spirits escaped from the body can enter and be 
 
 with the living ; 
 Entering unseen, and retiring unquestioned, they 
 
 bring, do they feel too ? 
 Joy, pure joy, as they mingle and mix inner 
 
 essence with essence ; 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I 
 
 could go and uphold her ! 
 Joy, pure joy, bringing with them, and, when they 
 
 retire, leaving after 
 No cruel shame, no prostration, despondency ; 
 
 memories rather, 
 Sweet happy hopes bequeathing. Ah ! wherefore 
 
 not thus with the living ? 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I 
 
 could go and uphold her ! 
 Is it impossible, say you, these passionate 
 
 fervent impulsions, 
 These projections of spirit to spirit, these inward 
 
 embraces, 
 Should in strange ways, in her dreams, should 
 
 visit her, strengthen her, shield her ? 
 Is it possible, rather, that these great floods of 
 
 feeling 
 Setting-in daily from me towards her should, 
 
 impotent wholly, 
 Bring neither sound nor motion to that sweet 
 
 shore they heave to ? 
 
 Efflux here, and there no stir nor pulse of influx ! 
 E
 
 50 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I 
 
 could go and uphold her ! 
 Surely, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain 
 
 lamenting, 
 Surely, surely, she hears in her dreams a voice, ' I 
 
 am with thee,' 
 Saying, ' although not with thee ; behold, for we 
 
 mated our spirits 
 Then, when we stood in the chamber, and knew 
 
 not the words we were saying ; ' 
 Yea, if she felt me within her, when not with one 
 
 finger I touched her, 
 Surely she knows it, and feels it while sorrowing 
 
 here in the moorland. 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I 
 
 could go and uphold her ! 
 Spirits with spirits commingle and separate ; 
 
 lightly as winds do, 
 Spice -laden South with the ocean -born zephyr ! 
 
 they mingle and sunder ; 
 No sad remorses for them, no visions of horror 
 
 and vileness. 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I 
 
 could go and uphold her ! 
 Surely the force that here sweeps me along in 
 
 its violent impulse, 
 Surely my strength shall be in her, my help and 
 
 protection about her, 
 Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigour of joy 
 
 shall sustain her, 
 Till, the brief winter o'er-past, her own true sap in 
 
 the springtide
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 51 
 
 Rise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e'en 
 
 as aforetime ! 
 Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet 
 
 ever and ever, 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I 
 
 could go and uphold her ! 
 No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not : 
 
 behold, for 
 Here he is sitting alone, and these are his words 
 
 in the mountain. 
 And, at the farm on the lochside of Rannoch, in 
 
 parlour and kitchen, 
 Hark ! there is music the flowing of music, of 
 
 milk, and of whisky ; 
 Lo, I see piping and dancing ! and whom in the 
 
 midst of the battle 
 Cantering loudly along there, or, look you, with 
 
 arms uplifted, 
 Whistling, and snapping his fingers, and seizing 
 
 his gay-smiling Janet, 
 Whom ? whom else but the Piper ? the wary 
 
 precognisant Piper, 
 Who, for the love of gay Janet, and mindful of old 
 
 invitation, 
 Putting it quite as a duty and urging grave claims 
 
 to attention, 
 True to his night had crossed over : there goeth 
 
 he, brimful of music, 
 Like a cork tossed by the eddies that foam under 
 
 furious lasher, 
 
 Like to skiff, lifted, uplifted, in lock, by the swift- 
 swelling sluices,
 
 52 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 So with the music possessing him, swaying him, 
 
 goeth he, look you, 
 
 Swinging and flinging, and stamping and tramp- 
 ing, and grasping and clasping 
 Whom but gay Janet? Him rivalling, Hobbes, 
 
 briefest-kilted of heroes, 
 Enters, O stoutest, O rashest of creatures, mere 
 
 fool of a Saxon, 
 Skill-less of philabeg, skill-less of reel too, the 
 
 whirl and the twirl o't : 
 Him see I frisking, and whisking, and ever at 
 
 swifter gyration 
 Under brief curtain revealing broad acres not of 
 
 broad cloth. 
 Him see I there and the Piper the Piper what 
 
 vision beholds not ? 
 Him and His Honour with Arthur, with Janet our 
 
 Piper, and is it, 
 Is it, O marvel of marvels ! he too in the maze of 
 
 the mazy, 
 Skipping, and tripping, though stately, though 
 
 languid, with head on one shoulder, 
 Airlie, with sight of the waistcoat the golden- 
 haired Katie consoling ? 
 Katie, who simple and comely, and smiling and 
 
 blushing as ever, 
 What though she wear on that neck a blue kerchief 
 
 remembered as Philip's, 
 Seems in her maidenly freedom to need small 
 
 consolement of waistcoats ! 
 Wherefore in Badenoch then, far-away, in 
 
 Lochaber, Lochiel, in
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 53 
 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, or Ardna- 
 
 murchan, 
 Wanders o'er mountain and moorland, in shieling 
 
 or bothie is sleeping, 
 
 He, who, and why should he not then ? capri- 
 cious ? or is it rejected ? 
 Might to the piping of Rannoch be pressing the 
 
 thrilling fair fingers, 
 Might, as he clasped her, transmit to her bosom 
 
 the throb of his own yea, 
 Might in the joy of the reel be wooing and winning 
 
 his Katie ? 
 What is it Adam reads far off by himself in the 
 
 cottage ? 
 Reads yet again with emotion, again is preparing 
 
 to answer ? 
 What is it Adam is reading ? What was it Philip 
 
 had written ? 
 There was it writ, how Philip possessed 
 
 undoubtedly had been, 
 Deeply, entirely possessed by the charm of the 
 
 maiden of Rannoch ; 
 Deeply as never before ! how sweet and bewitching 
 
 he felt her 
 Seen still before him at work, in the garden, the 
 
 byre, the kitchen ; 
 How it was beautiful to him to stoop at her side 
 
 in the shearing, 
 Binding uncouthly the ears that fell from her 
 
 dexterous sickle, 
 Building uncouthly the stocks, 1 which she laid by 
 
 her sickle to straighten, 
 1 Shocks.
 
 54 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 How at the dance he had broken through shyness ; 
 
 for four days after 
 Lived on her eyes, unspeaking what lacked not - 
 
 articulate speaking ; 
 Felt too that she too was feeling what he did. 
 
 Howbeit they parted ! 
 How by a kiss from her lips he had seemed made 
 
 nobler and stronger, 
 Yea, for the first time in life a man complete and 
 
 perfect, 
 So forth ! much that before has been heard of. 
 
 Howbeit they parted ! 
 What had ended it all, he said, was singular, 
 
 very. 
 I was walking along some two miles off from the 
 
 cottage 
 Full of my dreamings a girl went by in a party 
 
 with others ; 
 She had a cloak on, was stepping on quickly, for 
 
 rain was beginning ; 
 But as she passed, from her hood I saw her eyes 
 
 look at me. 
 So quick a glance, so regardless I, that although 
 
 I had felt it, 
 You couldn't properly say our eyes met. She cast 
 
 it, and left it : 
 It was three minutes perhaps ere I knew what it 
 
 was. I had seen her 
 Somewhere before I am sure, but that wasn't it ; 
 
 not its import : 
 No, it had seemed to regard me with simple 
 
 superior insight,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICII 55 
 
 Quietly saying to itself Yes, there he is still in 
 
 his fancy, 
 Letting drop from him at random as things not 
 
 worth his considering 
 All the benefits gathered and put in his hands by 
 
 fortune, 
 Loosing a hold which others, contented and 
 
 unambitious, 
 Trying down here to keep up, know the value of 
 
 better than he does. 
 What is this ? was it perhaps ? Yes, there he is 
 
 still in his fancy, 
 Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he 
 
 is used to elsewhere ; 
 People here too are people and not as fairy-land 
 
 creatures ; 
 He is in a trance, and possessed ; I wonder how 
 
 long to continue ; 
 It is a shame and a pity and no good likely to 
 
 follow. 
 Something like this, but indeed I cannot attempt 
 
 to define it. 
 Only, three hours thence I was off and away in 
 
 the moorland, 
 Hiding myself from myself if I could ; the arrow 
 
 within me. 
 Katie was not in the house, thank God : I saw her 
 
 in passing, 
 Saw her, unseen myself, with the pang of a cruel 
 
 desertion ; 
 What she thinks about it, God knows ! poor child ; 
 
 may she only
 
 56 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGII 
 
 Think me a fool and a madman, and no more 
 
 worth her remembering ! 
 Meantime all through the mountains I hurry and 
 
 know not whither, 
 Tramp along here, and think, and know not what 
 
 I should think. 
 Tell me then, why, as I sleep amid hill-tops 
 
 high in the moorland, 
 Still in my dreams I am pacing the streets of the 
 
 dissolute city, 
 Where dressy girls slithering by upon pavements 
 
 give sign for accosting, 
 Paint on their beautiless cheeks, and hunger and 
 
 shame in their bosoms ; 
 Hunger by drink, and by that which they shudder 
 
 yet burn for, appeasing, 
 Hiding their shame ah God ! in the glare of 
 
 the public gas-lights ? 
 Why, while I feel my ears catching through 
 
 slumber the run of the streamlet, 
 Still am I pacing the pavement, and seeing the 
 
 sign for accosting, 
 Still am I passing those figures, not daring to look 
 
 in their faces ? 
 Why, when the chill, ere the light, of the daybreak 
 
 uneasily wakes me, 
 Find I a cry in my heart crying up to the heaven 
 
 of heavens, 
 No, Great Unjust Judge ! she is purity ; I am the 
 
 lost one. 
 You will not think that I soberly look for such 
 
 things for sweet Katie ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICII 57 
 
 No, but the vision is on me ; I now first see how 
 
 it happens, 
 Feel how tender and soft is the heart of a girl ; 
 
 how passive 
 Fain would it be, how helpless ; and helplessness 
 
 leads to destruction. 
 Maiden reserve torn from off it, grows never again 
 
 to reclothe it, 
 Modesty broken through once to immodesty flies 
 
 for protection. 
 Oh, who saws through the trunk, though he leave 
 
 the tree up in the forest, 
 When the next wind casts it down, is his not 
 
 the hand that smote it ? 
 This is the answer, the second, which, pondering 
 
 long with emotion, 
 There by himself in the cottage the Tutor addressed 
 
 to Philip. 
 I have perhaps been severe, dear Philip, and 
 
 hasty ; forgive me ; 
 For I was fain to reply ere I wholly had read 
 
 through your letter ; 
 And it was written in scraps with crossings and 
 
 counter-crossings 
 Hard to connect with each other correctly, and 
 
 hard to decipher ; 
 Paper was scarce, I suppose : forgive me ; I write 
 
 to console you. 
 Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought 
 
 in the market ; 
 Knowledge needful for all, yet cannot be had for 
 
 the asking.
 
 58 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGII 
 
 There are exceptional beings, one finds them 
 
 distant and rarely, 
 Who, endowed with the vision alike and the 
 
 interpretation, 
 See, by the neighbours' eyes and their own still 
 
 motions enlightened, 
 In the beginning the end, in the acorn the oak of 
 
 the forest, 
 
 In the child of to-day its children to long genera- 
 tions, 
 
 In a thought or a wish a life, a drama, an epos. 
 There are inheritors, is it ? by mystical genera- 
 tion 
 Heiring the wisdom and ripeness of spirits gone 
 
 by ; without labour 
 Owning what others by doing and suffering earn ; 
 
 what old men 
 After long years of mistake and erasure are proud 
 
 to have come to, 
 Sick with mistake and erasure possess when 
 
 possession is idle. 
 Yes, there is power upon earth, seen feebly in 
 
 women and children, 
 Which can, laying one hand on the cover, read 
 
 off, unfaltering, 
 Leaf after leaf unlifted, the words of the closed 
 
 book under, 
 Words which we are poring at, hammering at, 
 
 stumbling at, spelling. 
 Rare is this ; wisdom mostly is bought for a price 
 
 in the market ; 
 Rare is this ; and happy, who buys so much for 
 
 so little,
 
 THE BOTH IP: OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 59 
 
 As I conceive have you, and as I will hope has 
 
 Katie. 
 Knowledge is needful for man, needful no less 
 
 for woman, 
 Even in Highland glens, were they vacant of 
 
 shooter and tourist. 
 Not that, of course, I mean to prefer your blindfold 
 
 hurry 
 Unto a soul that abides most loving yet most 
 
 withholding ; 
 Least unfeeling though calm, self-contained yet 
 
 most unselfish ; 
 Renders help and accepts it, a man among men 
 
 that are brothers, 
 Views, not plucks the beauty, adores, and demands 
 
 no embracing, 
 So in its peaceful passage whatever is lovely and 
 
 gracious 
 Still without seizing or spoiling, itself in itself 
 
 reproducing. 
 No, I do not set Philip herein on the level of 
 
 Arthur ; 
 
 No, I do not compare still tarn with furious torrent, 
 Yet will the tarn overflow, assuaged in the lake be 
 
 the torrent. 
 Women are weak, as you say, and love of all 
 
 things to be passive, 
 Passive, patient, receptive, yea, even of wrong 
 
 and misdoing, 
 Even to force and misdoing with joy and victorious 
 
 feeling 
 Patient, passive, receptive ; for that is the strength 
 
 of their being,
 
 60 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Like to the earth taking all things, and all to 
 good converting. 
 
 Oh 'tis a snare indeed ! Moreover, remember it, 
 Philip, 
 
 To the prestige of the richer the lowly are prone 
 to be yielding, 
 
 Think that in dealing with them they are raised 
 to a different region, 
 
 Where old laws and morals are modified, lost, 
 exist not ; 
 
 Ignorant they as they are, they have but to con- 
 form and be yielding. 
 
 But I have spoken of this already, and need 
 not repeat it. 
 
 You will not now run after what merely attracts 
 and entices, 
 
 Every -day things highly -coloured, and common- 
 place carved and gilded. 
 
 You will henceforth seek only the good : and seek 
 it, Philip, 
 
 Where it is not more abundant, perhaps, but 
 more easily met with ; 
 
 Where you are surer to find it, less likely to run 
 into error, 
 
 In your station, not thinking about it, but not 
 
 disregarding. 
 
 So was the letter completed : a postscript after- 
 ward added, 
 
 Telling the tale that was told by the dancers re- 
 turning from Rannoch. 
 
 So was the letter completed : but query, whither 
 to send it ?
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 61 
 
 Not for the will of the wisp, the cloud, and the 
 
 hawk of the moorland, 
 Ranging afar thro' Lochaber, Lochiel, and Knoy- 
 
 dart, and Moydart, 
 Have even latest extensions adjusted a postal 
 
 arrangement. 
 Query resolved very shortly, when Hope, from 
 
 his chamber descending, 
 Came with a note in his hand from the Lady, his 
 
 aunt, at the Castle ; 
 Came and revealed the contents of a missive that 
 
 brought strange tidings ; 
 Came and announced to the friends, in a voice 
 
 that was husky with wonder, 
 Philip was staying at Balloch, was there in the 
 
 room with the Countess, 
 Philip to Balloch had come and was dancing with 
 
 Lady Maria. 
 Philip at Balloch, he said, after all that stately 
 
 refusal, 
 He there at last O strange ! O marvel, marvel 
 
 of marvels ! 
 Airlie, the Waistcoat, with Katie, we left him this 
 
 morning at Rannoch ; 
 Airlie with Katie, he said, and Philip with Lady 
 
 Maria. 
 And amid laughter Adam paced up and down, 
 
 repeating 
 Over and over, unconscious, the phrase which 
 
 Hope had lent him, 
 Dancing at Balloch, you say, in the Castle, with 
 
 Lady Maria.
 
 62 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 -Ptttavi 
 
 Stultus ego hnic fiostra' similem. 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five to- 
 gether 
 Duly remained, and read, and looked no more for 
 
 Philip, 
 Philip at Balloch shooting and dancing with Lady 
 
 Maria. 
 Breakfast at eight, and now, for brief September 
 
 daylight, 
 Luncheon at two, and dinner at seven, or even 
 
 later, 
 Five full hours between for the loch and the glen 
 
 and the mountain, 
 
 So in the joy of their life and glory of shooting- 
 jackets, 
 So they read and roamed, the pupils five with 
 
 Adam. 
 What if autumnal shower came frequent and 
 
 chill from the westward, 
 What if on browner sward with yellow leaves 
 
 besprinkled, 
 Gemming the crispy blade, the delicate gossamer 
 
 gemming, 
 Frequent and thick lay at morning the chilly beads 
 
 of hoar-frost, 
 Duly in matutine still, and daily, whatever the 
 
 weather. 
 Bathed in the rain and the frost and the mist with 
 
 the Glory of headers
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 63 
 
 Hope. Thither also at times, of cold and of 
 
 possible gutters 
 Careless, unmindful, unconscious, would Hobbes, 
 
 or ere they departed, 
 Come, in heavy pea-coat his trouserless trunk 
 
 enfolding, 
 
 Come, under coat over-brief those lusty legs dis- 
 playing, 
 All from the shirt to the slipper the natural man 
 
 revealing. 
 Duly there they bathed and daily, the twain or 
 
 the trio, 
 Where in the morning was custom, where over a 
 
 ledge of granite 
 
 Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended : 
 Beautiful, very, to gaze in ere plunging ; beautiful 
 
 also, 
 Perfect as picture, as vision entrancing that comes 
 
 to the sightless, 
 Through the great granite jambs the stream, the 
 
 glen, and the mountain, 
 
 Beautiful, seen by snatches in intervals of dressing, 
 Morn after morn, unsought for, recurring ; them- 
 selves too seeming 
 Not as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as 
 
 truly 
 Part of it as are the kine in the field lying there 
 
 by the birches. 
 So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen 
 
 and forest ; 
 Far amid blackest pines to the waterfall they 
 
 shadow,
 
 64 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Far up the long, long glen to the loch, and the 
 loch beyond it, 
 
 Deep, under huge red cliffs, a secret ; and oft by 
 the starlight, 
 
 Or the aurora, perchance, racing home for the 
 eight o'clock mutton. 
 
 So they bathed, and read, and roamed in heathery 
 Highland ; 
 
 There in the joy of their life and glory of shooting- 
 jackets 
 
 Bathed and read and roamed, and looked no more 
 for Philip. 
 
 List to a letter that came from Philip at Balloch 
 
 to Adam. 
 I am here, O my friend ! idle, but learning 
 
 wisdom. 
 Doing penance, you think ; content, if so, in my 
 
 penance. 
 Often I find myself saying, while watching in 
 
 dance or on horseback 
 One that is here, in her freedom and grace, and 
 
 imperial sweetness, 
 Often I find myself saying, old faith and doctrine 
 
 abjuring, 
 Into the crucible casting philosophies, facts, 
 
 convictions, 
 Were it not well that the stem should be naked of 
 
 leaf and of tendril, 
 Poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick 
 
 of the garden ; 
 Flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine 
 
 long summers,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 65 
 
 So in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one 
 
 day at the summit, 
 So but that fleeting flower were lovely as Lady 
 
 Maria. 
 Often I find myself saying, and know not 
 
 myself as I say it, 
 What of the poor and the weary ? their labour 
 
 and pain is needed. 
 Perish the poor and the weary ! what can they 
 
 better than perish, 
 Perish in labour for her, who is worth the 
 
 destruction of empires ? 
 What ! for a mite, for a mote, an impalpable 
 
 odour of honour, 
 Armies shall bleed ; cities burn ; and the soldier 
 
 red from the storming 
 Carry hot rancour and lust into chambers of 
 
 mothers and daughters : 
 What ! would ourselves for the cause of an hour 
 
 encounter the battle, 
 Slay and be slain ; lie rotting in hospital, hulk, 
 
 and prison : 
 Die as a dog dies ; die mistaken perhaps, and 
 
 dishonoured. 
 Yea, and shall hodmen in beer-shops complain 
 
 of a glory denied them, 
 Which could not ever be theirs more than now it 
 
 is theirs as spectators ? 
 Which could not be, in all earth, if it were not 
 
 for labour of hodmen ? 
 And I find myself saying, and what I am 
 
 saying, discern not, 
 F
 
 66 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Dig in thy deep dark prison, O miner ! and finding 
 
 be thankful ; 
 Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in 
 
 perfection, 
 While thou art eating black bread in the poisonous 
 
 air of thy cavern, 
 Far away glitters the gem on the peerless neck of 
 
 a Princess. 
 Dig, and starve, and be thankful ; it is so, and 
 
 thou hast been aiding. 
 Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or 
 
 earnest ? 
 Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich ! be sublime 
 
 in great houses, 
 
 Purple and delicate linen endure ; be of Burgundy- 
 patient ; 
 Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page 
 
 and the valet, 
 Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity 
 
 schools or of districts, 
 Cast not to swine of the sty the pearls that should 
 
 gleam in your foreheads. 
 Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to 
 
 proudness, 
 Even for their poor sakes whose happiness is to 
 
 behold you ; 
 Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous ; only 
 
 be lovely, 
 Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for 
 
 enjoyment ; 
 Not for enjoyment truly ; for Beauty and God's 
 
 great glory !
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 67 
 
 Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration of 
 
 Good or of Evil ! 
 Is it not He that hath done it, and who shall dare 
 
 gainsay it ? 
 Is it not even of Him, who hath made us ? Yea, 
 
 for the lions, 
 Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from 
 
 God! 
 
 Is it not even of Him, who one kind over another 
 All the works of His hand hath disposed in a 
 
 wonderful order ? 
 Who hath made man, as the beasts, to live the 
 
 one on the other, 
 Who hath made man as Himself to know the law 
 
 and accept it ! 
 You will wonder at this, no doubt ! I also 
 
 wonder ! 
 But we must live and learn ; we can't know all 
 
 things at twenty. 
 List to a letter of Hobbes to Philip his friend at 
 
 Balloch. 
 All Cathedrals are Christian, all Christians are 
 
 Cathedrals, 
 Such is the Catholic doctrine ; 'tis ours with a 
 
 slight variation ; 
 
 Every woman is, or ought to be, a Cathedral, 
 Built on the ancient plan, a Cathedral pure and 
 
 perfect, 
 Built by that only law, that Use be suggester of 
 
 Beauty, 
 Nothing concealed that is done, but all things 
 
 done to adornment,
 
 68 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and 
 
 embellish. 
 So had I duly commenced in the spirit and 
 
 style of my Philip, 
 So had I formally opened the Treatise upon the 
 
 Laws of 
 
 Architectural Beauty in Application to Women^ 
 So had I writ. But my fancies are palsied by 
 
 tidings they tell me. 
 Tidings ah me, can it be then ? that I, the 
 
 blasphemer accounted, 
 Here am with reverent heed at the wondrous 
 
 Analogy working, 
 Pondering thy words and thy gestures, whilst 
 
 thou, a prophet apostate, 
 
 (How are the mighty fallen !) whilst thou, a shep- 
 herd travestie, 
 (How are the mighty fallen !) with gun, with 
 
 pipe no longer, 
 Teachest the woods to re-echo thy game -killing 
 
 recantations, 
 Teachest thy verse to exalt Amaryllis, a Countess's 
 
 daughter ? 
 What, thou forgettest, bewildered, my Master, 
 
 that rightly considered 
 Beauty must ever be useful, what truly is useful is 
 
 graceful ? 
 She that is handy is handsome, good dairy-maids 
 
 must be good-looking, 
 If but the butter be nice, the tournure of the elbow 
 
 is shapely, 
 If the cream-cheeses be white, far whiter the hands 
 
 that made them,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 69 
 
 If but alas, is it true ? while the pupil alone in 
 
 the cottage 
 Slowly elaborates here thy System of Feminine 
 
 Graces, 
 
 Thou in the palace, its author, art dining, small- 
 talking and dancing, 
 Dancing and pressing the fingers kid-gloved *of a 
 
 Lady Maria. 
 These are the final words, that came to the 
 
 Tutor from Balloch. 
 I am conquered, it seems ! you will meet me, I 
 
 hope, in Oxford, 
 Altered in manners and mind. I yield to the 
 
 laws and arrangements, 
 Yield to the ancient existent decrees : who am I 
 
 to resist them ? 
 Yes, you will find me altered in mind, I think, as 
 
 in manners, 
 Anxious too to atone for six weeks' loss of your 
 
 Logic. 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam, the pupils five 
 together, 
 
 Read, and bathed, and roamed, and thought not 
 now of Philip, 
 
 All in the joy of their life, and glory of shooting- 
 jackets.
 
 70 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 VI 
 Ducite ab urbe domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnin 
 
 BRIGHT October was come, the misty -bright 
 
 October, 
 Bright October was come to burn and glen and 
 
 cottage ; 
 
 But the cottage was empty, the matutine deserted. 
 Who are these that walk by the shore of the 
 
 salt sea water ? 
 Here in the dusky eve, on the road by the salt 
 
 sea water ? 
 Who are these ? and where ? it is no sweet 
 
 seclusion ; 
 Blank hill-sides slope down to a salt sea loch at 
 
 their bases, 
 Scored by runnels, that fringe ere they end with 
 
 rowan and alder ; 
 Cottages here and there outstanding bare on the 
 
 mountain, 
 
 Peat-roofed, windowless, white ; the road under- 
 neath by the water. 
 There on the blank hill -side, looking down 
 
 through the loch to the ocean, 
 There with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain 
 
 before it, 
 There with the road underneath, and in sight of 
 
 coaches and steamers, 
 Dwelling of David Mackaye, and his daughters 
 
 Elspie and Bella, 
 Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Tober- 
 
 na-vuolich.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 71 
 
 And of the older twain, the elder was telling 
 
 the younger, 
 How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised 
 
 potatoes, 
 Barley, and oats, in the bothie where lived his 
 
 father before him ; 
 Yet was smith by trade, and had travelled making 
 
 horse-shoes 
 Far ; in the army had seen some service with 
 
 brave Sir Hector, 
 Wounded soon, and discharged, disabled as smith 
 
 and soldier ; 
 He had been many things since that, drover, 
 
 schoolmaster, 
 Whitesmith, but when his brother died childless 
 
 came up hither ; 
 And although he could get fine work that would 
 
 pay in the city, 
 Still was fain to abide where his father abode 
 
 before him. 
 And the lassies are bonnie, I'm father and 
 
 mother to them, 
 Bonnie and young ; they're healthier here, I judge, 
 
 and safer, 
 I myself find time for their reading, writing, and 
 
 learning. 
 So on the road they walk by the shore of the 
 
 salt sea water, 
 
 Silent a youth and maid, and elders twain con- 
 versing. 
 This was the letter that came when Adam was 
 
 leaving the cottage.
 
 72 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 If you can manage to see me before going off to 
 
 Dartmoor, 
 Come by Tuesday's coach through Glencoe (you 
 
 have not seen it), 
 Stop at the ferry below, and ask your way (you 
 
 will wonder, 
 There however I am) to the Bothie of Tober-na- 
 
 vuolich. 
 And on another scrap, of next day's date, was 
 
 written : 
 It was by accident purely I lit on the place ; I was 
 
 returning, 
 Quietly, travelling homeward by one of these 
 
 wretched coaches ; 
 
 One of the horses cast a shoe ; and a farmer passing 
 Said, Old David's your man ; a clever fellow at 
 
 shoeing 
 Once ; just here by the firs ; they call it Tober- 
 
 na-vuolich. 
 So I saw and spoke with David Mackaye, our 
 
 acquaintance. 
 When we came to the journey's end some five 
 
 miles farther, 
 In my unoccupied evening I walked back again to 
 
 the bothie. 
 But on a final crossing, still later in date, was 
 
 added : 
 Come as soon as you can ; be sure and do not 
 
 refuse me. 
 Who would have guessed I should find my haven 
 
 and end of my travel, 
 Here, by accident too, in the bothie we laughed 
 
 about so ?
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 73 
 
 Who would have guessed that here would be she 
 
 whose glance at Rannoch 
 Turned me in that mysterious way ; yes, angels 
 
 conspiring, 
 Slowly drew me, conducted me, home, to herself; 
 
 the needle 
 Which in the shaken compass flew hither and 
 
 thither, at last, long 
 Quivering, poises to north. I think so. But I 
 
 am cautious : 
 More, at least, than I was in the old silly days 
 
 when I left you. 
 Not at the bothie now ; at the changehouse in 
 
 the clachan ; l 
 Why I delay my letter is more than I can tell 
 
 you. 
 
 There was another scrap, without or date or 
 
 comment, 
 
 Dotted over with various observations, as follows : 
 Only think, I had danced with her twice, and did 
 
 not remember. 
 I was as one that sleeps on the railway ; one, who 
 
 dreaming 
 Hears thro' his dream the name of his home shouted 
 
 out ; hears and hears not, 
 Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in 
 
 distance ; 
 Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate 
 
 and choice, and 
 Sense of claim and reality present, anon relapses 
 
 1 Public-house in the hamlet.
 
 Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, 
 
 while forward 
 Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows 
 
 not whither. 
 Handsome who handsome is, who handsome 
 
 does is more so ; 
 Pretty is all very pretty, it's prettier far to be 
 
 useful. 
 No, fair Lady Maria, I say not that ; but I will 
 
 say, 
 Stately is service accepted, but lovelier service 
 
 rendered, 
 Interchange of service the law and condition of 
 
 beauty : 
 Any way beautiful only to be the thing one is 
 
 meant for. 
 I, I am sure, for the sphere of mere ornament am 
 
 not intended : 
 No, nor she, I think, thy sister at Tober-na- 
 
 vuolich. 
 This was the letter of Philip, and this had brought 
 
 the Tutor : 
 This is why Tutor and pupil are walking with 
 
 David and Elspie. 
 When for the night they part, and these, once 
 
 more together, 
 Went by the lochside along to the changehouse 
 
 near in the clachan, 
 Thus to his pupil anon commenced the grave man, 
 
 Adam. 
 Yes, she is beautiful, Philip, beautiful even as 
 
 morning :
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 75 
 
 Yes, it is that which I said, the Good and not the 
 
 Attractive ! 
 Happy is he that finds, and finding does not leave 
 
 it! 
 Ten more days did Adam with Philip abide at 
 
 the changehouse, 
 Ten more nights they met, they walked with father 
 
 and daughter. 
 Ten more nights, and night by night more distant 
 
 away were 
 Philip and she ; every night less heedful, by habit, 
 
 the father. 
 Happy ten days, most happy : and, otherwise than 
 
 intended, 
 Fortunate visit of Adam, companion and friend to 
 
 David. 
 Happy ten days, be ye fruitful of happiness ! Pass 
 
 o'er them slowly, 
 Slowly ; like cruse of the prophet be multiplied, 
 
 even to ages ! 
 Pass slowly o'er them, ye days of October ; ye 
 
 soft misty mornings, 
 Long dusky eves ; pass slowly ; and thou, great 
 
 Term-time of Oxford 
 Awful with lectures and books, and Little-goes, and 
 
 Great-goes, 
 Till but the sweet bud be perfect, recede and 
 
 retire for the lovers, 
 Yea, for the sweet love of lovers, postpone thyself 
 
 even to doomsday ! 
 Pass o'er them slowly, ye hours ! Be with 
 
 them, ye Loves and Graces !
 
 Indirect and evasive no longer, a cowardly 
 
 bather, 
 Clinging to bough and to rock, and sidling along 
 
 by the edges, 
 In your faith, ye Muses and Graces, who love the 
 
 plain present, 
 
 Scorning historic abridgment and artifice anti- 
 poetic, 
 In your faith, ye Muses and Loves, ye Loves and 
 
 Graces, 
 I will confront the great peril, and speak with the 
 
 mouth of the lovers, 
 As they spoke by the alders, at evening, the 
 
 runnel below them, 
 Elspie, a diligent knitter, and Philip her fingers 
 
 watching. 
 
 VII 
 
 Vesper adest, juvenes, consurgite : Vesper Olympo 
 Expectata diu vix tandem lumina tollit 
 
 FOR she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and 
 
 he saw not her blushes, 
 Elspie confessed at the sports long ago with her 
 
 father she saw him, 
 When at the door the old man had told him the 
 
 name of the bothie ; 
 Then after that at the dance ; yet again at a dance 
 
 in Rannoch 
 And she was silent, confused. Confused much 
 
 rather Philip 
 Buried his face in his hands, his face that with 
 
 blood was bursting.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 77 
 
 Silent, confused, yet by pity she conquered her 
 
 fear, and continued. 
 Katie is good and not silly ; be comforted, Sir, 
 
 about her ; 
 Katie is good and not silly ; tender, but not, like 
 
 many, 
 Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, 
 
 in the bosom 
 Locking-up as in a cupboard the pleasure that any 
 
 man gives them, 
 Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be 
 
 ashamed of; 
 That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more 
 
 than in Scotland ; 
 No, she lives and takes pleasure in all, as in 
 
 beautiful weather, 
 Sorry to lose it, but just as we would be to lose 
 
 fine weather. 
 And she is strong to return to herself and feel 
 
 undeserted, 
 Oh, she is strong, and not silly : she thinks no 
 
 further about you ; 
 She has had kerchiefs before from gentle, I know, 
 
 as from simple. 
 Yes, she is good and not silly ; yet were you 
 
 wrong, Mr. Philip, 
 Wrong, for yourself perhaps more than for her. 
 
 But Philip replied not, 
 
 Raised not his eyes from the hands on his knees. 
 And Elspie continued. 
 That was what gave me much pain, when I met 
 
 you that dance at Rannoch,
 
 78 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Dancing myself too with you, while Katie danced 
 
 with Donald ; 
 That was what gave me such pain ; I thought it 
 
 all a mistaking, 
 All a mere chance, you know, and accident, not 
 
 proper choosing, 
 There were at least five or six not there, no, 
 
 that I don't say, 
 But in the country about you might just as well 
 
 have been courting 
 That was what gave me much pain, and (you 
 
 won't remember that, though), 
 Three days after, I met you, beside my uncle's, 
 
 walking, 
 And I was wondering much, and hoped you 
 
 wouldn't notice, 
 So as I passed I couldn't help looking. You 
 
 didn't know me. 
 But I was glad, when I heard next day you were 
 
 gone to the teacher. 
 
 And uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated, 
 Large as great stars in mist, and dim, with 
 
 dabbled lashes, 
 Philip, with new tears starting, 
 
 You think I do not remember, 
 Said, suppose that I did not observe ! Ah me, 
 
 shall I tell you ? 
 Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from 
 
 Rannoch. 
 It was your glance, that, descending, an instant 
 
 revelation, 
 Showed me where I was, and whitherward going ; 
 
 recalled me,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 79 
 
 Sent me, not to my books, but to wrestlings of 
 
 thought in the mountains. 
 Yes, I have carried your glance within me un- 
 
 dimmed, unaltered, 
 As a lost boat the compass some passing ship has 
 
 lent her, 
 
 Many a weary mile on road, and hill, and moor- 
 land : 
 And you suppose that I do not remember, I had 
 
 not observed it ! 
 O, did the sailor bewildered observe when they 
 
 told him his bearings ? 
 O, did he cast overboard, when they parted, the 
 
 compass they gave him ? 
 And he continued more firmly, although with 
 
 stronger emotion : 
 Elspie, why should I speak it? you cannot 
 
 believe it, and should not : 
 Why should I say that I love, which I all but said 
 
 to another ? 
 Yet should I dare, should I say, O Elspie, you 
 
 only I love ; you, 
 First and sole in my life that has been and surely 
 
 that shall be ; 
 Could O, could you believe it, O Elspie, believe 
 
 it and spurn not ? 
 Is it possible, possible, Elspie ? 
 
 Well, she answered, 
 And she was silent some time, and blushed all 
 
 over, and answered 
 Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting, Maybe, 
 
 I think of it,
 
 8o POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Though I don't know that I did : and she paused 
 
 again ; but it may be, 
 
 Yes, I don't know, Mr. Philip, but only it feels 
 tz?*- to me strangely, 
 ( Like to the high new bridge, they used to build 
 
 at, below there, 
 Over the burn and glen on the road. You won't 
 
 understand me. 
 But I keep saying in my mind this long time 
 
 slowly with trouble 
 I have been building myself, up, up, and toilfully 
 
 raising, 
 
 Just like as if the bridge were to do it itself with- 
 out masons, 
 Painfully getting myself upraised one stone on 
 
 another, 
 
 All one side I mean ; and now I see on the other 
 Just such another fabric uprising, better and 
 
 stronger, 
 
 Close to me, coming to join me : and then I some- 
 times fancy, 
 Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about 
 
 arches and bridges, 
 Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand 
 
 coming down, and 
 Dropping the great key-stone in the middle : there 
 
 in my dreaming, 
 There I felt the great key-stone coming in, and 
 
 through it 
 Feel the other part all the other stones of the 
 
 archway, 
 Joined into mine with a strange happy sense of 
 
 completeness. But, dear me,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 81 
 
 This is confusion and nonsense. I mix all the 
 
 things I can think of. 
 And you won't understand, Mr. Philip. 
 
 But while she was speaking, 
 So it happened, a moment she paused from her 
 
 work, and pondering, 
 Laid her hand on her lap : Philip took it : she 
 
 did not resist : 
 So he retained her fingers, the knitting being 
 
 stopped. But emotion 
 Came all over her more and yet more from his 
 
 hand, from her heart, and 
 Most from the sweet idea and image her brain 
 
 was renewing. 
 
 So he retained her hand, and, his tears down- 
 dropping on it, 
 Trembling a long time, kissed it at last. And 
 
 she ended. 
 And as she ended, uprose he : saying, What have 
 
 I heard ? Oh, 
 What have I done, that such words should be said 
 
 to me ? Oh, I see it, 
 See the great key-stone coming down from the 
 
 heaven of heavens ; 
 And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her 
 
 apron. 
 But as under the moon and stars they went to 
 
 the cottage, 
 Elspie sighed and said, Be patient, dear Mr. 
 
 Philip, 
 Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so 
 
 sudden. 
 
 Do not say anything yet to any one. 
 G
 
 82 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Elspie, he answered, 
 Does not my friend go on Friday ? I then shall 
 
 see nothing of you. 
 Do not I go myself on Monday ? 
 
 But oh, he said, Elspie ! 
 Do as I bid you, my child : do not go on calling 
 
 me Mr. ; 
 Might I not just as well be calling you Miss 
 
 Elspie ? 
 Call me, this heavenly night for once, for the first 
 
 time, Philip. 
 Philip, she said, and laughed, and said she 
 
 could not say it ; 
 Philip, she said ; he turned, and kissed the sweet 
 
 'lips as they said it. 
 
 But on the morrow Elspie kept out of the way 
 
 of Philip : 
 And at the evening seat, when he took her hand 
 
 by the alders, 
 Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly, 
 
 No, Mr. Philip, 
 I was quite right, last night ; it is too soon, too 
 
 sudden. 
 What I told you before was foolish perhaps, was 
 
 hasty. 
 When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified 
 
 at it. 
 Not that at all I unsay it ; that is, I know I said 
 
 it, 
 
 And when I said it, felt it. But oh, we must wait, 
 Mr. Philip !
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 83 
 
 We mustn't pull ourselves at the great key-stone 
 
 of the centre : 
 Some one else up above must hold it, fit it, and 
 
 fix it ; 
 If we try ourselves, we shall only damage the 
 
 archway, 
 Damage all our own work that we wrought, our 
 
 painful upbuilding. 
 When, you remember, you took my hand last 
 
 evening, talking, 
 I was all over a tremble : and as you pressed the 
 
 fingers 
 After, and afterwards kissed them, I could not 
 
 speak. And then, too, 
 As we went home, you kissed me for saying your 
 
 name. It was dreadful. 
 I have been kissed before, she added, blushing 
 
 slightly, 
 I have been kissed more than once by Donald my 
 
 cousin, and others ; 
 It is the way of the lads, and I make up my mind 
 
 not to mind it ; 
 But, Mr. Philip, last night, and from you, it was 
 
 different, quite, Sir. 
 When I think of all that, I am shocked and 
 
 terrified at it. 
 Yes, it is dreadful to me. 
 
 She paused, but quickly continued, 
 Smiling almost fiercely, continued, looking upward. 
 You are too strong, you see, Mr. Philip ! just like 
 
 the sea there, 
 Which will come, through the straits and all 
 
 between the mountains
 
 84 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Forcing its great strong tide into every nook and 
 
 inlet, 
 Getting far in, up the quiet stream of sweet inland 
 
 water, 
 Sucking it up, and stopping it, turning it, driving 
 
 it backward, 
 Quite preventing its own quiet running : and then, 
 
 soon after, 
 Back it goes off, leaving weeds on the shore, and 
 
 wrack and uncleanness : 
 And the poor burn in the glen tries again its 
 
 peaceful running, 
 But it is brackish and tainted, and all its banks in 
 
 disorder. 
 That was what I dreamt all last night. I was the 
 
 burnie, 
 Trying to get along through the tyrannous brine, 
 
 and could not : 
 I was confined and squeezed in the coils of the 
 
 great salt tide, that 
 Would mix-in itself with me, and change me ; I 
 
 felt myself changing ; 
 And I struggled, and screamed, I believe, in my 
 
 dream. It was dreadful. 
 You are too strong, Mr. Philip ! I am but a poor 
 
 slender burnie, 
 Used to the glens and the rocks, the rowan and 
 
 birch of the woodies, 
 Quite unused to the great salt sea ; quite afraid 
 
 and unwilling. 
 Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip 
 
 released her fingers ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 85 
 
 As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook 
 
 and shivered ; 
 There he stood, looking pale and ghastly ; when 
 
 she had ended, 
 Answering in hollow voice, 
 
 It is true ; oh, quite true, Elspie ; 
 Oh, you are always right ; oh, what, what have I 
 
 been doing ? 
 I will depart to-morrow. But oh, forget me not 
 
 wholly, 
 Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me ; no, do not hate me, 
 
 my Elspie. 
 But a revulsion passed through the brain and 
 
 bosom of Elspie ; 
 And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting 
 
 by her knitting ; 
 Went to him, where he stood, and answered : 
 
 No, Mr. Philip, 
 No, you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle ; and I 
 
 am the foolish : 
 No, Mr. Philip, forgive me. 
 
 She stepped right to him, and boldly 
 Took up his hand, and placed it in hers : he dared 
 
 no movement ; 
 Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the 
 
 heavy elbow. 
 I am afraid, she said, but I will ; and kissed the 
 
 fingers. 
 And he fell on his knees and kissed her own past 
 
 counting. 
 
 But a revulsion wrought in the brain and bosom 
 of Elspie ;
 
 86 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 And the passion she just had compared to the 
 
 vehement ocean, 
 Urging in high spring -tide its masterful way 
 
 through the mountains, 
 Forcing and flooding the silvery stream, as it runs 
 
 from the inland ; 
 That great power withdrawn, receding here and 
 
 passive, 
 Felt she in myriad springs, her sources far in the 
 
 mountains, 
 
 Stirring, collecting, rising, upheaving, forth -out- 
 flowing, 
 Taking and joining, right welcome, that delicate 
 
 rill in the valley, 
 Filling it, making it strong, and still descending, 
 
 seeking, 
 With a blind forefeeling descending ever, and 
 
 seeking, 
 With a delicious forefeeling, the great still sea 
 
 before it ; 
 There deep into it, far, to carry, and lose in its 
 
 bosom, 
 Waters that still from their sources exhaustless 
 
 are fain to be added. 
 As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the 
 
 ground before her, 
 Yielding backward she sank to her seat, and of 
 
 what she was doing 
 Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague 
 
 emotion, 
 Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the 
 
 hair on his forehead :
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 87 
 
 And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first 
 
 time round her 
 Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her, close 
 
 to his bosom. 
 As they went home by the moon, Forgive me, 
 
 Philip, she whispered ; 
 
 I have so many things to think of, all of a sudden ; 
 I who had never once thought a thing, in my 
 
 ignorant Highlands. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Jam veniet virgo, jam dicetur Hymenceus 
 
 BUT a revulsion again came over the spirit of 
 
 Elspie, 
 When she thought of his wealth, his birth and 
 
 education : 
 Wealth indeed but small, though to her a difference 
 
 truly ; 
 Father nor mother had Philip, a thousand pounds 
 
 his portion, 
 Somewhat impaired in a world where nothing is 
 
 had for nothing ; 
 Fortune indeed but small, and prospects plain and 
 
 simple. 
 But the many things that he knew, and the 
 
 ease of a practised 
 Intellect's motion, and all those indefinable 
 
 graces 
 (Were they not hers, too, Philip ?) to speech, and 
 
 manner, and movement,
 
 88 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Lent by the knowledge of self, and wisely in- 
 structed feeling,- 
 When she thought of these, and these contemplated 
 
 daily, 
 
 Daily appreciating more, and more exactly ap- 
 praising, 
 With these thoughts, and the terror withal of a 
 
 thing she could not 
 Estimate, and of a step (such a step !) in the 
 
 dark to be taken, 
 Terror nameless and ill-understood of deserting 
 
 her station, 
 Daily heavier, heavier upon her pressed the 
 
 sorrow, 
 Daily distincter, distincter within her arose the 
 
 conviction, 
 He was too high, too perfect, and she so unfit, so 
 
 unworthy 
 (Ah me ! Philip, that ever a word such as that 
 
 should be written !), 
 It would do neither for him nor for her ; she also 
 
 was something, 
 Not much indeed, it was true, yet not to be 
 
 lightly extinguished. 
 Should he he, she said, have a wife beneath him ! 
 
 herself be 
 
 An inferior there where only equality can be ? 
 It would do neither for him nor for her. 
 
 Alas for Philip ! 
 Many were tears and great was perplexity. Nor 
 
 had availed then 
 All his prayer and all his device. But much was 
 
 spoken
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 89 
 
 Now, between Adam and Elspie : companions 
 
 were they hourly : 
 Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiring, anxiously 
 
 seeking, 
 From his experience seeking impartial accurate 
 
 statement 
 What it was to do this or do that, go hither or 
 
 thither, 
 
 How in the after-life would seem what now seem- 
 ing certain 
 Might so soon be reversed ; in her quest and 
 
 obscure exploring 
 Still from that quiet orb soliciting light to her 
 
 footsteps ; 
 Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiringly, eagerly 
 
 seeking : 
 
 Much by Adam to Elspie, informing, reassuring, 
 Much that was sweet to Elspie, by Adam heed- 
 fully speaking, 
 
 Quietly, indirectly, in general terms, of Philip, 
 Gravely, but indirectly, not as incognisant wholly, 
 But as suspending until she should seek it, direct 
 
 intimation ; 
 Much that was sweet in her heart of what he was 
 
 and would be, 
 Much that was strength to her mind, confirming 
 
 beliefs and insights 
 Pure and unfaltering, but young and mute and 
 
 timid for action : 
 Much of relations of rich and poor, and of true 
 
 education. 
 It was on Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright 
 
 October,
 
 90 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Then when brackens are changed, and heather 
 
 blooms are faded, 
 And amid russet of heather and fern green trees 
 
 are bonnie ; 
 Alders are green, and oaks ; the rowan scarlet 
 
 and yellow ; 
 One great glory of broad gold pieces appears the 
 
 aspen, 
 And the jewels of gold that were hung in the hair 
 
 of the birch-tree, 
 Pendulous, here and there, her coronet, necklace, 
 
 and ear-rings, 
 Cover her now, o'er and o'er ; she is weary and 
 
 scatters them from her. 
 There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright 
 
 October, 
 Under the alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth 
 
 to Philip, 
 For as they talked, anon she said, 
 
 It is well, Mr. Philip. 
 Yes, it is well : I have spoken, and learnt a deal 
 
 with the teacher. 
 
 At the last I told him all, I could not help it ; 
 And it came easier with him than could have been 
 
 with my father ; 
 And he calmly approved, as one that had fully 
 
 considered. 
 Yes, it is well, I have hoped, though quite too 
 
 great and sudden ; 
 I am so fearful, I think it ought not to be for 
 
 years yet. 
 I am afraid ; but believe in you ; and I trust to 
 
 the teacher ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 91 
 
 You have done all things gravely and temperate, 
 
 not as in passion ; 
 And the teacher is prudent, and surely can tell 
 
 what is likely. 
 What my father will say, I know not ; we will 
 
 obey him : 
 But for myself, I could dare to believe all well, 
 
 and venture. 
 O Mr. Philip, may it never hereafter seem to be 
 
 different ! 
 And she hid her face 
 
 Oh, where, but in Philip's bosom ! 
 
 After some silence, some tears too perchance, 
 
 Philip laughed, and said to her, 
 So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that 
 
 I'm bad enough for you. 
 Ah ! but your father won't make one half the 
 
 question about it 
 You have he'll think me, I know, nor better nor 
 
 worse than Donald, 
 Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship 
 
 and bookwork, 
 
 Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vaga- 
 bond fellow, 
 Though he allows, but he'll think it was all for 
 
 your sake, Elspie, 
 Though he allows I did some good at the end of 
 
 the shearing. 
 But I had thought in Scotland you didn't care for 
 
 this folly. 
 How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days 
 
 in the Highlands !
 
 This is what comes of the year you spent in our 
 
 foolish England. 
 You do not all of you feel these fancies. 
 
 No, she answered. 
 And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was 
 
 reviving. 
 No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for 
 
 her knitting, 
 No, nor do /, dear Philip, I don't myself feel 
 
 always 
 As I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four 
 
 days lately, 
 
 Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter, 
 Out in America there, in somebody's life of Pizarro ; 
 Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards ; only 
 
 weaker ; 
 And that the one big tree might spread its root 
 
 and branches, 
 All the lesser about it must even be felled and 
 
 perish. 
 
 No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were, 
 Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that, up 
 
 from old time 
 Growing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue 
 
 and life of 
 Bygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds 
 
 and nations 
 And must have for itself the whole world for its 
 
 root and branches. 
 No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the 
 
 shadow ; 
 Yes, and I feel the life-juices of all the world and 
 
 the ages,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 93 
 
 Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt 
 
 and poorer : 
 You are more near, but then you will help to 
 
 convey them to me. 
 No, don't smile, Philip, now, so scornfully ! While 
 
 you look so 
 Scornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing 
 
 and trembling, 
 
 Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rush- 
 ing river ; . 
 And I feel coming unto me from you, or it may 
 
 be from elsewhere, 
 Strong contemptuous resolve ; I forget, and I 
 
 bound as across it. 
 But after all, you know, it may be a dangerous 
 
 river. 
 Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can. carry 
 
 you over. 
 Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me 
 
 for a burden. 
 
 O sweet burden, he said, and are you not light 
 as a feather ? 
 But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and 
 
 ears too. 
 O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves 
 
 will support us, 
 Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat 
 
 underneath us ; 
 There is a boat, he said, and a name is written 
 
 upon it, 
 Love, he said, and kissed her. 
 
 But I will read your books, though, 
 Said she : you'll leave me some, Philip ?
 
 94 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Not I, replied he, a volume. 
 This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and 
 
 low together. 
 
 Women must read, as if they didn't know all before- 
 hand: 
 Weary of plying the pump, we turn to the running 
 
 water, 
 And the running spring will needs have a pump 
 
 built upon it. 
 Weary and sick of our books, w,e come to repose 
 
 in your eyelight, 
 As to the woodland and water, the freshness and 
 
 beauty of Nature. 
 Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of things we are sick 
 
 to the death of. 
 What, she said, and if I have let you become 
 
 my sweetheart, 
 I am to read no books ! but you may go your 
 
 ways then, 
 And I will read, she said, with my father at home 
 
 as I used to. 
 If you must have it, he said, I myself will nead 
 
 them to you. 
 Well, she said, but no, I will read to myself, 
 
 when I choose it ; 
 What, you suppose we never read anything here 
 
 in our Highlands, 
 Bella and I with the father, in all our winter 
 
 evenings 
 
 But we must go, Mr. Philip 
 
 I shall not go at all, said 
 
 He, if you call me Mr. Thank heaven ! that's 
 over for ever.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 95 
 
 No, but it's not, she said, it is not over, nor 
 
 will be. 
 Was it not then, she asked, the name I called you 
 
 first by ? 
 No, Mr. Philip, no you have kissed me enough 
 
 for two nights ; 
 No come, Philip, come, or I'll go myself without 
 
 you. 
 You never call me Philip, he answered, until I 
 
 kiss you. 
 As they went home by the moon that waning 
 
 now rose later, 
 Stepping through mossy stones by the runnel 
 
 under the alders, 
 Loitering unconsciously, Philip, she said, I will 
 
 not be a lady ; 
 We will do work together you do not wish me a 
 
 lady. 
 It is a weakness perhaps and a foolishness ; still 
 
 it is so ; 
 I have been used all my life to help myself and 
 
 others ; 
 
 I could not bear to sit and be waited on by footmen, 
 No, not even by women 
 
 And God forbid, he answered, 
 God forbid you should ever be aught but yourself, 
 
 my Elspie ! 
 As for service, I love it not, I ; your weakness is 
 
 mine too, 
 I am sure Adam told you as much as that about 
 
 me. 
 I am sure, she said, he called you wild and 
 
 flighty.
 
 96 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 That was true, he said, till my wings were 
 
 clipped. But, my Elspie, 
 You will at least just go and see my uncle and 
 
 cousins, 
 Sister, and brother, and brother's wife. You 
 
 should go, if you liked it, 
 Just as you are ; just what you are, at any rate, 
 
 my Elspie. 
 Yes, we will go, and give the old solemn gentility 
 
 stage-play 
 One little look, to leave it with all the more 
 
 satisfaction. 
 That may be, my Philip, she said ; you are 
 
 good to think of it. 
 But we are letting our fancies run on indeed ; after 
 
 all, it 
 May all come, you know, Mr. Philip, to nothing 
 
 whatever, 
 There is so much that needs to be done, so much 
 
 that may happen. 
 All that needs to be done, said he, shall be 
 
 done, and quickly. 
 And on the morrow he took good heart, and 
 
 spoke with Oavid. 
 Not unwarned the father, nor had been unperceiv- 
 
 ing: 
 Fearful much, but in all from the first reassured 
 
 by the Tutor. 
 And he remembered how he had fancied the lad 
 
 from the first ; and 
 Then, too, the old man's eye was much more for 
 
 inner than outer,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 97 
 
 And the natural tune of his heart without mis- 
 giving 
 Went to the noble words of that grand song of the 
 
 Lowlands, 
 Rank is the guinea stamp, but the man's a man for 
 
 a! that. 
 Still he was doubtful, would hear nothing of it 
 
 now, but insisted 
 Philip should go to his books ; if he chose, he 
 
 might write ; if after 
 Chose to return, might come ; he truly believed 
 
 him honest. 
 But a year must elapse, and many things might 
 
 happen. 
 Yet at the end he burst into tears, called Elspie, 
 
 and blessed them : 
 Elspie, my bairn, he said, I thought not when at 
 
 the doorway 
 Standing with you, and telling the young man 
 
 where he would find us, 
 I did not think he would one day be asking me 
 
 here to surrender 
 What is to me more than wealth in my Bothie of 
 
 Tober-na-vuolich. 
 
 IX 
 
 Arva, beata Petamus arva! 
 
 So on the morrow's morrow, with Term-time dread 
 
 returning, 
 Philip returned to his books, and read, and remained 
 
 at Oxford,
 
 98 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 All the Christmas and Easter remained and read 
 
 at Oxford. 
 Great was wonder in College when postman 
 
 showed to butler 
 Letters addressed to David Mackaye, at Tober-na- 
 
 vuolich, 
 Letter on letter, at least one a week, one every 
 
 Sunday : 
 Great at that Highland post was wonder too and 
 
 conjecture, 
 When the postman showed letters to wife, and wife 
 
 to the lassies, 
 And the lassies declared they couldn't be really to 
 
 David ; 
 Yes, they could see inside a paper with E. upon 
 
 it. 
 Great was surmise in College at breakfast, wine, 
 
 and supper, 
 Keen the conjecture and joke ; but Adam kept the 
 
 secret, 
 
 Adam the secret kept, and Philip read like fury. 
 This is a letter written by Philip at Christmas 
 
 to Adam. 
 There may be beings, perhaps, whose vocation it 
 
 is to be idle, 
 
 Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it must be : 
 Only let each man seek to be that for which nature 
 
 meant him. 
 If you were meant to plough, Lord Marquis, out 
 
 with you, and do it ; 
 If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold, I 
 
 will feed you.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 99 
 
 If you were born for a groom, and you seem, by 
 
 your dress, to believe so, 
 Do it like a man, Sir George, for pay, in a livery 
 
 stable ; 
 Yes, you may so release that slip of a boy at the 
 
 corner, 
 Fingering books at the window, misdoubting the 
 
 eighth commandment. 
 Ah, fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and 
 
 be lovely ; 
 Be so then, and I bless you. But ye, ye spurious 
 
 ware, who 
 Might be plain women, and can be by no possibility 
 
 better ! 
 
 Ye unhappy statuettes, and miserable trinkets, 
 Poor alabaster chimney-piece ornaments under 
 
 glass cases, 
 Come, in God's name, come down ! the very 
 
 French clock by you 
 Puts you to shame with ticking; the fire-irons 
 
 deride you. 
 You, young girl, who have had such advantages, 
 
 learnt so quickly, 
 
 Can you not teach ? O yes, and she likes Sunday- 
 school extremely, 
 Only it's soon in the morning. Away ! if to teach 
 
 be your calling, 
 It is no play, but a business : off! go teach and 
 
 be paid for it. 
 Lady Sophia's so good to the sick, so firm and so 
 
 gentle. 
 Is there a nobler sphere than of hospital nurse and 
 
 matron ?
 
 ioo POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Hast thou for cooking a turn, little Lady Clarissa ? 
 
 in with them, 
 In with your fingers ! their beauty it spoils, but 
 
 your own it enhances, 
 For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are 
 
 meant for. 
 This was the answer that came from the Tutor, 
 
 the grave man, Adam. 
 When the armies are set in array, and the battle 
 
 beginning, 
 Is it well that the soldier whose post is far to the 
 
 leftward 
 Say, I will go to the right, it is there I shall do 
 
 best service ? 
 There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who 
 
 arrays our battalions ; 
 Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in 
 
 our stations. 
 
 This was the final retort from the eager, im- 
 petuous Philip. 
 I am sorry to say your Providence puzzles me 
 
 sadly ; 
 Children of Circumstance are we to be ? you answer, 
 
 On no wise ! 
 Where does Circumstance end, and Providence, 
 
 where begins it ? 
 What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends 
 
 with ? 
 If there is battle, 'tis battle by night, I stand in 
 
 the darkness, 
 Here in the mele"e of men, Ionian and Dorian on 
 
 both sides,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 101 
 
 Signal and password known ; which is friend and 
 
 which is foeman ? 
 Is it a friend ? I doubt, though he speak with the 
 
 voice of a brother. 
 Still you are right, I suppose ; you always are, and 
 
 will be ; 
 Though I mistrust the Field-Marshal, I bow to the 
 
 duty of order. 
 
 Yet is my feeling rather to ask, where is the battle ? 
 Yes, I could find in my heart to cry, notwithstand- 
 ing my Elspie, 
 O that the armies indeed were arrayed ! O joy 
 
 of the onset ! 
 Sound, thou Trumpet of God, come forth, Great 
 
 Cause, to array us, 
 King and leader appear, thy soldiers sorrowing 
 
 seek thee. 
 Would that the armies indeed were arrayed, O 
 
 where is the battle ! 
 Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor King in 
 
 Israel, 
 
 Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation, 
 Backed by a solemn appeal, ' For God's sake, do 
 
 not stir, there ! ' 
 Yet you are right, I suppose ; if you don't attack 
 
 my conclusion, 
 Let us get on as we can, and do the thing we are 
 
 fit for ; 
 Every one for himself, and the common success 
 
 for us all, and 
 Thankful, if not for our own, why then for the 
 
 triumph of others,
 
 102 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Get along, each as we can, and do the thing we 
 
 are meant for. 
 That isn't likely to be by sitting still, eating and 
 
 drinking. 
 
 These are fragments again without date ad- 
 dressed to Adam. 
 
 As at return of tide the total weight of ocean, 
 Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and 
 
 Greenland, 
 Sets -in amain, in the open space betwixt Mull 
 
 and Scarba, 
 Heaving, swelling, spreading the might of the 
 
 mighty Atlantic ; 
 There into cranny and slit of the rocky, cavernous 
 
 bottom 
 Settles down, and with dimples huge the smooth 
 
 sea-surface 
 Eddies, coils, and whirls ; by dangerous Corry- 
 
 vreckan : 
 So in my soul of souls, through its cells and secret 
 
 recesses, 
 Comes back, swelling and spreading, the old 
 
 democratic fervour. 
 But as the light of day enters some populous 
 
 city, 
 
 Shaming away, ere it come, by the chilly day- 
 streak signal, 
 High and low, the misusers of night, shaming out 
 
 the gas-lamps 
 All the great empty streets are flooded with 
 
 broadening clearness, 
 Which, withal, by inscrutable simultaneous access
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 103 
 
 Permeates far and pierces to the very cellars 
 
 lying in 
 Narrow high back -lane, and court, and alley of 
 
 alleys : 
 He that goes forth to his walks, while speeding 
 
 to the suburb, 
 Sees sights only peaceful and pure : as labourers 
 
 settling 
 
 Slowly to work, in their limbs the lingering sweet- 
 ness of slumber ; 
 Humble market-carts, coming in, bringing in, not 
 
 only 
 Flower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of 
 
 the country 
 Dwelling yet on the sense of the dreamy drivers ; 
 
 soon after 
 Half- awake servant - maids unfastening drowsy 
 
 shutters 
 Up at the windows, or down, letting-in the air by 
 
 the doorway ; 
 School-boys, school-girls soon, with slate, portfolio, 
 
 satchel, 
 Hampered as they haste, those running, these 
 
 others maidenly tripping ; 
 Early clerk anon turning out to stroll, or it may 
 
 be 
 Meet his sweetheart waiting behind the garden 
 
 gate there ; 
 Merchant on his grass-plat haply bare-headed ; 
 
 and now by this time 
 Little child bringing breakfast to ' father ' that sits 
 
 on the timber
 
 104 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 There by the scaffolding ; see, she waits for the 
 
 can beside him ; 
 Meantime above purer air untarnished of new-lit 
 
 fires : 
 So that the whole great wicked artificial civilised 
 
 fabric 
 All its unfinished houses, lots for sale, and railway 
 
 out-works 
 Seems reaccepted, resumed to Primal Nature and 
 
 Beauty : 
 Such in me, and to me, and on me the love 
 
 of Elspie ! 
 Philip returned to his books, but returned to 
 
 his Highlands after ; 
 
 Got a first, 'tis said ; a winsome bride, 'tis certain. 
 There while courtship was ending, nor yet the 
 
 wedding appointed, 
 Under her father he studied the handling of hoe 
 
 and of hatchet : 
 Thither that summer succeeding came Adam and 
 
 Arthur to see him 
 Down by the lochs from the distant Glenmorison ; 
 
 Adam the Tutor, 
 Arthur, and Hope ; and the Piper anon who was 
 
 there for a visit ; 
 He had been into the schools ; plucked almost ; 
 
 all but a gone-coon ; 
 So he declared ; never once had brushed up his 
 
 hairy Aldrich ; 
 Into the great might-have-been upsoaring sublime 
 
 and ideal 
 
 Gave to historical questions a free poetical treat- 
 ment ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 105 
 
 Leaving vocabular ghosts undisturbed in their 
 
 lexicon-limbo, 
 Took Aristophanes up at a shot ; and the whole 
 
 three last weeks 
 Went, in his life and the sunshine rejoicing, to 
 
 Nuneham and Godstowe : 
 What were the claims of Degree to those of life 
 
 and the sunshine ? 
 There did the four find Philip, the poet, the 
 
 speaker, the Chartist, 
 Delving at Highland soil, and railing at Highland 
 
 landlords, 
 Railing, but more, as it seemed, for the fun of the 
 
 Piper's fury. 
 There saw they David and Elspie Mackaye, and 
 
 the Piper was almost, 
 Almost deeply in love with Bella the sister of 
 
 Elspie ; 
 But the good Adam was heedful : they did not go 
 
 too often. 
 There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright 
 
 October, 
 When the brackens are changed, and heather 
 
 blooms are faded, 
 And amid russet of heather and fern green trees 
 
 are bonnie, 
 Alders are green, and oaks, the rowan scarlet and 
 
 yellow, 
 Heavy the aspen, and heavy with jewels of gold 
 
 the birch-tree, 
 There, when shearing had ended, and barley- 
 
 stooks were garnered,
 
 io6 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling 
 
 Elspie ; 
 Elspie the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip 
 
 the poet. 
 So won Philip his bride. They are married 
 
 and gone But oh, Thou 
 Mighty one, Muse of great Epos, and Idyll the 
 
 playful and tender, 
 Be it recounted in song, ere we part, and thou fly 
 
 to thy Pindus, 
 (Pindus is it, O Muse, or yEtna, or even Ben- 
 
 nevis ?) 
 Be it recounted in song, O Muse of the Epos and 
 
 Idyll, 
 Who gave what at the wedding, the gifts and fair 
 
 gratulations. 
 Adam, the grave careful Adam, a medicine 
 
 chest and tool-box, 
 Hope a saddle, and Arthur a plough, and the 
 
 Piper a rifle, 
 Airlie a necklace for Elspie, and Hobbes a Family 
 
 Bible, 
 Airlie a necklace, and Hobbes a Bible and iron 
 
 bedstead. 
 What was the letter, O Muse, sent withal by 
 
 the corpulent hero ? 
 This is the letter of Hobbes the kilted and 
 
 corpulent hero. 
 So the last speech and confession is made, O 
 
 my eloquent speaker ! 
 So the good time is coming, or come is it ? O 
 
 my Chartist !
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 107 
 
 So the cathedral is finished at last, O my Pugin 
 
 of women ; 
 Finished, and now, is it true ? to be taken out 
 
 whole to New Zealand ! 
 Well, go forth to thy field, to thy barley, with 
 
 Ruth, O Boaz, 
 Ruth, who for thee hath deserted her people, her 
 
 gods, her mountains. 
 Go, as in Ephrath of old, in the gate of Bethlehem 
 
 said they, 
 Go, be the wife in thy house both Rachel and 
 
 Leah unto thee ; 
 
 Be thy wedding of silver, albeit of iron thy bed- 
 stead ! 
 Yea, to the full golden fifty renewed be ! and fair 
 
 memoranda 
 Happily fill the fly-leaves duly left in the Family 
 
 Bible. 
 Live, and when Hobbes is forgotten, may'st thou, 
 
 an unroasted Grandsire, 
 See thy children's children, and Democracy upon 
 
 New Zealand ! 
 This was the letter of Hobbes, and this the 
 
 postscript after. 
 Wit in the letter will prate, but wisdom speaks in 
 
 a postscript ; 
 Listen to wisdom Which things you perhaps 
 
 didn't know, my dear fellow, 
 I have reflected ; Which things are an allegory, 
 
 Philip. 
 For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage ; which, I 
 
 have seen it,
 
 io8 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Lo, and have known it, is always, and must be, 
 
 bigamy only, 
 Even in noblest kind a duality, compound, and 
 
 complex, 
 One part heavenly-ideal, the other vulgar and 
 
 earthy : 
 For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage, and Laban, 
 
 their father, 
 Circumstance, chance, the world, our uncle and 
 
 hard task-master. 
 Rachel we found as we fled from the daughters of 
 
 Heth by the desert ; 
 Rachel we met at the well ; we came, we saw, we 
 
 kissed her ; 
 Rachel we serve-for, long years, that seem as a 
 
 few days only, 
 E'en for the love we have to her, and win her at 
 
 last of Laban. 
 Is it not Rachel we take in our joy from the hand 
 
 of her father ? 
 Is it not Rachel we lead in the mystical veil from 
 
 the altar ? 
 Rachel we dream- of at night: in the morning, 
 
 behold, it is Leah. 
 ' Nay, it is custom,' saith Laban, the Leah indeed 
 
 is the elder. 
 Happy and wise who consents to redouble his 
 
 service to Laban, 
 So, fulfilling her week, he may add to the elder 
 
 the younger, 
 
 Not repudiates Leah, but wins the Rachel unto her ! 
 Neither hate thou thy Leah, my Jacob, she also 
 
 is worthy ;
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 109 
 
 So, many days shall thy Rachel have joy, and 
 
 survive her sister ; 
 Yea, and her children Which things are an 
 
 allegory, Philip, 
 Aye, and by Origen's head with a vengeance truly, 
 
 a long one ! 
 This was a note from the Tutor, the grave man, 
 
 nick-named Adam. 
 I shall see you of course, my Philip, before your 
 
 departure. 
 Joy be with you, my boy, with you and your 
 
 beautiful Elspie. 
 Happy is he that found, and finding was not 
 
 heedless ; 
 Happy is he that found, and happy the friend 
 
 that was with him. 
 So won Philip his bride : 
 
 They are married and gone to New Zealand. 
 Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books, and 
 
 two or three pictures, 
 Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the 
 
 sphere to New Zealand. 
 There he hewed, and dug ; subdued the earth and 
 
 his spirit ; 
 There he built him a home ; there Elspie bare 
 
 him his children, 
 David and Bella ; perhaps ere this too an Elspie 
 
 or Adam ; 
 There hath he farmstead and land, and fields of 
 
 corn and flax fields ; 
 And the Antipodes too have a Bothie of Tober-na- 
 
 vuolich.
 
 EARLY POEMS
 
 EARLY POEMS 113 
 
 REVIVAL 
 
 So I went wrong, 
 
 Grievously wrong, but folly crushed itself, 
 And vanity o'ertoppling fell, and time 
 And healthy discipline and some neglect, 
 Labour and solitary hours revived 
 Somewhat, at least, of that original frame. 
 Oh, well do I remember then the days 
 When on some grassy slope (what time the sun 
 Was sinking, and the solemn eve came down 
 With its blue vapour upon field and wood 
 And elm-embosomed spire) once more again 
 I fed on sweet emotion, and my heart 
 With love o'erflowed, or hushed itself in fear 
 Unearthly, yea celestial. Once again 
 My heart was hot within me, and, me seemed, 
 I too had in my body breath to wind 
 The magic horn of song ; I too possessed 
 Up-welling in my being's depths a fount 
 Of the true poet-nectar whence to fill 
 The golden urns of verse. 
 
 1839
 
 114 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 IN 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 broken cisterns wherefore go, 
 
 While from the secret treasure-depths below, 
 
 Fed by the skiey shower, 
 
 And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops high, 
 
 Wisdom at once, and Power, 
 
 Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly ? 
 
 Why labour at the dull mechanic oar, 
 
 When the fresh breeze is blowing, 
 
 And the strong current flowing, 
 
 Right onward to the Eternal Shore ? 
 
 1840
 
 EARLY POEMS 115 
 
 A SONG OF AUTUMN 
 
 MY wind is turned to bitter north, 
 
 That was so soft a south before ; 
 My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 
 
 With foggy gloom is clouded o'er : 
 My gay green leaves are yellow-black, 
 
 Upon the dank autumnal floor ; 
 For love, departed once, comes back 
 
 No more again, no more. 
 
 A roofless ruin lies my home, 
 
 For winds to blow and rains to pour 
 One frosty night befell, and lo ! 
 
 I find my summer days are o'er : 
 The heart bereaved, of why and how 
 
 Unknowing, knows that yet before 
 It had what e'en to Memory now 
 
 Returns no more, no more.
 
 u6 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 iA.ov 
 
 I HAVE seen higher, holier things than these, 
 And therefore must to these refuse my heart, 
 
 Yet am I panting for a little ease ; 
 I'll take, and so depart. 
 
 Ah, hold ! the heart is prone to fall away, 
 Her high and cherished visions to forget, 
 
 And if thou takest, how wilt thou repay 
 So vast, so dread a debt ? 
 
 How will the heart, which now thou trustest, 
 then 
 
 Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet, 
 Turn with sharp stings upon itself ! Again, 
 
 Bethink thee of the debt ! 
 
 Hast thou seen higher, holier things than 
 these, 
 
 And therefore must to these thy heart refuse ? 
 With the true best, alack, how ill agrees 
 
 That best that thou would'st choose ! 
 
 The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above; 
 
 Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do : 
 Amid the things allowed thee live and love ; 
 
 Some day thou shalt it view. 
 
 1841
 
 EARLY POEMS 117 
 
 X/awea /cA|/s CTrt 
 
 IF, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold, 
 A sense of human kindliness hath found us, 
 
 We seem to have around us 
 
 An atmosphere all gold, 
 'Midst darkest shades a halo rich of shine, 
 An element, that while the bleak wind bloweth, 
 
 On the rich heart bestoweth 
 
 Imbreathed draughts of wine ; 
 Heaven guide, the cup be not, as chance may be, 
 To some vain mate given up as soon as tasted ! 
 
 No, nor on thee be wasted, 
 
 Thou trifler, Poesy ! 
 
 Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ere 
 Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping ; 
 
 The fruit of dreamy hoping 
 
 Is, waking, blank despair. 
 
 1841
 
 n8 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD AND OF 
 THE SOUL 
 
 i 
 
 WHY should I say I see the things I see not ? 
 
 Why be and be not ? 
 Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I 
 
 fear not ? 
 And dance about to music that I hear not ? 
 
 Who standeth still i' the street 
 
 Shall be hustled and justled about ; 
 And he that stops i' the dance shall be spurned 
 
 by the dancers' feet, 
 
 Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall 
 meet, 
 
 And shall raise up an outcry and rout ; 
 
 And the partner, too, 
 
 What's the partner to do ? 
 
 While all the while 'tis but, perchance, an hum- 
 ming in mine ear, 
 
 That yet anon shall hear, 
 
 And I anon, the music in my soul, 
 
 In a moment read the whole ; 
 
 The music in my heart, 
 
 Joyously take my part,
 
 EARLY POEMS 119 
 
 And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with 
 these retreat, advance ; 
 
 And borne on wings of wavy sound, 
 
 Whirl with these around, around, 
 Who here are living in the living dance ! 
 
 Why forfeit that fair chance ? 
 
 Till that arrive, till thou awake, 
 
 Of these, my soul, thy music make, 
 
 And keep amid the throng, 
 And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they 
 
 are bounding, 
 Alas ! alas ! alas ! and what if all along 
 
 The music is not sounding ? 
 
 Are there not, then, two musics unto men ? 
 
 One loud and bold and coarse, 
 
 And overpowering still perforce 
 
 All tone and tune beside ; 
 
 Yet in despite its pride 
 Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred, 
 And sounding solely in the sounding head : 
 
 The other, soft and low, 
 
 Stealing whence we not know, 
 Painfully heard, and easily forgot, 
 With pauses oft and many a silence strange 
 (And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not), 
 Revivals too of unexpected change : 
 Haply thou think'st 'twill never be begun, 
 Or that 't has come, and been, and passed away 
 
 Yet turn to other none, 
 
 Turn not, oh, turn not thou !
 
 120 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 But listen, listen, listen, if haply be heard it may ; 
 Listen, listen, listen, is it not sounding now ? 
 
 ill 
 
 Yea, and as thought of some departed friend 
 By death or distance parted will descend, 
 Severing, in crowded rooms ablaze with light, 
 As by a magic screen, the seer from the sight 
 (Palsying the nerves that intervene 
 The eye and central sense between) ; 
 
 So may the ear, 
 
 Hearing not hear, 
 Though drums do roll, and pipes and cymbals 
 
 ring; 
 
 So the bare conscience of the better thing 
 Unfelt, unseen, unimaged, all unknown, 
 May fix the entranced soul 'mid multitudes alone.
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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.
 
 122 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 But O blithe breeze ; and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, 
 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there !
 
 EARLY POEMS 123 
 
 Is it true, ye gods, who treat us 
 
 As the gambling fool is treated ; 
 
 O ye, who ever cheat us, 
 
 And let us feel we're cheated ! 
 
 Is it true that poetical power, 
 
 The gift of heaven, the dower 
 
 Of Apollo and the Nine, 
 
 The inborn sense, ' the vision and the faculty 
 
 divine,' 
 
 All we glorify and bless 
 In our rapturous exaltation, 
 All invention, and creation, 
 Exuberance of fancy, and sublime imagination, 
 All a poet's fame is built on, 
 The fame of Shakespeare, Milton, 
 Of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, 
 Is in reason's grave precision, 
 Nothing more, nothing less, 
 Than a peculiar conformation, 
 Constitution, and condition 
 Of the brain and of the belly ? 
 Is it true, ye gods who cheat us ? 
 And that's the way ye treat us ?
 
 124 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Oh say it, all who think it, 
 
 Look straight, and never blink it ! 
 
 If it is so, let it be so, 
 
 And we will all agree so ; 
 
 But the plot has counterplot, 
 
 It may be, and yet be not.
 
 EARLY POEMS 125 
 
 THE NEW SINAI 
 
 Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 
 
 Believe it not, O Man ; 
 In such vain sort to this and that 
 
 The ancient heathen ran : 
 Though old Religion shake her head, 
 
 And say in bitter grief, 
 The day behold, at first foretold, 
 
 Of atheist unbelief: 
 Take better part, with manly heart, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can ; 
 Receive it not, believe it not, 
 
 Believe it not, O Man ! 
 
 As men at dead of night awaked 
 
 With cries, ' The king is here,' 
 Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet, 
 
 Whoe'er shall first appear ; 
 And still repeat, to all the street, 
 
 ' 'Tis he, the king is here ; ' 
 The long procession moveth on, 
 
 Each nobler form they see, 
 With changeful suit they still salute 
 
 And cry, ' 'Tis he, 'tis he ! '
 
 126 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 So, even so, when men were young, 
 
 And earth and heaven were new, 
 And His immediate presence He 
 
 From human hearts withdrew, 
 The soul perplexed and daily vexed 
 
 With sensuous False and True, 
 Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, 
 
 And fain would see Him too : 
 ' He is ! ' the prophet-tongues proclaimed ; 
 
 In joy and hasty fear, 
 ' He is ! ' aloud replied the crowd, 
 
 ' Is here, and here, and here.' 
 
 ' He is ! They are ! ' in distance seen 
 
 On yon Olympus high, 
 In those Avernian woods abide, 
 
 And walk this azure sky : 
 ' They are ! They are ! '- to every show 
 
 Its eyes the baby turned, 
 And blazes sacrificial, tall, 
 
 On thousand altars burned : 
 ' They are ! They are ! 'On Sinai's top 
 
 Far seen the lightnings shone, 
 The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke, 
 
 And God said, ' I am One.' 
 
 God spake it out, ' I, God, am One ;' 
 
 The unheeding ages ran, 
 And baby-thoughts again, again, 
 
 Have dogged the growing man : 
 And as of old from Sinai's top 
 
 God said that God is One,
 
 EARLY POEMS 127 
 
 By Science strict so speaks He now 
 
 To tell us, There is None ! 
 Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven's 
 
 A Me"canique Celeste ! 
 And heart and mind of human kind 
 
 A watch-work as the rest ! 
 
 Is this a Voice, as was the Voice, 
 
 Whose speaking told abroad, 
 When thunder pealed, and mountain reeled, 
 
 The ancient truth of God ? 
 Ah, not the Voice ; 'tis but the cloud, 
 
 The outer darkness dense, 
 Where image none, nor e'er was seen 
 
 Similitude of sense. 
 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense 
 
 That wrapt the Mount around ; 
 While in amaze the people stays, 
 
 To hear the Coming Sound. 
 
 Is there no prophet-soul the while 
 
 To dare, sublimely meek, 
 Within the shroud of blackest cloud 
 
 The Deity to seek ? 
 'Midst atheistic systems dark, 
 
 And darker hearts' despair, 
 That soul has heard perchance His word, 
 
 And on the dusky air 
 His skirts, as passed He by, to see 
 
 Hath strained on their behalf, 
 Who on the plain, with dance amain, 
 
 Adore the Golden Calf.
 
 128 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense ; 
 
 Though blank the tale it tells, 
 No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 
 
 Is there within it dwells ; 
 Within the sceptic darkness deep 
 
 He dwells that none may see, 
 Till idol forms and idol thoughts 
 
 Have passed and ceased to be : 
 No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth 
 
 So stand the doctrine's half: 
 On Egypt's track return not back, 
 
 Nor own the Golden Calf. 
 
 Take better part, with manlier heart, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can ; 
 No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er 
 
 Believe it ne'er O Man ! 
 But turn not then to seek again 
 
 What first the ill began ; 
 No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 
 
 God's self-completing plan ; 
 Receive it not, but leave it not, 
 
 And wait it out, O Man ! 
 
 ' The Man that went the cloud within 
 
 Is gone and vanished quite ; 
 He cometh not,' the people cries, 
 
 ' Nor bringeth God to sight : 
 Lo these thy gods, that safety give, 
 
 Adore and keep the feast ! ' 
 Deluding and deluded cries 
 
 The Prophet's brother-Priest :
 
 EARLY POEMS 129 
 
 And Israel all bows down to fall 
 Before the gilded beast. 
 
 Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 
 
 O Man, reject as sin ; 
 The clouded hill attend thou still, 
 
 And him that went within. 
 He yet shall bring some worthy thing 
 
 For waiting souls to see : 
 Some sacred word that he hath heard 
 
 Their light and life shall be ; 
 Some lofty part, than which the heart 
 
 Adopt no nobler can, 
 Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe 
 
 And thou shalt do, O Man ! 
 
 1845
 
 130 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT 
 
 THE human spirits saw I on a day, 
 
 Sitting and looking each a different way ; 
 
 And hardly tasking, subtly questioning, 
 
 Another spirit went around the ring 
 
 To each and each : and as he ceased his say, 
 
 Each after each, 1 heard them singly sing, 
 
 Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low, 
 
 We know not what avails to know ? 
 
 We know not wherefore need we know ? 
 
 This answer gave they still unto his suing, 
 
 We know not, let us do as we are doing. 
 
 Dost thou not know that these things only seem ? 
 
 I know not, let me dream my dream. 
 
 Are dust and ashes fit to make a treasure ? 
 
 I know not, let me take my pleasure. 
 
 What shall avail the knowledge thou hast sought ? 
 
 I know not, let me think my thought. 
 
 What is the end of strife ? 
 
 I know not, let me live my life. 
 
 How many days or e'er thou mean'st to move ? 
 
 I know not, let me love my love. 
 
 Were not things old once new ? 
 
 I know not, let me do as others do. 
 
 And when the rest were over past, 
 
 I know not, I will do my duty, said the last.
 
 EARLY POEMS 131 
 
 Thy duty do ? rejoined the voice, 
 Ah, do it, do it, and rejoice ; 
 But shalt thou then, when all is done, 
 Enjoy a love, embrace a beauty 
 Like these, that may be seen and won 
 In life, whose course will then be run ; 
 Or wilt thou be where there is none ? 
 I know not, I will do my duty. 
 
 And taking up the word around, above, below, 
 Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low, 
 We know not, sang they all, nor ever need we 
 
 know ; 
 
 We know not, sang they, what avails to know ? 
 Whereat the questioning spirit, some short space, 
 Though unabashed, stood quiet in his place. 
 But as the echoing chorus died away 
 And to their dreams the rest returned apace, 
 By the one spirit I saw him kneeling low, 
 And in a silvery whisper heard him say : 
 Truly, thou know'st not, and thou need'st not 
 
 know ; 
 
 Hope only, hope thou, and believe alway ; 
 I also know not, and I need not know, 
 Only with questionings pass I to and fro, 
 Perplexing these that sleep, and in their folly 
 Imbreeding doubt and sceptic melancholy ; 
 Till that, their dreams deserting, they with me 
 Come all to this true ignorance and thee. 
 
 1847
 
 132 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 BETHESDA 
 A SEQUEL 
 
 I SAW again the spirits on a day, 
 Where on the earth in mournful case they lay ; 
 Five porches were there, and a pool, and round, 
 Huddling in blankets, strewn upon the ground, 
 Tied-up and bandaged, weary, sore and spent, 
 The maimed and halt, diseased and impotent. 
 For a great angel came, 'twas said, and stirred 
 The pool at certain seasons, and the word 
 Was, with this people of the sick, that they 
 Who in the waters here their limbs should lay 
 Before the motion on the surface ceased 
 Should of their torment straightway be released. 
 So with shrunk bodies and with heads down-dropt, 
 Stretched on the steps, and at the pillars propt, 
 Watching by day and listening through the night, 
 They filled the place, a miserable sight. 
 
 And I beheld that on the stony floor 
 
 He too, that spoke of duty once before, 
 
 No otherwise than others here to-day, 
 
 Foredone and sick and sadly muttering lay. 
 
 ' I know not, I will do what is it I would say ?
 
 EARLY POEMS 133 
 
 What was that word which once sufficed alone for 
 
 all, 
 
 Which now I seek in vain, and never can recall ? ' 
 And then, as weary of in vain renewing 
 His question, thus his mournful thought pursuing, 
 ' I know not, I must do as other men are doing.' 
 
 But what the waters of that pool might be, 
 Of Lethe were they, or Philosophy ; 
 And whether he, long waiting, did attain 
 Deliverance from the burden of his pain 
 There with the rest ; or whether, yet before, 
 Some more diviner stranger passed the door 
 With his small company into that sad place, 
 And breathing hope into the sick man's face, 
 Bade him take up his bed, and rise and go, 
 What the end were, and whether it were so, 
 Further than this I saw not, neither know. 
 
 1849
 
 134 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 QUI LABORAT, ORAT 
 
 O ONLY Source of all our light and life, 
 
 Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 
 
 But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
 Alone aright reveal ! 
 
 Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought, 
 Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 
 
 Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought, 
 My will adoreth Thine. 
 
 With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind 
 Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart ; 
 
 Nor seek to see for what of earthly kind 
 Can see Thee as Thou art ? 
 
 If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 
 
 In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 
 
 It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
 In ways unworthy Thee, 
 
 O not unowned, thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
 In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 
 
 And if in work its life it seem to live, 
 Shalt make that work be prayer.
 
 EARLY POEMS 135 
 
 Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, 
 Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part, 
 
 And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
 In recognition start. 
 
 But, as thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 
 
 The beatific supersensual sight, 
 So, with Thy blessing blest, that humbler prayer 
 
 Approach Thee morn and night.
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 
 
 \
 
 FROM ' DIPSYCHUS ' 139 
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 1 
 
 The Piazza at Night 
 
 Dipsychus speaks. There have been times, not 
 
 many, but enough 
 To quiet all repinings of the heart ; 
 There have been times, in which my tranquil soul, 
 No longer nebulous, sparse, errant, seemed 
 Upon its axis solidly to move, 
 Centred and fast : no mere elastic blank 
 For random rays to traverse unretained, 
 But rounding luminous its fair ellipse 
 Around its central sun. Ay, yet again, 
 As in more faint sensations I detect, 
 With it too, round an Inner, Mightier orb, 
 Maybe with that too this I dare not say r 
 Around, yet more, more central, more supreme, 
 Whate'er how numerous soe'er they be, 
 I am and feel myself, where'er I wind, 
 What vagrant chance soe'er I seem to obey 
 Communicably theirs. 
 
 1 The blank verse extract is given out of its place, in 
 order to indicate the plan of the poem : the alternate utter- 
 ances of Dipsychus, the double-souled hesitating thinker, 
 and the practical cynic, called the Spirit, who deliver 
 themselves according to their kind, in the verses that follow.
 
 140 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 O happy hours ! 
 
 O compensation ample for long days 
 Of what impatient tongues called wretchedness ! 
 O beautiful, beneath the magic moon, 
 To walk the watery way of palaces ! 
 O beautiful, o'ervaulted with gemmed blue, 
 This spacious court, with colour and with gold, 
 With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points, 
 And crosses multiplex, and tips and balls 
 (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix, 
 Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused) ; 
 Fantastically perfect this low pile 
 Of Oriental glory ; these long ranges 
 Of classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd, 
 And the calm Campanile. Beautiful ! 
 O beautiful ! and that seemed more profound, 
 This morning by the pillar when I sat 
 Under the great arcade, at the review, 
 And took, and held, and ordered on my brain 
 The faces, and the voices, and the whole mass 
 O' the motley facts of existence flowing by ! 
 
 perfect, if 'twere all ! But it is not ; 
 Hints haunt me ever of a more beyond : 
 
 1 am rebuked by a sense of the incomplete, 
 Of a completion over soon assumed, 
 
 Of adding up too soon. What we call sin, 
 I could believe a painful opening out 
 Of paths for ampler virtue. The bare field, 
 Scant with lean ears of harvest, long had mocked 
 The vext laborious farmer ; came at length 
 The deep plough in the lazy undersoil 
 Down-driving ; with a cry earth's fibres crack, 
 And a few months, and lo ! the golden leas,
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 141 
 
 And autumn's crowded shocks and loaded wains. 
 
 Let us look back on life ; was any change, 
 
 Any now blest expansion, but at first 
 
 A pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seats 
 
 Of moral being ? To do anything, 
 
 Distinct on any one thing to decide, 
 
 To leave the habitual and the old, and quit 
 
 The easy-chair of use and wont, seems crime 
 
 To the weak soul, forgetful how at first 
 
 Sitting down seemed so too. And, oh ! this 
 
 woman's heart, 
 
 Fain to be forced, incredulous of choice, 
 And waiting a necessity for God. 
 
 Yet I could think, indeed, the perfect call 
 Should force the perfect answer. If the voice 
 Ought to receive its echo from the soul, 
 Wherefore this silence ? If it should rouse my 
 
 being, 
 Why this reluctance ? Have I not thought o'er 
 
 much 
 
 Of other men, and of the ways of the world ? 
 But what they are, or have been, matters not. 
 To thine own self be true, the wise man says. 
 Are then my fears myself? O double self! 
 And I untrue to both ? Oh, there are hours, 
 When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties, 
 And converse with old friends, and pleasant walks, 
 Familiar faces, and familiar books, 
 Study, and art, upliftings unto prayer, 
 And admiration of the noblest things, 
 Seem all ignoble only ; all is mean, 
 And nought as I would have it. Then at others, 
 My mind is in her rest ; my heart at home
 
 142 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 In all around ; my soul secure in place, 
 And the vext needle perfect to her poles. 
 Aimless and hopeless in my life I seem 
 To thread the winding byways of the town, 
 Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence, 
 All at cross-purpose even with myself, 
 Unknowing whence or whither. Thence at once, 
 At a step, I crown the Campanile's top, 
 And view all mapped below ; islands, lagoon, 
 A hundred steeples and a million roofs, 
 The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps, 
 And the broad Adriatic. Be it enough ; 
 If I lose this, how terrible ! No, no, 
 I am contented, and will not complain. 
 To the old paths, my soul ! Oh, be it so ! 
 I bear the workday burden of dull life 
 About these footsore flags of a weary world, 
 Heaven knows how long it has not been ; at once, 
 Lo ! I am in the spirit on the Lord's day 
 With John in Patmos. Is it not enough, 
 One day in seven ? and if this should go, 
 If this pure solace should desert my mind, 
 What were all else ? I dare not risk this loss. 
 To the old paths, my soul ! 
 
 Spirit. O yes. 
 
 To moon about religion ; to inhume 
 Your ripened age in solitary walks, 
 For self-discussion ; to debate in letters 
 Vext points with earnest friends ; past other men 
 To cherish natural instincts, yet to fear them 
 And less than any use them ; oh, no doubt, 
 In a corner sit and mope, and be consoled
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 143 
 
 With thinking one is clever, while the room 
 
 Rings through with animation and the dance. 
 
 Then talk of old examples ; to pervert 
 
 Ancient real facts to modern unreal dreams 
 
 And build up baseless fabrics of romance 
 
 And heroism upon historic sand ; 
 
 To burn, forsooth, for action, yet despise 
 
 Its merest accidence and alphabet ; 
 
 Cry out for service, and at once rebel 
 
 At the application of its plainest rules : 
 
 This you call life, my friend, reality ; 
 
 Doing your duty unto God and man 
 
 I know not what. Stay at Venice, if you will ; 
 
 Sit musing in its churches hour on hour 
 
 Cross-kneed upon a bench ; climb up at whiles 
 
 The neighbouring tower, and kill the lingering day 
 
 With old comparisons ; when night succeeds, 
 
 Evading, yet a little seeking, what 
 
 You would and would not, turn your doubtful eyes 
 
 On moon and stars to help morality ; 
 
 Once in a fortnight say, by lucky chance 
 
 Of happier-tempered coffee, gain (great Heaven !) 
 
 A pious rapture : is it not enough ? 
 
 Di. 'Tis well : thou cursed spirit, go thy way ! 
 I am in higher hands than yours.
 
 144 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 ' There is no God,' the wicked saith, 
 
 ' And truly it's a blessing, 
 For what He might have done with us 
 
 It's better only guessing.' 
 
 ' There is no God,' a youngster thinks, 
 
 ' Or really, if there may be, 
 He surely didn't mean a man 
 
 Always to be a baby.' 
 
 ' There is no God, or if there is,' 
 
 The tradesman thinks, ' 'twere funny 
 
 If He should take it ill in me 
 To make a little money.' 
 
 ' Whether there be,' the rich man says, 
 
 ' It matters very little, 
 For I and mine, thank somebody, 
 
 Are not in want of victual.' 
 
 Some others, also, to themselves, 
 Who scarce so much as doubt it, 
 
 Think there is none, when they are well, 
 And do not think about it. 
 
 But country folks who live beneath 
 
 The shadow of the steeple ; 
 The parson and the parson's wife, 
 
 And mostly married people ;
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 145 
 
 Youths green and happy in first love, 
 
 So thankful for illusion ; 
 And men caught out in what the world 
 
 Calls guilt, in first confusion ; 
 
 And almost every one when age, 
 
 Disease, or sorrows strike him, 
 Inclines to think there is a God, 
 
 Or something very like Him. 
 
 In a Gondola 
 
 Di. Afloat ; we move. Delicious ! Ah, 
 What else is like the gondola ? 
 This level floor of liquid glass 
 Begins beneath us swift to pass. 
 It goes as though it went alone 
 By some impulsion of its own. 
 (How light it moves, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were all things like the gondola !) 
 
 How light it moves, how softly ! Ah, 
 Could life, as does our gondola, 
 Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares, 
 And moral duties and affairs, 
 Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong, 
 For ever thus thus glide along ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !) 
 L
 
 146 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 With no more motion than should bear 
 A freshness to the languid air ; 
 With no more effort than exprest 
 The need and naturalness of rest, 
 Which we beneath a grateful shade 
 Should take on peaceful pillows laid ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !) 
 
 In one unbroken passage borne 
 To closing night from opening morn, 
 Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark 
 Some palace front, some passing bark ; 
 Through windows catch the varying shore, 
 And hear the soft turns of the oar ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how soft we skim, 
 And all in moonlight seem to swim ! 
 The south side rises o'er our bark, 
 A wall impenetrably dark ; 
 The north is seen profusely bright ; 
 The water, is it shade or light ? 
 Say, gentle moon, which conquers now 
 The flood, those massy hulls, or thou ? 
 (How light we go, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how soft we skim, 
 And all in moonlight seem to swim ! 
 In moonlight is it now, or shade ? 
 In planes of sure division made,
 
 FROM ' DIPSYCHUS ' 147 
 
 By angles sharp of palace walls 
 The clear light and the shadow falls ; 
 O sight of glory, sight of wonder ! 
 Seen, a pictorial portent, under, 
 O great Rialto, the vast round 
 Of thy thrice-solid arch profound ! 
 (How light we go, how softly ! Ah, 
 Life should be as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how soft we skim, 
 And all in moonlight seem to swim ! 
 Against bright clouds projected dark, 
 The white dome now, reclined I mark, 
 And, by o'er-brilliant lamps displayed, 
 The Doge's columns and arcade ; 
 Over still waters mildly come 
 The distant waters and the hum. 
 (How light we go, how softly ! Ah, 
 Life should be as the gondola !) 
 
 How light we go, how soft we skim, 
 And all in open moonlight swim ! 
 Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow ! 
 We go ; but wherefore thus should go ? 
 Ah, let not muscle all too strong 
 Beguile, betray thee to our wrong ! 
 On to the landing, onward. Nay, 
 Sweet dream, a little longer stay ! 
 On to the landing ; here. And, ah ! 
 Life is not as the gondola.
 
 148 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Sp. This world is very odd we see, 
 We do not comprehend it ; 
 But in one fact we all agree, 
 
 God won't, and we can't mend it. 
 
 Being common sense, it can't be sin 
 
 To take it as I find it ; 
 The pleasure to take pleasure in ; 
 
 The pain, try not to mind it. 
 
 Di. O let me love my love unto myself alone, 
 And know my knowledge to the world unknown ; 
 No witness to the vision call, 
 Beholding, unbeheld of all ; 
 And worship thee, with thee withdrawn, apart, 
 Whoe'er, whate'er thou art, 
 Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart. 
 
 Better it were, thou sayest, to consent, 
 
 Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent ; 
 
 Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure, 
 
 The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure ; 
 
 In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll, 
 
 And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul. 
 
 Nay, better far to mark off thus much air, 
 And call it heaven ; place bliss and glory there ; 
 Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky, 
 And say, what is not, will be by and by ; 
 What here exists not must exist elsewhere.
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 149 
 
 But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man ; 
 Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can. 
 
 Di. Where are the great, whom thou vvould'st 
 
 wish to praise thee ? 
 Where are the pure, whom thou would'st choose to 
 
 love thee ? 
 
 Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee, 
 Whose high commands would cheer, whose chid- 
 
 ings raise thee ? 
 
 Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find 
 In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind. 
 
 Spectator ab extra 
 
 Sp. As I sat at the cafe, I said to myself, 
 They may talk as they please about what they 
 
 call pelf, 
 They may sneer as they like about eating and 
 
 drinking, 
 
 But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking, 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 I sit at my table en grand seigneur, 
 And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor ; 
 Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good living, 
 But also the pleasure of now and then giving. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money.
 
 ISO POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 It was but last winter I came up to town, 
 But already I'm getting a little renown ; 
 I make new acquaintance where'er I appear ; 
 I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 I drive through the streets, and I care not a d n ; 
 
 The people they stare, and they ask who I am ; 
 And if I should chance to run over a cad, 
 I can pay for the damage if ever so bad. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 We stroll to our box and look down on the pit, 
 And if it weren't low should be tempted to spit ; 
 We loll and we talk until people look up, 
 And when it's half over we go out to sup. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 The best of the tables and the best of the fare 
 And as for the others, the devil may care ; 
 It isn't our fault if they dare not afford 
 To sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 We sit at our tables and tipple champagne ; 
 Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 
 The waiters they skip and they scuttle about, 
 And the landlord attends us so civilly out. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money.
 
 FROM 'DIPSYCHUS' 151 
 
 It was but last winter I came up to town, 
 But already I'm getting a little renown ; 
 I get to good houses without much ado, 
 Am beginning to see the nobility too. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 O dear ! what a pity they ever should lose it ! 
 For they are the gentry that know how to use it ; 
 So grand and so graceful, such manners, such 
 
 dinners, 
 But yet, after all, it is we are the winners. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Thus I sat at my table en grand seigneur, 
 And when I had done threw a crust to the poor ; 
 Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good eating, 
 But also the pleasure of now and then treating. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 They may talk as they please about what they 
 
 call pelf, 
 
 And how one ought never to think of one's self, 
 And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and 
 
 drinking 
 
 My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 How pleasant it is to have money.
 
 152 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Sp. Submit, submit ! 
 'Tis common sense, and human wit 
 Can claim no higher name than it. 
 Submit, submit ! 
 Devotion, and ideas, and love, 
 And beauty claim their place above ; 
 But saint and sage and poet's dreams 
 Divide the light in coloured streams, 
 Which this alone gives all combined, 
 The siccum lumen of the mind 
 Called common sense : and no high wit 
 Gives better counsel than does it. 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 To see things simply as they are 
 
 Here at our elbows, transcends far 
 
 Trying to spy out at mid-day 
 
 Some ' bright particular star,' which may, 
 
 Or not, be visible at night, 
 
 But clearly is not in daylight ; 
 
 No inspiration vague outweighs 
 
 The plain good common sense that says, 
 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 'Tis common sense, and human wit 
 
 Can ask no higher name than it. 
 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 For tell me then, in earth's great laws 
 
 Have you found any saving clause,
 
 FROM ' DI PSYCH US ' 153 
 
 Exemption special granted you 
 From doing what the rest must do ? 
 Of common sense who made you quit, 
 And told you, you'd no need of it, 
 Nor to submit ? 
 
 This stern necessity of things 
 On every side our being rings ; 
 Our sallying eager actions fall 
 Vainly against that iron wall. 
 Where once her finger points the way, 
 The wise thinks only to obey ; 
 Take life as she has ordered it, 
 And come what may of it, submit, 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Who take implicitly her will, 
 For these her vassal chances still 
 Bring store of joys, successes, pleasures ; 
 But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures, 
 She calls her torturers up to goad 
 With spur and scourges on the road ; 
 He does at last with pain whate'er 
 He spurned at first. Of such, beware, 
 Beware, beware ! 
 
 Necessity ! and who shall dare 
 
 Bring to her feet excuse or prayer ? 
 
 Beware, beware ! 
 
 We must, we must. 
 
 Howe'er we turn, and pause and tremble 
 
 Howe'er we shrink, deceive, dissemble 
 
 Whate'er our doubting, grief, disgust,
 
 154 
 
 The hand is on us, and we must, 
 We must, we must. 
 'Tis common sense ! and human wit 
 Can find no better name than 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 Di. When the enemy is near thee, 
 
 Call on us ! 
 
 In our hands we will upbear thee, 
 He shall neither scathe nor scare thee, 
 He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee. 
 
 Call on us ! 
 
 Call when all good friends have left thee, 
 Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee ; 
 Call when hope and heart are sinking, 
 And the brain is sick with thinking, 
 
 Help, O help ! 
 
 Call, and following close behind thee 
 There shall haste, and there shall find thee, 
 
 Help, sure help. 
 
 When the panic comes upon thee, 
 When necessity seems on thee, 
 Hope and choice have all foregone thee, 
 Fate and force are closing o'er thee, 
 And but one way stands before thee 
 
 Call on us ! 
 
 Oh, and if thou dost not call, 
 Be but faithful, that is all. 
 Go right on, and close behind thee 
 There shall follow still and find thee, 
 
 Help, sure help.
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE'
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 157 
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 
 
 Over the great windy waters, and over the clear- 
 crested summits, 
 Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter 
 
 earth, 
 Come, let us go, to a land wherein gods of the 
 
 old time wandered, 
 Where every breath even now changes to ether 
 
 divine. 
 Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 
 
 ' The world that we live in, 
 Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow 
 
 crib ; 
 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, 
 
 that we travel ; 
 Let who would 'scape and be free go to his 
 
 chamber and think; 
 ' Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully 
 
 falser ; 
 
 ' Tis but to go and have been.' -Come, little bark ! 
 let us go.
 
 158 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Claude to Eustace 1 
 
 ROME disappoints me much ; I hardly as yet 
 
 understand, but 
 Rubbishy seems the word that most exactly would 
 
 suit it. 
 All the foolish destructions, and all the sillier 
 
 savings, 
 All the incongruous things of past incompatible 
 
 ages, 
 Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of 
 
 present and future. 
 Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a 
 
 cleaner sweep of it ! 
 Would to Heaven some new ones would come and 
 
 destroy these churches ! 
 However, one can live in Rome as also in 
 
 London. 
 It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for 
 
 a time, of 
 All one's friends and relations, yourself (forgive 
 
 me !) included, 
 All the assujettissement of having been what one 
 
 has been, 
 What one thinks oae is, or thinks that others 
 
 suppose one ; 
 Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the 
 
 English. 
 
 1 The poem is in the form of letters from Claude the 
 traveller, in Rome, to his friend Eustace, in England.
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 159 
 
 No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian ! 
 
 canst not, 
 Strip and replaster and daub and do what they 
 
 will with thee, be so ! 
 Here underneath the great porch of colossal 
 
 Corinthian columns, 
 Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian 
 
 belfries above them ; 
 Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, 
 
 till thy whole vast 
 Round grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I 
 
 repeople thy niches, 
 Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, 
 
 and Virgins, and children, 
 But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer 
 
 worship ; 
 And I recite to myself, how 
 
 Eager for battle here 
 Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno, 
 
 And with the bow to his shoulder faithful 
 He who with pure dew laveth of Castaly 
 His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia 
 The oak forest and the wood that bore him, 
 Delos' and Patara's own Apollo. 1 
 
 1 Hie avidus stetit 
 Vulcanus, hie matrona Juno, et 
 
 Nunquam humeris positurus arcum ; 
 Qui rore puro Castaliae lavit 
 Crines solutos, qui Lycise tenet 
 Dumeta natalemque silvam, 
 Delias et Patareus Apollo.
 
 160 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 YET it is pleasant, I own it, to be in their company ; 
 
 pleasant, 
 Whatever else it may be, to abide in the feminine 
 
 presence. 
 Pleasant, but wrong, will you say ? But this 
 
 happy, serene coexistence 
 
 Is to some poor soft souls, I fear, a necessity simple, 
 Meat and drink and life, and music, filling with 
 
 sweetness, 
 Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies 
 
 strange overwhelming, 
 
 All the long-silent strings of an awkward, meaning- 
 less fabric. 
 Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with 
 
 children ; to have those 
 Pure and delicate forms encompassing, moving 
 
 about you, 
 This were enough, I could think ; and truly with 
 
 glad resignation 
 Could from the dream of Romance, from the fever 
 
 of flushed adolescence, 
 Look to escape and subside into peaceful avuncular 
 
 functions. 
 Nephews and nieces ! alas, for as yet I have none ! 
 
 and, moreover, 
 Mothers are jealous, I fear me, too often, too 
 
 rightfully ; fathers 
 Think they have title exclusive to spoiling their 
 
 own little darlings ; 
 And by the law of the land, in despite of Malthusian 
 
 doctrine,
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 161 
 
 No sort of proper provision is made for that most 
 
 patriotic, 
 Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor 
 
 uncle. 
 
 YE, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte 
 
 Cavallo 
 Stand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your 
 
 motionless movement, 
 Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil 
 
 regardant faces, 
 
 Stand as instinct with life in the might of immut- 
 able manhood, 
 O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones 
 
 of Hellas. 
 Are ye Christian too ? to convert and redeem and 
 
 renew you, 
 Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has 
 
 set up on the apex 
 Of the Egyptian stone that o'ertops you, the 
 
 Christian symbol ? 
 And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious 
 
 marble, 
 Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican 
 
 chambers, 
 Juno and Ceres, Minerva, Apollo, the Muses and 
 
 Bacchus, 
 Ye unto whom far and near come posting the 
 
 Christian pilgrims, 
 Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic 
 
 Christian Pontiff, 
 
 M
 
 162 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Are ye also baptized ? are ye of the kingdom of 
 
 Heaven ? 
 Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile 
 
 Ancient and Modern ! 
 Am I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel 
 
 of Sixtus ? 
 
 I AM in love, meantime, you think ; no doubt you 
 
 would think so. 
 I am in love, you say ; with those letters, of 
 
 course, you would say so. 
 I am in love, you declare. I think not so ; yet I 
 
 grant you 
 It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. 
 
 Oh, rare gift, 
 Rare felicity, this ! she can talk in a rational way, 
 
 can 
 Speak upon subjects that really are matters of 
 
 mind and of thinking, 
 Yet in perfection retain her simplicity ; never, one 
 
 moment, 
 Never, however you urge it, however you tempt 
 
 her, consents to 
 Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations 
 
 to those vain 
 Conscious understandings that vex the minds of 
 
 mankind. 
 No, though she talk, it is music ; her ringers desert 
 
 not the keys ; 'tis 
 Song, though you hear in the song the articulate 
 
 vocables sounded,
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 163 
 
 Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious 
 
 meaning. 
 
 I am in love, you say : I do not think so, 
 exactly. 
 
 THERE are two different kinds, I believe, of human 
 
 attraction ; 
 One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes 
 
 you uneasy, 
 And another that poises, retains, and fixes and 
 
 holds you. 
 I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice 
 
 for the latter. 
 I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I 
 
 was growing, 
 There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I 
 
 had languished. 
 I do not like being moved : for the will is excited ; 
 
 and action 
 
 Is a most dangerous thing ; I tremble for some- 
 thing factitious, 
 Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate 
 
 process ; 
 We are so prone to these things, with our terrible 
 
 notions of duty.
 
 164 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 AH, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, un- 
 hurried, unprompted ! 
 Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or 
 
 end what is present ! 
 Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never 
 
 returns, is departing ! 
 Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, 
 
 from my Eden, 
 Waiting, and watching, and looking ! Let love 
 
 be its own inspiration ! 
 Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from 
 
 the airs that environ, 
 Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our 
 
 knowledge or effort, 
 Break into audible words ? And love be its own 
 
 inspiration ? 
 
 JUXTAPOSITION, in fine ; and what is juxtaposi- 
 tion ? 
 
 Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage 
 or steamer, 
 
 And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey 
 be ended, 
 
 Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that 
 is next one ; 
 
 And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all 
 but in prospect, 
 
 Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven. 
 Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart 
 the illusion !
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 165 
 
 Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed 
 
 is the Only ! 
 Or through all transmutation, all shock and 
 
 convulsion of passion, 
 Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, 
 
 the light of our knowledge ! 
 But for his funeral train which the bridegroom 
 
 sees in the distance, 
 Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the 
 
 marriage procession ? 
 But for that final discharge, would he dare to 
 
 enlist in that service ? 
 But for that certain release, ever sign to that 
 
 perilous contract ? 
 But for that exit secure, ever bend to that 
 
 treacherous doorway ? 
 Ah, but the bride, meantime, do you think she 
 
 sees it as he does ? 
 But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and 
 
 larger existence, 
 
 Think you that man could consent to be circum- 
 scribed here into action ? 
 But for assurance within of a limitless ocean 
 
 divine, o'er 
 Whose great tranquil depths unconscious the 
 
 wind-tost surface 
 Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and 
 
 change and endure not, 
 But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, 
 
 and know it, 
 Think you we men could submit to live and move 
 
 as we do here ?
 
 166 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Ah, but the women, God bless them ! they don't 
 
 think at all about it. 
 Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And 
 
 as limited beings 
 Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an 
 
 Actual Abstract, 
 Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands 
 
 knowledge confiding, 
 Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and 
 
 dies not, 
 Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular 
 
 doings, 
 Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that 
 
 He has provided. 
 Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his 
 
 prophet. 
 Ah, but the women, alas ! they don't look at it in 
 
 that way. 
 Juxtaposition is great ; but, my friend, I fear me, 
 
 the maiden 
 Hardly would thank or acknowledge the lover 
 
 that sought to obtain her, 
 Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he 
 
 must even put up with, 
 Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that 
 
 candidly told her 
 That she is but for a space, an ad-interim solace 
 
 and pleasure, 
 That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and 
 
 absolute something, 
 Which I then for myself shall behold, and not 
 
 another,
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 167 
 
 Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I 
 
 forget not, forsake not. 
 
 Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting, 
 Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to 
 
 deceive you ? 
 Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and 
 
 revolts you, 
 Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter 
 
 and leave you ? 
 
 TlBUR is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, 
 
 and the Anio 
 
 Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence ; 
 Tibur and Anio's tide ; and cool from Lucretilis 
 
 ever, 
 With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandu- 
 
 sian fountain, 
 Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of 
 
 Horace : 
 So not seeing I sang ; so seeing and listening say 
 
 I, 
 Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell 
 
 of the Sibyl, 
 Here with Albunea's home and the grove of 
 
 Tiburnus beside me ; l 
 
 Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, 
 Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted 
 
 impetuous waters, 
 
 1 domus Albuneae resonantis, 
 
 Et praeceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda 
 Mobilibus pomaria rivis.
 
 Tivoli's waters and rocks ; and fair unto Monte 
 
 Gennaro 
 (Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and 
 
 gaze, of the shadows, 
 Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the 
 
 Nymphs, and the Graces), 
 Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing 
 
 creations, 
 Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of 
 
 Horace : 
 So not seeing I sang ; so now Nor seeing, nor 
 
 hearing, 
 Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan 
 
 embraces, 
 Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the 
 
 Monte Gennaro, 
 Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian 
 
 waters, 
 But on Montorio's height, looking down on the 
 
 tile-clad streets, the 
 Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and 
 
 kitchen-gardens, 
 
 Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim them- 
 selves Rome of the Romans, 
 But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the 
 
 vapoury mountains, 
 Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision 
 
 and fancy, 
 But on Montorio's height, with these weary 
 
 soldiers by me, 
 Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and 
 
 Tourist.
 
 FROM 'AMOURS DE VOYAGE' 169 
 
 WHITHER depart the souls of the brave that die 
 
 in the battle, 
 Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that 
 
 perishes with them ? 
 Are they upborne from the field on the slumberous 
 
 pinions of angels 
 Unto a far-off home, where the weary rest from 
 
 their labour, 
 And the deep wounds are healed, and the bitter 
 
 and burning moisture 
 Wiped from the generous eyes ? or do they linger, 
 
 unhappy, 
 Pining, and haunting the grave of their bygone 
 
 hope and endeavour ? 
 
 SHALL we come out of it all, some day, as one 
 
 does from a tunnel ? 
 
 Will it be all at once, without our doing or asking, 
 We shall behold clear day, the trees and meadows 
 
 about us, 
 And the faces of friends, and the eyes we loved 
 
 looking at us ? 
 Who knows ? Who can say ? It will not do to 
 
 suppose it.
 
 170 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Therefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envine- 
 
 yarded ruins ! 
 Therefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, 
 
 and domes ! 
 Therefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic 
 
 Albano, 
 Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and ^Esula^s 
 
 hills ! 
 Ah, could we once, ere we go, could we stand, 
 
 while, to ocean descending, 
 Sinks o'er the yellow dark plain slowly the 
 
 yellow broad sun, 
 Stand, from the forest emerging at sunset, at once 
 
 in the champaign, 
 
 Open, but studded with trees, chestnuts um- 
 brageous and old, 
 E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy 
 
 beautiful hollow, 
 Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the 
 
 hill! 
 Therefore farewell, ye plains, and ye hills, and 
 
 the City Eternal .' 
 
 Therefore farewell ! We depart, but to behold 
 you again /
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 173 
 
 'WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, 
 NEITHER SHADOW OF TURNING' 
 
 IT fortifies my soul to know 
 
 That, though I perish, Truth is so : 
 
 That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
 
 Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. 
 
 I steadier step when I recall 
 
 That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall.
 
 174 
 
 THE LATEST DECALOGUE 
 
 THOU shalt have one God only ; who 
 Would be at the expense of two ? 
 No graven images may be 
 Worshipped, except the currency : 
 Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse 
 Thine enemy is none the worse : 
 At church on Sunday to attend 
 Will serve to keep the world thy friend : 
 Honour thy parents ; that is, all 
 From whom advancement may befall : 
 Thou shalt not kill ; but need'st not strive 
 Officiously to keep alive : 
 Do not adultery commit ; 
 Advantage rarely comes of it : 
 Thou shalt not steal ; an empty feat, 
 When it's so lucrative to cheat : 
 Bear not false witness ; let the lie 
 Have time on its own wings to fly : 
 Thou shalt not covet, but tradition 
 Approves all forms of competition.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 175 
 
 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE 
 
 HOPE evermore and believe, O man, for e'en as 
 
 thy thought 
 So are the things that thou see'st ; e'en as thy 
 
 hope and belief. 
 Cowardly art thou and timid ? they rise to provoke 
 
 thee against them ; 
 Hast thou courage ? enough, see them exulting 
 
 to yield. 
 Yea, the rough rock, the dull earth, the cold sea's 
 
 furying waters 
 (Violent, say'st thou and hard, mighty thou 
 
 think'st to destroy), 
 
 All with ineffable longing are waiting their Invader, 
 All, with one varying voice, call to him, Come 
 
 and subdue ; 
 Still for their Conqueror call, and, but for the joy 
 
 of being conquered 
 (Rapture they would not forego), dare to resist 
 
 and rebel ; 
 Still, when resisting and raging, in soft under- voice 
 
 say unto him, 
 
 Fear not, retire not, O man : hope evermore 
 and believe.
 
 176 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Go from the east to the west, as the sun and the 
 
 stars direct thee, 
 Go, with the girdle of man, go and encompass 
 
 the earth. 
 Not for the gain of the gold ; for the getting, the 
 
 hoarding, the having, 
 But for the joy of the deed ; but for the duty 
 
 to do. 
 Go with the spiritual life, the higher volition and 
 
 action, 
 
 With the great girdle of God, go and encompass 
 the earth. 
 
 Go ; say not in thy heart, And what then were it 
 
 accomplished, 
 Were the wild impulse allayed, what were the use 
 
 or the good ! 
 Go, when the instinct is stilled, and when the deed 
 
 is accomplished, 
 What thou hast done and shalt do, shall be 
 
 declared to thee then. 
 Go with the sun and the stars, and yet evermore 
 
 in thy spirit 
 Say to thyself: It is good : yet is there better 
 
 than it. 
 This that I see is not all, and this that I do is but 
 
 little ; 
 
 Nevertheless it is good, though there is better 
 than it.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 177 
 
 'THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY' 
 
 WHAT we, when face to face we see 
 The Father of our souls, shall be, 
 John tells us, doth not yet appear ; 
 Ah ! did he tell what we are here ! 
 
 A mind for thoughts to pass into, 
 A heart for loves to travel through, 
 Five senses to detect things near, 
 Is this the whole that we are here ? 
 
 Rules baffle instincts instincts rules, 
 Wise men are bad and good are fools, 
 Facts evil wishes vain appear, 
 We cannot go, why are we here ? 
 
 O may we for assurance' sake, 
 Some arbitrary judgment take, 
 And wilfully pronounce it clear, 
 For this or that 'tis we are here ? 
 
 Or is it right, and will it do, 
 To pace the sad confusion through, 
 And say : It doth not yet appear, 
 What we shall be, what we are here ? 
 
 N
 
 178 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Ah yet, when all is thought and said, 
 The heart still overrules the head ; 
 Still what we hope we must believe, 
 And what is given us receive ; 
 
 Must still believe, for still we hope 
 That in a world of larger scope, 
 What here is faithfully begun 
 Will be completed, not undone.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 179 
 
 AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN ! 
 
 ' OLD things need not be therefore true,' 
 O brother men, nor yet the new ; 
 Ah ! still awhile the old thought retain, 
 And yet consider it again ! 
 
 The souls of now two thousand years 
 Have laid up here their toils and fears, 
 And all the earnings of their pain, 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! 
 
 We ! what do we see ? each a space 
 Of some few yards before his face ; 
 Does that the whole wide plan explain ? 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! 
 
 Alas ! the great world goes its way, 
 And takes its truth from each new day ; 
 They do not quit, nor can retain, 
 Far less consider it again. 
 
 1851
 
 i8o POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 ITE DOMUM SATURN, VENIT 
 HESPERUS 
 
 THE skies have Sunk, and hid the upper snow 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), 
 The rainy clouds are filing fast below, 
 And 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they 
 O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie). 
 And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind 
 The pleasant huts and herds he left behind ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 181 
 
 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 to 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, 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 182 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 A LONDON IDYLL 
 
 ON grass, on gravel, in the sun, 
 
 Or now beneath the shade, 
 They went, in pleasant Kensington, 
 
 A prentice and a maid. 
 That Sunday morning's April glow, 
 
 How should it not impart 
 A stir about the veins that flow 
 
 To feed the youthful heart. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, and years may bring 
 
 The truth that is not bliss, 
 But will they bring another thing 
 That can compare with this ? 
 
 I read it in that arm she lays 
 
 So soft on his ; her mien, 
 Her step, her very gown betrays 
 
 (What in her eyes were seen) 
 That not in vain the young buds round, 
 
 The cawing birds above, 
 The air, the incense of the ground, 
 
 Are whispering, breathing love. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, etc.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 183 
 
 To inclination, young and blind, 
 
 So perfect, as they lent, 
 By purest innocence confined 
 
 Unconscious free consent. 
 Persuasive power of vernal change, 
 
 On this, thine earliest day, 
 Canst thou have found in all thy range 
 
 One fitter type than they ? 
 
 Ah ! years may come, etc. 
 
 Th' high-titled cares of adult strife, 
 
 Which we our duties call, 
 Trades, arts, and politics of life, 
 
 Say, have they after all, 
 One other object, end or use 
 
 Than that, for girl and boy, 
 The punctual earth may still produce 
 
 This golden flower of joy ? 
 
 Ah ! years may come, etc. 
 
 O odours of new-budding rose, 
 O lily's chaste perfume, 
 
 fragrance that didst first unclose 
 The young Creation's bloom ! 
 
 Ye hang around me, while in sun 
 Anon and now in shade, 
 
 1 watched in pleasant Kensington 
 
 The prentice and the maid. 
 
 Ah ! years may come, and years may bring 
 
 The truth that is not bliss, 
 But will they bring another thing 
 That will compare with this ?
 
 184 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 
 
 O STREAM descending to the sea, 
 Thy mossy banks between, 
 
 The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow, 
 The leafy trees are green. 
 
 In garden plots the children play, 
 The fields the labourers till, 
 
 And houses stand on either hand, 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O life descending into death, 
 
 Our waking eyes behold, 
 Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
 
 Companions young and old. 
 
 Strong purposes our mind possess, 
 
 Our hearts affections fill, 
 We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 
 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O end to which our currents tend, 
 
 Inevitable sea, 
 To which we flow, what do we know, 
 
 What shall we guess of thee ? 
 
 A roar we hear upon thy shore, 
 
 As we our course fulfil ; 
 Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
 
 And be above us still.
 
 MISCFXLANEOUS POEMS 185 
 
 IN A LONDON SQUARE 
 
 PUT forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, 
 
 East wind and frost are safely gone ; 
 With zephyr mild and balmy rain 
 
 The summer comes serenely on ; 
 Earth, air, and sun and skies combine 
 
 To promise all that's kind and fair : 
 But thou, O human heart of mine, 
 
 Be still, contain thyself, and bear. 
 
 December days were brief and chill, 
 
 The winds of March were--wild and drear, 
 And, nearing and receding still, 
 
 Spring never would, we thought, be here. 
 The leaves that burst, the .suns that shine, 
 
 Had, not the less, their certain date : 
 And thou, O human heart of mine, 
 
 Be still, refrain thyself," and wait.
 
 186 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 THE SHADOW 1 
 
 I DREAMED a dream : I dreamt that I espied, 
 
 Upon a stone that was not rolled aside, 
 
 A Shadow sit upon a grave a Shade, 
 
 As thin, as unsubstantial, as of old 
 
 Came, the Greek poet told, 
 
 To lick the life-blood in the trench Ulysses made 
 
 As pale, as thin, and said : 
 
 ' I am the Resurrection of the Dead. 
 
 The night is past, the morning is at hand, 
 
 And I must in my proper semblance stand, 
 
 Appear brief space and vanish, listen, this is true, 
 
 I am that Jesus whom they slew.' 
 
 And shadows dim, I dreamed, the dead apostles 
 
 came, 
 
 And bent their heads for sorrow and for shame 
 Sorrow for their great loss, and shame 
 For what they did in that vain name. 
 
 And in long ranges far behind there seemed 
 Pale vapoury angel forms ; 'or was it cloud ? that 
 
 kept 
 Strange watch ; the women also stood beside and 
 
 wept. 
 
 1 The manuscript of this poem is incomplete.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 187 
 
 And Peter spoke the word : 
 ' O my own Lord, 
 What is it we must do ? 
 Is it then all untrue ? 
 
 Did we not see, and hear, and handle Thee, 
 Yea, for whole hours 
 Upon the Mount in Galilee, 
 On the lake shore, and here at Bethany, 
 When Thou ascendedst to Thy God and ours ? ' 
 
 And paler still became the distant cloud, 
 And at the word the women wept aloud. 
 
 And the Shade answered, ' What ye say I know 
 not ; 
 
 But it is true 
 
 I am that Jesus whom they slew, 
 Whom ye have preached, but in what way I know 
 not.' 
 
 And the great World, it chanced, came by that 
 
 way, 
 
 And stopped, and looked, and spoke to the police, 
 And said the thing, for order's sake and peace, 
 Most certainly must be suppressed, the nuisance 
 
 cease. 
 
 His wife and daughter must have where to pray, 
 And whom to pray to, at the least one day 
 In seven, and something sensible to say. 
 
 Whether the fact so many years ago 
 Had, or not, happened, how was he to know ? 
 Yet he had always heard that it was so. 
 As for himself, perhaps it was all one ;
 
 i88 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 And yet he found it not unpleasant, too, 
 On Sunday morning in the roomy pew, 
 To see the thing with such decorum done. 
 As for himself, perhaps it was all one ; 
 Yet on one's death-bed all men always said 
 It was a comfortable thing to think upon 
 The atonement and the resurrection of the dead. 
 So the great World as having said his say, 
 Unto his country-house pursued his way. 
 And on the grave the Shadow sat all day.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 EASTER DAY 
 
 NAPLES, 1849 
 
 THROUGH the great sinful streets of Naples as I 
 
 past, 
 
 With fiercer heat than flamed above my head 
 My heart was hot within me ; till at last 
 
 My brain was lightened when my tongue had 
 said 
 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Christ is not risen, no 
 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 What though the stone were rolled away, and 
 though 
 
 The grave found empty there ? 
 
 If not there, then elsewhere ; 
 If not where Joseph laid Him first, why then 
 
 Where other men 
 Translaid Him after, in some humbler clay. 
 
 Long ere to-day 
 
 Corruption that sad perfect work hath done, 
 Which here she scarcely, lightly had begun : 
 
 The foul engendered worm 
 Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form
 
 IQO POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Of our most Holy and Anointed One. 
 He is not risen, no 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 What if the women, ere the dawn was grey, 
 Saw one or more great angels, as they say 
 (Angels, or Him Himself) ? Yet neither there, 
 
 nor then, 
 
 Nor afterwards, nor elsewhere, nor at all, 
 Hath He appeared to Peter or the Ten ; 
 Nor, save in thunderous terror, to blind Saul ; 
 Save in an after Gospel and late Creed, 
 He is not risen, indeed, 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Or, what if e'en, as runs a tale, the Ten 
 Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet again ? 
 What if at Emmaiis' inn, and by Capernaum's 
 Lake, 
 
 Came One, the bread that brake 
 Came One that spake as never mortal spake, 
 And with them ate, and drank, and stood, and 
 walked about ? 
 
 Ah ! ' some ' did well to ' doubt ' ! 
 Ah ! the true Christ, while these things came to 
 
 pass, 
 
 Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor lived, alas ! 
 He was not risen, no 
 He lay and mouldered low, 
 Christ was not risen !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 191 
 
 As circulates in some great city crowd 
 
 A rumour changeful, vague, importunate, and loud, 
 
 From no determined centre, or of fact 
 
 Or authorship exact, 
 
 Which no man can deny 
 Nor verify ; 
 
 So spread the wondrous fame ; 
 
 He all the same 
 
 Lay senseless, mouldering, low : 
 
 He was not risen, no 
 Christ was not risen ! 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the unjust, also of the just 
 Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
 This is the one sad Gospel that is true 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Is He not risen, and shall we not rise ? 
 
 Oh, we unwise ! 
 
 What did we dream, what wake we to discover ? 
 Ye hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, cover ! 
 
 In darkness and great gloom 
 Come ere we thought it is our day of doom ; 
 From the cursed world, which is one tomb, 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Eat, drink, and play, and think that this is bliss : 
 There is no heaven but this ; 
 
 There is no hell, 
 Save earth, which serves the purpose doubly well, 
 
 Seeing it visits still 
 With equal! est apportionment of ill
 
 192 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Both good and bad alike, and brings to one same 
 dust 
 
 The unjust and the just 
 With Christ, who is not risen. 
 
 Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls bereaved : 
 Of all the creatures under heaven's wide cope 
 We are most hopeless, who had once most hope, 
 And most beliefless, that had most believed. 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the unjust, also of the just 
 Yea, of that Just One too ! 
 It is the one sad Gospel that is true 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Weep not beside the tomb, 
 
 Ye women, unto whom 
 He was great solace while ye tended Him ; 
 
 Ye who with napkin o'er the head 
 And folds of linen round each wounded limb 
 
 Laid out the Sacred Dead ; 
 
 And thou that bar'st Him in thy wondering womb; 
 Yea, Daughters of Jerusalem, depart, 
 Bind up as best ye may your own sad bleeding 
 
 heart : 
 Go to your homes, your living children tend, 
 
 Your earthly spouses love ; 
 
 Set your affections not on things above, 
 Which moth and rust corrupt, which quickliest 
 
 come to end : 
 
 Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye can, 
 For death ; since dead is He whom ye deemed 
 more than man,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 193 
 
 Who is not risen : no 
 But lies and moulders low 
 Who is not risen ! 
 
 Ye men of Galilee ! 
 Why stand ye looking up to heaven, where Him 
 
 ye ne'er may see, 
 
 Neither ascending hence, nor returning hither 
 again ? 
 
 Ye ignorant and idle fishermen ! 
 Hence to your huts, and boats, and inland native 
 shore, 
 
 And catch not men, but fish ; 
 Whate'er things ye might wish, 
 Him neither here nor there ye e'er shall meet with 
 more. 
 
 Ye poor deluded youths, go home, 
 Mend the old nets ye left to roam, 
 Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail : 
 It was indeed an 'idle tale' 
 He was not risen ! 
 
 And, oh, good men of ages yet to be, 
 Who shall believe because ye did not see 
 Oh, be ,ye warned, be wise ! 
 No more with pleading eyes, 
 And sobs of strong desire, 
 Unto the empty vacant void aspire, 
 Seeking another and impossible birth 
 That is not of your own, and only mother earth. 
 But if there is no other life for you, 
 Sit clown and be content, since this must even do : 
 He is not risen !
 
 194 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 One look, and then depart, 
 Ye humble and ye holy men of heart ; 
 And ye ! ye ministers and stewards of a Word 
 Which ye would preach, because another heard 
 Ye worshippers of that ye do not know, 
 Take these things hence and go : 
 He is not risen ! 
 
 Here, on our Easter Day 
 We rise, we come, and lo ! we find Him not, 
 Gardener nor other, on the sacred spot : 
 Where they have laid Him there is none to say ; 
 No sound, nor in, nor out no word 
 Of where to seek the dead or meet the living Lord. 
 There is no glistering of an angel's wings, 
 There is no voice of heavenly clear behest : 
 Let us go hence, and think upon these things 
 
 In silence, which is best. 
 
 Is He not risen ? No 
 
 But lies and moulders low ? 
 Christ is not risen ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 195 
 
 EASTER DAY 
 
 So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone, 
 
 I with my secret self held communing of mine 
 
 own. 
 
 So in the southern city spake the tongue 
 Of one that somewhat overwildly sung, 
 But in a later hour I sat and heard 
 Another voice that spake another graver word. 
 Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said, 
 Though He be dead, He is not dead. 
 In the true creed 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen. 
 
 Weep not beside His tomb, 
 
 Ye women unto whom 
 
 He was great comfort and yet greater grief ; 
 
 Nor ye, ye faithful few that wont with Him to 
 
 roam, 
 Seek sadly what for Him ye left, go hopeless to 
 
 your home ; 
 
 Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their belief; 
 Though He be dead, He is not dead, 
 Nor gone, though fled, 
 Not lost, though vanished ;
 
 196 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Though He return not, though 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 In the true creed 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen. 
 
 Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground, 
 
 Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look around. 
 
 Whate'er befell, 
 
 Earth is not hell ; 
 Now, too, as when it first began, 
 Life is yet life, and man is man. 
 For all that breathe beneath the heaven's high 
 
 cope, 
 
 Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope. 
 Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief : 
 Or at least, faith unbelief. 
 
 Though dead, not dead ; 
 
 Not gone, though fled ; 
 
 Not lost, though vanished. 
 
 In the great gospel and true creed, 
 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 197 
 
 PESCHIERA 
 
 WHAT voice did on my spirit fall, 
 Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost ? 
 ' 'Tis better to have fought and lost, 
 Than never to have fought at all.' 
 
 The tricolor a trampled rag 
 Lies, dirt and dust ; the lines I track 
 By sentry boxes yellow-black, 
 Lead up to no Italian flag. 
 
 I see the Croat soldier stand 
 Upon the grass of your redoubts ; 
 The eagle with his black wings flouts 
 The breath and beauty of your land. 
 
 Yet not in vain, although in vain, 
 O men of Brescia, on the day 
 Of loss past hope, I heard you say 
 Your welcome to the noble pain. 
 
 You say, ' Since so it is, good-bye 
 Sweet life, high hope ; but whatsoe'er 
 May be, or must, no tongue shall dare 
 To tell, " The Lombard feared to die ! " '
 
 198 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 You said (there shall be answer fit), 
 ' And if our children must obey, 
 They must ; but thinking on this day 
 'Twill less debase them to submit.' 
 
 You said (Oh not in vain you said), 
 ' Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may ; 
 The hours ebb fast of this one day 
 When blood may yet be nobly shed.' 
 
 Ah ! not for idle hatred, not 
 For honour, fame, nor self-applause, 
 But for the glory of the cause, 
 You did, what will not be forgot. 
 
 And though the stranger stand, 'tis true, 
 By force and fortune's right he stands ; 
 By fortune, which is in God's hands, 
 And strength, which yet shall spring in you. 
 
 This voice did on my spirit fall, 
 Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, 
 ' 'Tis better to have fought and lost, 
 Than never to have fought at all.' 
 
 1849
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 199 
 
 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
 AVAILETH 
 
 SAY not the struggle nought availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
 
 And as things 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 1849
 
 200 TOEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUG1I 
 
 SONGS WRITTEN ON SHIP-BOARD 1 
 
 FAREWELL, farewell ! Her vans the vessel tries, 
 His iron might the potent engine plies ; 
 Haste, winged words, and ere 'tis useless, tell, 
 Farewell, farewell, yet once again, farewell. 
 
 The docks, the streets, the houses past us fly, 
 Without a strain the great ship marches by ; 
 Ye fleeting banks take up the words we tell, 
 And say for us yet once again, farewell. 
 
 The waters widen on without a strain 
 The strong ship moves upon the open main ; 
 She knows the seas, she hears the true waves swell, 
 She seems to say farewell, again farewell. 
 
 The billows whiten and the deep seas heave ; 
 Fly once again, sweet words, to her I leave, 
 With winds that blow return, and seas that swell, 
 Farewell, farewell, say once again, farewell. 
 
 Fresh in my face and rippling to my feet 
 The winds and waves an answer soft repeat, 
 
 1 This group of songs was composed during the writer's 
 voyage across the Atlantic in 1852.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 201 
 
 In sweet, sweet words far brought they seem to tell, 
 Farewell, farewell, yet once again, farewell. 
 
 Night gathers fast ; adieu, thou fading shore ! 
 The land we look for next must lie before ; 
 Hence, foolish tears ! weak thoughts, no more rebel, 
 Farewell, farewell, a last, a last farewell. 
 
 Yet not, indeed, ah not till more than sea 
 And more than space divide my love and me, 
 Till more than waves and winds between us swell, 
 Farewell, a last, indeed, a last farewell. 
 
 COME home, come home ! and where is home for 
 
 me, 
 
 Whose ship is driving o'er the trackless sea ? 
 To the frail bark here plunging on its way, 
 To the wild waters, shall I turn and say 
 To the plunging bark, or to the salt sea foam, 
 You are my home ? 
 
 Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew, 
 Familiar things so old my heart believed tjiem true, 
 These far, far back, behind me lie, before 
 The dark clouds mutter, and the deep seas roar, 
 And speak to them that 'neath and o'er them roam 
 No words of home. 
 
 Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that roar, 
 There may indeed, or may not be, a shore,
 
 203 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Where fields as green, and hands and hearts as 
 
 true, 
 
 The old forgotten semblance may renew, 
 And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt sea foam 
 
 Another home. 
 
 But toil and pain must wear out many a day, 
 And days bear weeks, and weeks bear months away, 
 Ere, if at all, the weary traveller hear, 
 With accents whispered in his wayworn ear, 
 A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come 
 To thy true home. 
 
 Come home, come home ! and where a home hath 
 
 he 
 
 Whose ship is driving o'er the driving sea ? 
 Through clouds that mutter, and o'er waves that 
 
 roar, 
 
 Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a shore 
 That is, as is not ship or ocean foam, 
 Indeed our home ? 
 
 1852 
 
 GREEN fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
 Across this watery waste we fare, 
 Your image at our hearts we bear, 
 Green fields of England, everywhere. 
 
 Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
 Past where the waves' last confines be, 
 Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
 Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 203 
 
 Dear home in England, safe and fast 
 If but in thee my lot lie cast, 
 The past shall seem a nothing past 
 To thee, dear home, if won at last ; 
 Dear home in England, won at last. 
 
 1852 
 
 COME back, come back, behold with straining mast 
 And swelling sail, behold her steaming fast ; 
 With one new sun to see her voyage o'er, 
 With morning light to touch her native shore. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back, while westward labouring 
 
 by, 
 
 With sailless yards, a bare black hulk we fly. 
 See how the gale we fight with sweeps her back, 
 To our lost home, on our forsaken track. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back, across the flying foam, 
 We hear faint far-off voices call us home, 
 Come back, ye seem to say ; ye seek in vain ; 
 We went, we sought, and homeward turned again. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; and whither back or why ? 
 To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes to try ; 
 Walk the old fields ; pace the familiar street ; 
 Dream with the idlers, with the bards compete. 
 Come back, come back.
 
 204 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 Come back, come back ; and whither and for what ? 
 To finger idly some old Gordian knot, 
 Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to cleave, 
 And with much toil attain to half-believe. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; yea back, indeed, do go 
 Sighs panting thick, and tears that want to flow ; 
 Fond fluttering hopes upraise their useless wings, 
 And wishes idly struggle in the strings ; 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back, more eager than the breeze, 
 The flying fancies sweep across the seas, 
 And lighter far than ocean's flying foam, 
 The heart's fond message hurries to its home. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ! 
 
 Back flies the foam ; the hoisted flag streams back ; 
 The long smoke wavers on the homeward track, 
 Back fly with winds things which the winds obey, 
 The strong ship follows its appointed way. 
 
 1852 
 
 SOME future day when what is now is not, 
 
 When all old faults and follies are forgot, 
 
 And thoughts of difference passed like dreams 
 
 away, 
 We'll meet again, upon some future day.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 205 
 
 When all that hindered, all that vexed our love, 
 As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above, 
 When all but it has yielded to decay, 
 We'll meet again upon some future day. 
 
 When we have proved, each on his course alone, 
 The wider world, and learnt what's now unknown, 
 Have made life clear, and worked out each a way, 
 We'll meet again, we shall have much to say. 
 
 With happier mood, and feelings born anew, 
 Our boyhood's bygone fancies we'll review, 
 Talk o'er old talks, play as we used to play, 
 And meet again, on many a future day. 
 
 Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see, 
 In some far year, though distant yet to be, 
 Shall we indeed, ye winds and waters, say ! 
 Meet yet again, upon some future day ? 
 
 1852 
 
 WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 
 Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ; 
 Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
 The foaming wake far widening as we go.
 
 206 POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, 
 How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
 The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
 Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 
 
 Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 1852
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 207 
 
 COME, POET, COME! 
 
 COME, Poet, come ! 
 A thousand labourers ply their task, 
 And what it tends to scarcely ask, 
 And trembling thinkers on the brink 
 Shiver, and know not how to think. 
 To tell the purport of their pain, 
 And what our silly joys contain ; 
 In lasting lineaments pourtray 
 The substance of the shadowy day ; 
 Our real and inner deeds rehearse, 
 And make our meaning clear in verse : 
 Come, Poet, come ! for but in vain 
 We do the work or feel the pain, 
 And gather up the seeming gain, 
 Unless before the end thou come 
 To take, ere they are lost, their sum. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 To give an utterance to the dumb, 
 And make vain babblers silent, come ; 
 A thousand dupes point here and there, 
 Bewildered by the show and glare ; 
 And wise men half have learned to doubt 
 Whether we are not best without. 
 Come, Poet ; both but wait to see 
 Their error proved to them in thee.
 
 208 POEMS OK ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGII 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 
 In vain I seem to call. And yet 
 
 Think not the living times forget. 
 
 Ages of heroes fought and fell 
 
 That Homer in the end might tell ; 
 
 O'er grovelling generations past 
 
 Upstood the Doric fane at last ; 
 
 And countless hearts on countless years 
 
 Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, 
 
 Rude laughter and unmeaning tears ; 
 
 Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome 
 
 The pure perfection of her dome. 
 
 Others, I doubt not, if not we, 
 
 The issue of our toils shall see ; 
 
 Young children gather as their own 
 
 The harvest that the dead had sown, 
 
 The dead forgotten and unknown. 
 
 THE END 
 
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