THE ] IBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL [FORMA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
 
 w 
 
 HUGH CLOUGH . . ^
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 SOMETIME FELLOW OF ORIEL COLLEGE 
 OXFORD 
 
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 Library 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 .Mi:.MOIR vii 
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 An Evening Walk in Spring 1 
 
 An Incident 3 
 
 The Thread of Truth 4 
 
 Revival . 4 
 
 The Shady Lane 6 
 
 The Higher Courage 6 
 
 Written on a Bridge . . . . . . . 7 
 
 A River Pool .7 
 
 In a Lecture-Room 8 
 
 ' Blank Misgivings of a Creature moving about in Worlds 
 
 not realised ' 8 
 
 A Song of Autumn 13 
 
 .......... 14 
 
 's ^iri 7\w<rorp ....... 15 
 
 The Silver Wedding 15 
 
 The Music of the World and of the Soul . . 17 
 
 Love, not Duty 19 
 
 Love and Reason 20 
 
 '0 6e6$ /nerd <rov I 22 
 
 Wirkung in der Feme 23 
 
 <f7Tl ACIT^V 24 
 
 A Protest 27 
 
 Sic Itur 27 
 
 Parting- 28 
 
 Qua Cursum 'Ventus 29 
 
 Wen Gott betriigt, ist wohl betrogen ' .... 30 
 
 2056175
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS ON RELIGIOUS AND BIBLICAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fragments of the Mystery of the Fall . . . .33 
 
 The Song of Lainech 54 
 
 Genesis XXIV . . 57 
 
 Jacob 59 
 
 Jacob's Wives 61 
 
 The New Sinai 55 
 
 Qui laborat, orat 68 
 
 v(j.vos &V/J.VQS ......... 6!) 
 
 The Hidden Love 70 
 
 Shadow and Light 71 
 
 ' With Whom is no Variableness, neither Shadow of 
 
 Turning' 72 
 
 In Stratis Viarum . . . . . . . .72 
 
 ' Perche pensa ? Pensando s' invecchia' . . .73 
 
 ' O thou of little Faith ' 73 
 
 ' Through a Glass darkly ' 74 
 
 Ah ! yet consider it again !...... 75 
 
 Noli semulari ......... 75 
 
 ' What went ye out for to see ? ' . . . . .76 
 
 Epi-strauss-ium . . . . . . . .77 
 
 The Shadow (a Fragment) 77 
 
 ""vEaster Day (Naples, 1849) .80 
 
 Easter Day, II 84 
 
 DIPSYCHUS 87 
 
 Prologue 87 
 
 Parti 87 
 
 Part II 101 
 
 Epilogue 132 
 
 DIPSYCHUS CONTINUED (a Fragment) . . . 134 
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 Duty .141 
 
 Life is Struggle 142 
 
 In the Great Metropolis ....... 143 
 
 The Latest Decalogue ....... 143 
 
 ~v The Questioning Spirit 144
 
 CONTENTS. v 
 
 PAGE 
 
 * Bethesda (a Sequel) 145 
 
 Hope evermore and believe !...... 146 
 
 Blessed are they that have not seen ! 147 
 
 Cold Comfort 148 
 
 Sehnsucht 149 
 
 High and Low 151 
 
 All is well 152 
 
 irdvra pet' ovStv /M^vft ....... 152 
 
 The Stream of Life 153 
 
 In a London Square 154 
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH (a Long-Vaca- 
 tion Pastoral) 155 
 
 IDYLLIC SKETCHES. 
 
 Ite Domum Sattme, venit Hesperus .... 227 
 
 A London Idyll 228 
 
 Natura naturans 230 
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE 233 
 
 SEVEN SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH . 289 
 
 MARI MAGNO ; OR, TALES ON BOARD . . . 293 
 
 The Lawyer's First Tale : Primitive, or Third Cousins . 29G 
 
 The Clergyman's First Tale : Love is Fellow-service . 314 
 
 My Tale : A la Banquette ; or, a Modern Pilgrimage . 321 
 
 The Mate's Story 329 
 
 The Clergyman's Second Tale 331 
 
 The Lawyer's Second Tale : Christian .... 339 
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE 351 
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 
 
 Translations of Iliad 363 
 
 Elegiacs 367 
 
 Alcaics .- 368 
 
 Actseon 368
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 371 
 
 The Dream Land 372 
 
 In the Depths 373 
 
 Darkness (a Fragment) 374 
 
 Two Moods 374 
 
 Youth and Age . 375 
 
 Solvitur acris Hiems 376 
 
 Thesis and Antithesis ....... 377 
 
 dvefjubXia. . . . ... . . . . . 378 
 
 Columbus ......... 379 
 
 Even the Winds and the Sea obey 380 
 
 Repose in Egypt 381 
 
 To a Sleeping Child 381 
 
 Translations from Goethe 382 
 
 Uranus 384 
 
 Selene 385 
 
 At Rome 387 
 
 Last Words. Napoleon and Wellington .... 388 
 
 Peschiera . 390 
 
 Alteram Partem . .391 
 
 * Say not the struggle nought availeth .... 392
 
 MEMOIR OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH was born at Liverpool, January 1, 
 1819. He was the second son of James Butler Clough. His 
 father belonged to an old Welsh family, who trace themselves 
 back to Sir Richard Clough, known as agent at Antwerp to Sir 
 Thomas Gresham. His mother's name was Anne Perfect. She 
 was the daughter of John Perfect, a banker at Pontefract in 
 Yorkshire, of a respectable family long established in that 
 place. 
 
 Sir Richard Clough, we are told, was related on his mother's 
 side to John Calvin. In his own county of Denbigh he was 
 evidently a man of considerable position. He built two houses, 
 Plas Clough and Bachegraig, about the year 1527. He married 
 first a Dutch lady, by whom he had a son, Richard, who carried 
 on the name, and to whom he bequeathed Plas Clough. He 
 married, secondly, Katharine Tudor, heiress of Beraiu, and 
 descendant of Marchweithian, lord of the Welsh tribe of 
 Is-aled. She was a relation and ward of Queen Elizabeth, 
 being great-granddaughter of Henry VII. ; and the Queen's 
 consent is mentioned as having been required for her marriage. 
 Sir Richard Clough was her second husband ; and the story is 
 told that he, as well as Morris Wynn of Gwydir, accompanied 
 her to her first husband's funeral, and that Morris Wynn when 
 leading her out of church requested the favour of her hand 
 in marriage, to which she answered that she had already prom- 
 ised it as she went in to Sir Richard Clough ; but added that 
 should there be any other occasion she would remember him. 
 After the death of Sir Richard, accordingly, she did marry him, 
 and afterwards married, fourthly, Edward Thelwall, of Plas-y- 
 W;ird. She is said, however, to have preferred Sir R. Clough 
 to her other husbands ; and a curious picture of her exists, a
 
 viii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 companion to a somewhat remarkable one of Richard Clough, 
 holding a locket containing his ashes, in one hand, and resting 
 the other on his skull. 
 
 By this lady, Sir R. Clough had only two daughters, one of 
 whom married a Wynn, and was the ancestress of the family of 
 Lord Newborough, which still possesses Maynau Abbey, given 
 to her by Sir R. Clough. The second daughter, Katherine, mar- 
 ried Roger Salusbury, and received from Sir Richard the house 
 and property of Bachegraig, which afterwards came into the 
 possession of Mrs. Thrale, her lineal descendant. 
 
 His son Richard inherited Plas Clough, where his descend- 
 ants continued to reside. In the beginning of the eighteenth 
 century, the family were represented by a Hugh Clough, who 
 had thirteen children, one of whom, called also Hugh, was 
 Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, and is buried there : he 
 was a friend of Cowper the poet, and is said to have been some- 
 thing of a poet himself. Hugh died unmarried; but three sons 
 and one daughter of the first Hugh married, and left large 
 families. One son, Roger, thirteenth child of Hugh Clough, 
 married Ann Jemima Butler, a lady possessed of considerable 
 estates in Sussex, to which she was co-heiress with her sister, 
 who married Roger Clough's elder brother Richard. He did 
 not, however, leave much to his children, for he was of a liberal 
 and profuse turn, and he had ten children, of whom James 
 Butler Clough was the third. This son was the first of his 
 family to leave the neighbourhood of their old house in Wales. 
 He removed to Liverpool, where he settled and went into busi- 
 ness as a cotton merchant, and where his four children were 
 born. When Arthur was about four years old, his father mi- 
 grated to Charleston, in the United States, where he passed sev- 
 eral years, and this was the home of Arthur's childhood till he 
 went to school. We give here a few recollections furnished by 
 his sister, the next to him in age in the family, which bring 
 before us the scenes in which his childhood was passed, and 
 the influences which even then began to tell strongly upon him. 
 
 ' The first distinct remembrance,' she says, ' that I have of 
 my brother is of his going with me in a carriage to the vessel 
 which was to take us to America. This must have been in the 
 winter of 1822-23, when lie was not quite four years old. My 
 next recollection is of our home at Charleston, a large, ugly
 
 LIFE AT CHARLESTON. ix 
 
 red brick house near the sea. The lower storey was my father's 
 office, and it was close by a wharf where from our windows we 
 could see the vessels lying by and amuse ourselves with watch- 
 ing their movements. 
 
 'In the summer of this year (1823) we went to the North, 
 and stayed some time in a boarding-house at New York, and 
 afterwards with some friends who lived on the banks of the 
 Hudson, and had a large and pleasant garden. It was here, I 
 have heard, that Arthur learned to read. In the autumn we 
 returned to Charleston, having made the passage there and 
 back by sea. 
 
 'The two following summers (1824 and 1825) we again 
 visited the North ; both times we went to New York, and the 
 first year on to Albany and Lebanon Springs, and the second 
 time as far as Newport. After our return to Charleston in 
 the autumn my father was obliged to go to England, and he 
 took with him my eldest brother Charles, who was old enough 
 to go to school. Arthur and I and my youngest brother George 
 remained in the red brick house at Charleston with my mother 
 and a faithful old nurse. My father was absent eleven months. 
 Then Arthur became my mother's constant companion. Though 
 then only just seven, he was already considered as the genius of 
 our family. He was a beautiful boy, with soft, silky, almost 
 black hair, and shining dark eyes, and a small delicate mouth, 
 which our old nurse was so afraid of spoiling, when he was a 
 baby, that she insisted on getting a tiny spoon for his special 
 use. 
 
 ' As I said, Arthur was constantly with my mother, and she 
 poured out the fulness of her heart on him. They read much 
 together, histories, ancient and modern, stories of the Greek 
 heroes, parts of Pope's " Odyssey " and " Iliad," and much out of 
 Walter Scott's novels. She talked to him about England, and 
 he learnt to be fond of his own country, and delighted to flour- 
 ish about a little English flag he had possessed himself of. He 
 also made good progress in French. He was sometimes pas- 
 sionate as a child, though not easily roused ; and lie was said 
 to be very determined and obstinate. One trait I distinctly 
 remember, that he would always do things from his own choice, 
 and not merely copy what others were doing. 
 
 ' In the summer we went down to Sullivan's Island, and lived
 
 x LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOU GIL 
 
 in a sort of cottage built upon piles. Here we could walk on 
 the shore and gather shells, and we also had a garden. We 
 amused ourselves by watching the steamers and sailing-vessels 
 that came over from Charleston. Sometimes we had visits from 
 friends of my father, often bringing over letters for rny mother ; 
 but, on the whole, we lived very quietly, learning our lessons, 
 and looking forward joyfully to the time of our father's return 
 from England. We went back to Charleston in the autumn. 
 This was a weary time for our dear mother, who was continu- 
 ally expecting and longing for our father's return. We, too, 
 were always on the watch for the first sight of the 'ship on the 
 bay. One November morning, while we were at our lessons 
 with our mother, there came a hasty ring at the bell. We 
 wanted to look out and see if visitors were coming. We were 
 not fond of visitors, and generally used to run off to our nurs- 
 ery at sight of them, but our mother would not let us peep this 
 time ; we must attend to our lessons, she said ; she was sure it 
 was only a negro man with a message. And then the door 
 opened and our father was in the room, catching up our mother 
 in his arms, for she was nearly fainting, while we skipped about 
 for joy, and shouted to our mother that she had called our 
 father a negro man. Then came the unpacking of trunks, and 
 all the presents sent to us by our relations in England, and the 
 news of our brother Charles. 
 
 ' After my father's return it was a very happy time for 
 Arthur. He still went on reading history and poetry with our 
 mother. About this time, 1 believe, he read with her some of 
 Robertson's " Charles V.," and the struggle in the Netherlands in 
 Watson's " Philip II." ; also the lives of Columbus, Cortez, and 
 Pizarro. He used also to say the Latin grammar to my father in 
 the early morning, and do sums in the office, lying on the piled- 
 up pieces of cotton bagging which were waiting there to be made 
 into sacks for cotton. Here, too, we used to play and tumble 
 about upon the cotton heaps. One of our games was playing 
 at the Swiss Family Robinson, in which I remember Arthur 
 was always Ernest, because Ernest liked reading and knew so 
 much. In hot weather, Arthur used to lie on his bed in the 
 afternoon, reading the " Universal Traveller " and " Captain 
 Cook's Travels," in the purchase of which he had one day ex- 
 pended all his savings. They were both full of pictures, and he
 
 CHILDHOOD. xi 
 
 used to tell us that he dreamt of the places he had been reading 
 about. He also used to go out with my father when he had 
 business to do on the wharves and on board the ships, and sat 
 with him and my mother in the evenings and saw the occa- 
 sional visitors who came in, such as the captains of the mer- 
 chantmen with whom he had dealings, and heard their stories. 
 
 ' In the summer of 1827, we again went to Sullivan's Island. 
 It was a pleasant time, especially as we now had our father with 
 us. We lived in a large rambling house, with a pleasant veran- 
 dah in which we had a swing, and a large garden fenced in with 
 a hedge of yuccas, called there Spanish bayonets. The house 
 had once been an inn, and was built in two parts. My father 
 and mother slept in a room over a great billiard-room, only 
 reached by an open staircase or by a little open path across a 
 roof; and when great storms arose, as often happened, my 
 father used to carry us in his arms, back over the open space 
 into the more protected part of the house. 
 
 ' The walks on the sand were delightful to us children. It 
 was the finest white soft sand without a vestige of shingle on 
 which we used to play ; and I remember that Arthur even then 
 was too fastidious to take off his shoes and stockings and pad- 
 dle about as we did. The whole island was like a great sand- 
 bank, with little growing naturally on it but a few palmettos 
 and low woods of myrtle. Our walks along the sea often took 
 us as far as Fort Moultrie, which in our time was a red brick 
 fort with a dry ditch round it, without the earthworks which 
 have since become famous. A high bank of sand lay between 
 it and the sea ; and, after crossing this we came to a few deso- 
 late houses half buried in sand, which here lay in great heaps. 
 Here and there grew a few palmettos, which the high tides or 
 autumn storms too often carried away, and when we came to 
 look for a favourite tree, to our great grief, we found it gone. 
 These sands were the haunt of innumerable curlews, whose 
 wild screams seemed to make the shore more lonely still. A 
 beautiful grove of myrtles rose farther along the shore. 
 
 ' The other end of the island was the inhabited part. There 
 was the pier, busy with its arrivals and departures of steamers, 
 and sailing boats going to and fro between the island and the 
 city,and covered with numerous carriages, old-fashioned gigs and 
 waggons, mostly with hoods or some sort of protection from the
 
 xii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 sun, and a seat for the negro boy behind. The bay was gay, 
 too, with many fishing-boats belonging to the gentlemen who 
 had a fishing club, which met at a house among the myrtles ; 
 and many rowing-boats also, chiefly rowed by negroes. Arthur 
 often went out with my father on the water. 
 
 ' Six miles off lay Charleston, on a peninsula between its two 
 rivers, the Cooper and the Ashley. The first sight of it showed 
 a long line of wharves made of palmetto logs fastened together 
 into a sort of wall, stretching perhaps half a mile along the bay, 
 and lined with the ships and smaller craft that frequented the 
 port. As you approached from the water you heard the songs 
 of the negroes at work on the vessels. Beyond the wharves 
 was a battery or public walk, supported against the sea by a 
 substantial very white wall formed of oyster shells beaten fine 
 and hard. This species of pier extended nearly a rnile along 
 the sea, and was a favourite resort both for walking and driving 
 in the summer. It was all roughly done, as most things were 
 in the South, but the sunshine and clear skies made it bright 
 and cheerful. The city was not regularly built like the North- 
 ern towns. In the lower part indeed the houses were mostly 
 built close together in rows ; but in the upper part, where the 
 wealthier people lived, it was full of villas mostly standing in 
 gardens, all built with verandahs, and many with two, an upper 
 and a lower one. In the gardens grew many flowering trees, 
 such as the almond, occasionally the orange, the fringe tree, a 
 gay shrub with a very abundant white flower, and the fig ; and 
 these hung over the garden walls into the streets. The streets, 
 too, which were for the most part unpaved, were often planted 
 with trees for the sake of shade. Here and there one came on 
 a large old-fashioned mansion, that at once showed it belonged 
 to the times before the Revolution. 
 
 ' From Charleston, Sullivan's Island was to be seen in the dis- 
 tance, beyond the battery, and on the right James Island, marked 
 by a long low line of wood. Between these two islands, com- 
 manding the entrance, Fort Sumter was afterwards built, not 
 far from James Island. On the left was Fort Pinckney, built on 
 a small island or sandbank near the city. 
 
 'In 1828 we all returned to England. We sailed from 
 Charleston early in June. We greatly enjoyed the voyage.; 
 being the only children on board, we were exceedingly petted,
 
 CHARACTERS OF HIS PARENTS. xiii 
 
 and the unusual sights impressed our imagination. I remember 
 very well the sea-weed floating in quantities on the Gulf Stream ; 
 also we saw a waterspout, and grander still but happily for 
 us only in the distance an iceberg. When at last we came in 
 sight of the South of Ireland, we were met by the Irish fisher- 
 men coining out to sell us their fresh fish. Then came the slow 
 creeping up the Channel against a head-wind, and then a calm, 
 till one night the wind sprang up, and in the morning we found 
 ourselves in Liverpool. 
 
 ' We then went to stay with an uncle in the country, where 
 \\ e met my eldest brother, and found ourselves among nine or 
 ten cousins of different ages. This was quite a new experience 
 to us. Arthur could not enter into the boys' rough games and 
 amusements, and missed the constant companionship of his 
 father. We travelled however for some months from one rela- 
 tion's house to another, and by degrees Arthur became more 
 sociable. 
 
 ' In October Arthur went to school at Chester, and my father, 
 mother, George and I sailed again to Charleston. This was 
 practically the end of Arthur's childhood. 
 
 ' Our father was most affectionate, loving, and watchful over 
 his children. It was from him that we received many of the 
 smaller cares which usually come from a mother, especially on 
 the long voyages, during which my mother suffered greatly, 
 when he took the care of us almost entirely, and comforted us 
 in rough storms. This watchfulness and tender care for the 
 feelings of others Arthur inherited in the largest degree from 
 his father. My father was very lively, and fond of society and 
 amusement. lie liked life and change, and did not care much 
 for reading. He had a high sense of honor, but was venture- 
 some and over sanguine, and when once his mind was set on 
 anything, he was not to be turned from it, nor was he given to 
 counting consequences. My mother was very different. She 
 cared little for general society, but had a few fast friends to 
 whom she was strongly attached. In her tastes and habits she 
 was rigidly simple; this harmonised with the stern integrity 
 which was the foundation of her character. She was very fond 
 of reading, especially works on religious subjects, poetry, and 
 history ; and she greatly enjoyed beautiful scenery, and visiting 
 places which had any historical associations. She loved what
 
 xiv LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C 'LOUGH. 
 
 was grand, noble, and enterprising, and was truly religious. She 
 early taught us about God and duty, and having such a loving 
 earthly father, it was not difficult to look up to a Heavenly one. 
 She loved to dwell on all that was stern and noble. Leonidas 
 at Thermopylae, and Epaminondas accepting the lowliest offices 
 and doing them as a duty to his country; the sufferings of the 
 martyrs, and the struggles of the Protestants, were among her 
 favourite subjects. There was an enthusiasm about her that 
 took hold of us, and made us see vividly the things that she 
 taught us. But with this love of the terrible and grand she 
 was altogether a woman clinging to and leaning on our father. 
 When he left us Arthur became her pet and her companion. I 
 cannot but think that her love, her influence, and her teaching 
 had much to do with forming his character.' 
 
 From Charleston, as appears from what precedes, Arthur 
 Clough went, in November 1828, to school at Chester ; and, in 
 the summer of 1829, he was removed to Rugby. His eldest 
 brother, Charles, was with him at both schools, but Charles left 
 Rugby before him, as early as the year 1831. 
 
 During these first years he was a somewhat grave and studi- 
 ous boy, not without tastes for walking, shooting, and sight- 
 seeing, but with little capacity for play and for mixing with 
 others, and with more of varied intellectual interest than usual 
 with boys. He seems to have had a fondness for drawing ; and 
 he was perpetually writing verses, not remarkable except for a 
 certain ease of expression and for a power of running on, not 
 common at that early age. The influence of Dr. Arnold on his 
 character was powerful, and continued to increase. We find 
 him mounting rapidly through the lower forms and beginning 
 to get prizes. It is also clear that, besides this application to 
 his actual work, he exerted himself with great energy in the 
 endeavour to improve the school and to influence his companions 
 for good. This remarkable interest in Rugby matters is partly 
 to be explained by the fact that he had no near home interests 
 to distract his attention ; partly it must be referred to that 
 strong sense of moral responsibility which Arnold, first among 
 schoolmasters, seems to have impressed upon his pupils. 
 
 Too early a strain seems to have been put upon him, espe- 
 cially as he had not till 1830 any home to go to in his holidays. 
 Of kind and affectionate relations, who received him hospitably,
 
 SCHOOL LIFE AT RUGBY. xv 
 
 there were plenty. His uncles, the Rev. Charles Clough, then 
 Vicar of Mold, and the Rev. Alfred Clough, then Fellow of 
 Jesus College, Oxford, always showed him the greatest kind- 
 ness; and he had a large connection of friendly cousins, his 
 visits among whom gave him many opportunities for journeys 
 into Yorkshire and in different parts of Wales. How lively a 
 recollection he retained of this period of his life, and of the in- 
 cidents of his holiday excursions, may be gathered from the pic- 
 ture he has painted in ' Primitise,' the first tale of ' Mari Magno.' 
 He did thus enjoy much variety, but he lacked rest ; and his 
 family instincts and affections were so strong that he evidently 
 suffered greatly through his separation from those nearest and 
 dearest to him. That a great strain and sense of repression were 
 upon him at this time is clear from a letter written after the 
 interval of twenty years. The self-reliance and self-adaptation 
 which most men acquire in mature life were, by the circum- 
 stances of his family, forced upon him in his early youth. 
 
 In July, 1831, his father and mother, sister, and youngest 
 brother, came over for a visit from Charleston, and he spent his 
 holidays with them ; after which he went back to school, this 
 time without his eldest brother. His sister remembers how 
 their stay was unexpectedly prolonged till the beginning of the 
 following Christmas holidays by a delay in finding a ship, and 
 how Arthur, hearing this, rushed off to Liverpool to spend their 
 last two or three days together, bringing his new prize, John- 
 son's ' Lives of the Poets,' in his bag, to show his mother, to 
 whom it was his greatest enjoyment to pour himself out. His 
 mother suffered greatly from the voyages, and from the uproot- 
 ing consequent on such great changes ; and she resolved never 
 again to come to England till it should be her home. His father 
 paid one more visit to England, alone, in 1833, when he took 
 his three sons to London and over to Paris. 
 
 At school Arthur continued to prosper. He gained a scholar- 
 ship, open to the whole school under fourteen, the only one 
 which then existed. He was at the head of the fifth form at 
 fifteen ; and as sixteen was the earliest age at which boys were 
 then admitted into the sixth, he had to wait a whole year for 
 this. It was probably a misfortune to him that this rule pre- 
 vented his advance through the school, and his proceeding at 
 once to Oxford, as he was much exhausted by the intense inter-
 
 xvi LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 est and labour he expended on his moral work among the boys, 
 and also on the ' Rugby Magazine.' This was a periodical which 
 absorbed much of the writing powers of the cleverer boys, and 
 to which he contributed constantly, chiefly poetry. For a con- 
 siderable time he was also its editor. Besides this he took 
 an active part in some of the school games, and his name is 
 handed down in William. Arnold's ' Rules of Football ' as the 
 best goal-keeper on record. He was also one of the first swim- 
 mers in the school, and was a very good runner, in spite of a 
 weakness in his ankles, which prevented his attaining profi- 
 ciency in many games. He made at this time several close and 
 intimate friendships, and gained a very high character among 
 his schoolfellows in general ; a sign of which is given by the 
 story told by some of them at the time, that, when he left school 
 for college, almost every boy at Rugby contrived to shake hands 
 with him at parting. ' The grace of his character when he was 
 a boy,' says one of his friends, ' can be estimated by nothing so 
 well as by the force with which he attracted the attachment of 
 some, and the jealousy or encroachment of others.' Another 
 says : ' I always said that his face was quite another thing from 
 any of those of our own generation ; the mixture of width and 
 sweetness was then quite as marked as it was later.' Dr. Arnold 
 also regarded him with increasing interest and satisfaction ; and, 
 as another friend describes, at the yearly speeches, in the last 
 year of Clough's residence, he broke the rule of silence to which 
 he almost invariably adhered in the delivery of prizes, and con- 
 gratulated him on having gained every honour which Rugby 
 could bestow, and done the highest credit to his school at the 
 University. This was in allusion to his having just gained the 
 Balliol scholarship, then and now the highest honour which a 
 schoolboy could obtain. Some months previous to this (in July 
 1836), his father, mother, and sister came over from America, 
 to settle in Liverpool; and thenceforth Arthur was no longer 
 without a home in England. His sister describes him as she 
 then saw him, after an interval of five years, as a blooming youth 
 of seventeen, with an abundance of dark soft hair, a fresh com- 
 plexion, much colour, and shining eyes full of animation. 
 Though kind and affectionate as ever in his family, they now 
 found him changed in mind; eager and interested in many 
 fresh subjects; full of growing force, and of the fervour of
 
 UNDERGRADUATE LIFE AT OXFORD, xvii 
 
 youthful conviction. With boyish vehemence he stood forth on 
 all occasions as the devoted disciple of his beloved master, Dr. 
 Arnold, and the exponent of his various theories of church gov- 
 ernment and politics. 
 
 In November 1836 he had gained the Balliol scholarship, and 
 the October following he went into residence at Oxford. There 
 he soon made friends with some of those with whom he became 
 afterwards intimate Mr. Ward, Sir B. Brodie, and Professor 
 Jowett ; a little later, with Dr. Temple and Professor Shairp ; 
 and, later still, with Mr. T. Walrond and the two eldest sons of 
 Dr. Arnold, whose names frequently occur in his correspondence. 
 
 Now came the time which we regard as essentially the turn- 
 ing-point of his life. He began his residence at Oxford when 
 the University was stirred to its depth by the great Tractarian 
 movement. Dr. Newman was in the fulness of his popularity, 
 preaching at St. Mary's, and in pamphlets, reviews, and verses 
 continually pouring forth eloquent appeals to every kind of 
 motive that could influence men's minds. Mr. Ward, one of 
 Clough's first friends at Oxford, was, as is well known, among 
 the foremost of the party ; and thus, at the very entrance into 
 his new life, he was at once thrown into the very vortex of dis- 
 cussion. Something of the same fate which, as a young boy, 
 forced on him a too early self-reliance and independence in 
 matters of conduct, followed him here ; and the accident of his 
 passing from the Rugby of Arnold to the Oxford of Newman and 
 Ward, drove him, while he ought to have been devoting himself 
 to the ordinary work of an undergraduate reading for honours, 
 and before he had attained his full intellectual development, to 
 examine and in some degree draw conclusions concerning the 
 deepest subjects that can occupy the human mind. This must 
 be felt to have been a serious disadvantage. As his friend Mr. 
 Ward himself says with much feeling, when looking back on 
 that time after many years, ' What was before all things to have 
 been desired for him, was that during his undergraduate career 
 he should have given himself up thoroughly to his classical and 
 mathematical studies, and kept himself from plunging prema- 
 turely into the theological controversies then so rife at Oxford. 
 Thus he would have been saved from all injury to the gradual 
 and healthy growth of his mind and character. It is my own 
 very strong impression that, had this been permitted, his future
 
 xviii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 course of thought and speculation would have been essentially 
 different from what it was in fact. Drawn as it were peremp- 
 torily, when a young man just coming up to college, into a de- 
 cision upon questions the most important that can occupy the 
 mind, the result was not surprising. After this premature forc- 
 ing of dough's mind, there came a reaction. His intellectual 
 perplexity preyed heavily on his spirits, and grievously inter- 
 fered with his studies.' 
 
 Another cause, also, which rendered him less able to endui'e 
 the various demands made upon him in his new life was, that 
 the strain of his school-work and interests at Rugby had evi- 
 dently considerably exhausted him. 
 
 Any reader of that marvellously vivid book, the ' Apologia ' 
 of Dr. Newman, will understand the trouble of spirit into which 
 an impressionable nature must have been thrown by the storm 
 that was raging round him, and by contact with such powerful 
 leaders. The appeals made at once to the imagination, to all 
 the tenderer parts of humaii nature, and to the reason, com- 
 bined to render this struggle peculiarly intense. For a time 
 Clough was carried away, how far it is impossible with any 
 approach to certainty to say, in the direction of the new 
 opinions. He himself said afterwards, that for two years he 
 had been ' like a straw drawn up the draught of a chimney.' 
 Yet in his mind the disturbance was but temporary. His own 
 nature before long reasserted itself, proving, by the strength of 
 its reaction, how wholly impossible it was for such a character 
 to accept any merely external system of authority. Still, when 
 the torrent had subsided, he found that not only had it swept 
 away the new views which had been presented to him by the 
 leaders of the Romanising movement, but also that it had 
 shaken the whole foundations of his early faith, and had forced 
 him to rely upon his own endeavours in the search after that 
 truth which he still firmly believed in. 
 
 This spirit of doubt and struggle, yet of unshaken assurance 
 in the final conquest of truth and good, comes out strongly in 
 the poems written about this time, and contrasts markedly 
 with the boyish effusions of the Rugby period. It is this which 
 forms the very essence of the scepticism of which he is accused, 
 the truth of which charge, in a certain sense, we do not attempt 
 to deny nay, we believe that in this quality of mind lay his
 
 TIME OF GROWTH AND CHANGE. xix 
 
 chief power of helping his generation. But his scepticism was 
 of no mere negative quality not a mere rejection of tradition 
 and denial of authority, but was the expression of a pure rever- 
 ence for the inner light of the spirit, and of entire submission 
 to its guidance. It was the loyalty to truth as the supreme 
 good of the intellect, and as the only sure foundation of moral 
 character. 
 
 He was absolutely truthful towards his own soul. The 
 experiences he had gone through forced him to look religious 
 questions full in the face, and he could no longer take any dog- 
 matic teaching on trust. He ignored no difficulties, he accepted 
 nothing because it was pleasant he could retain faith in 
 nothing but his own soul. But that he did retain this faith 
 faith in the intuitions which he regarded as revelations of God 
 to him, in absolute faithfulness to duty, strict adherence to 
 intellectual and moral truthfulness, single-minded practice of 
 all social and domestic virtues is not only true of his out- 
 ward life, but is shown, as far as concerns his moral and in- 
 tellectual convictions, even in the poems which most strongly 
 testify to the struggle and the darkness in which he often found 
 himself. In illustration of this point we may mention in par- 
 ticular the ' Summum Pulchrum,' ' Qui laborat orat,' and the 
 ' New Sinai.' The often-quoted lines in ' In Memoriam ' might 
 almost be supposed to have been written for him : 
 
 Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 
 At last he beat his music out. 
 
 Such scepticism scepticism which consists in reverent 
 waiting for light not yet given, in respect for the truth so 
 absolute, that nothing doubtful can be accepted as truth because 
 it is pleasant to the soul was his from this time forth to the 
 end of his life. Some truths he doubtless conceived himself to 
 have learnt to know, in the course of his life,*but his attitude 
 was always chiefly that of a learner. The best key for those 
 who care to know his later thought is to be found in the frag- 
 ment on the ' Religious Tradition ' contained in the present 
 volume. But the scepticism which assumes a negative position 
 from intellectual pleasure in destructive arguments, which does 
 not feel the want of spiritual support, or realise the existence of 
 spiritual truth, which mocks at the grief of others, and refuses
 
 xx LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 to accept their honest experiences as real, was never his. He 
 never denied the reality of much that he himself could not use 
 as spiritual nutriment. He believed that God spoke differently 
 to different ages and different minds. Not therefore could he 
 lay aside his own duty of seeking and waiting. Through good 
 report and through evil report, this he felt to be his own per- 
 sonal duty, and from it he never flinched. 
 
 To return to Clough's early days. It would not, we think, 
 be true to say that he abandoned all his early belief ; he still, 
 no doubt, preserved much of his old feeling, and was in no 
 sense hostile to existing institutions ; but certainty as to any- 
 thing resting on personal or traditional authority was gone 
 for him. 
 
 The result of this disturbance of mind was naturally to dis- 
 tract his attention from his immediate studies, and to make his 
 labour less productive. Yet he did read hard, even more so, 
 perhaps, than most men of his time; and one of his friends 
 records that the only bet he ever remembers making in his life 
 was seven to one that Clough would get a first. His habits are 
 said to have been at this time of Spartan simplicity : he had 
 very cold rooms in Balliol on the ground floor, in which he 
 passed a whole winter without a fire ; and he used to say that, 
 now that he was working in good earnest, this was an excellent 
 plan for keeping out visitors, as nobody else could stand it for 
 more than a few minutes. He disclosed but little to any one of 
 the mental struggle within him, but his family were aware that 
 some great change was going. on in him, and were anxious about 
 his health, which evidently suffered ; one sign of which was the 
 falling off of his thick brown hair. He is described by his 
 friends at this time as ' a most noble-looking youth.' One of 
 them says, ' I remember well the first time I saw him, just after 
 he got the Balliol. I had no acquaintance with him for years 
 afterwards, but I never lost the impression of the beautiful eyes 
 which I saw opposite to me at dinner in Balliol Hall.' He had, 
 as we are told, a very high reputation as an undergraduate ; 
 and among his contemporaries and those immediately succeed- 
 ing him, many were found to say that they owed more to him 
 than to any other man. We quote, again, some passages from 
 the affectionate remembrances of Mr. Ward : ' Certainly I hardly 
 met any one during my whole Oxford life to whom 1 was so
 
 MR. WARD'S RECOLLECTIONS. xxi 
 
 strongly drawn. Among the many qualities which so greatly 
 attracted me were his unusual conscientiousness and high- 
 mindedness and public spirit. As regarded himself, his main 
 desire (so far as I could see) was to do what he felt to be right; 
 and as regarded others, to stand up for the cause of God and of 
 right principle. This latter view the duty of making a stand 
 in society for good principles was one especial characteristic 
 of Dr. Arnold's pupils Many think that he impressed it on 
 them too prominently, so as to expose them to a real danger of 
 becoming priggish and self-sufficient; but certainly I never saw 
 in Clough the faintest trace of such qualities as these. Closely 
 connected with this were his unselfishness and unworldliness. 
 The notion of preparing himself for success in a worldly career 
 was so far from prominent in his mind, that he might with 
 some plausibility have been accused of not thinking about it 
 enough. But his one idea seemed always to be that he should 
 to-day do to-day's duty, and for the rest leave himself in God's 
 hands. And as to unselfishness, his self-abnegating consideration 
 for others may be called, in the best sense, feminine. Then his 
 singular sweetness of disposition: I doubt if I have anywhere 
 seen this exceeded. I have known him under circumstances 
 which must have given him great vexation and annoyance, but 
 I never saw in him the faintest approach to Joss of temper. 
 
 ' Intellectually he struck me as possessing very unusual inde- 
 pendence, and (if I may so express myself) straightforwardness 
 of thought. He was never taken in with shams, pretences, and 
 traditions, but saw at once below the surface. On the other 
 hand, he was perhaps less remarkable for logical consecutive- 
 ness. But at that time the Oriel fellowship was universally 
 accounted, I think, the best test in Oxford of intellectual power ; 
 and he obtained that fellowship the first time he stood for it. 
 I took part myself in examining him for the Balliol fellowship, 
 and I do not remember to have seen so much power displayed 
 in any examination within my experience. 
 
 'As regards his ordinary habits at the time, since I was a 
 Fellow and he only an undergraduate, I cannot speak with per- 
 fect certainty ; but my impression is that from the first he very 
 much abstained from general society. This was undoubtedly 
 the case at a later period, when his intellectual perplexity had 
 hold of him ; but I think it began earlier. I remember in par-
 
 xxii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 ticular that every day he used to return to his solitary room 
 immediately after dinner ; and when I asked him the reason for 
 this, he told me that his pecuniary circumstances incapacitated 
 him from giving wine parties, and that therefore he did not 
 like to wine with others. I think also there was a certain fas- 
 tidiousness of taste and judgment about him which prevented 
 him from enjoying general society. 
 
 ' The opinion both of tutors and undergraduates undoubtedly 
 was, that there was an unusual degree of reserve in his demean- 
 our which pi*evented them from understanding him ; but they 
 all certainly all the tutors, and I believe all the undergradu- 
 ates greatly appreciated his singularly high principle and his 
 exemplary spotlessness of life.' 
 
 We give another sketch of him during his undergraduate 
 period, furnished by Principal Shairp. ' It was towards the end 
 of 1840 that I first saw A. H. Clough. As a freshman I looked 
 with respect approaching to awe on the senior scholar of whom 
 I had heard so much, stepping out on Sunday mornings to read 
 the first lesson in Balliol Chapel. How clearly I remember his 
 massive figure, in scholar's surplice, standing before the brass 
 eagle, and his deep feeling tones as he read some chapter from 
 the Hebrew prophets. At that time he was the eldest and every 
 way the first of a remarkable band of scholars. The younger 
 undergraduates felt towards him a distant reverence, as a lofty 
 and profound nature quite above themselves whom they could 
 not quite make out, but who was sure to be some day great. 
 Profaner spirits, nearer his own standing, sometimes made a 
 joke of his then exceeding silence and reserve, and of his un- 
 worldly ways. But as he was out of college rooms and reading 
 hard for his degree, we freshmen only heard of his reputation 
 from a distance, and seldom came in contact with him. 
 
 ' It must have been early in 1841 that he first asked me to 
 breakfast with him. He was then living in a small cottage, or 
 cottage-like house, standing by itself, a little apart from Holy- 
 well. There he used to bathe every morning all the winter 
 through, in the cold Holy well baths, and read hard all day. 
 There were one or two other freshmen there at breakfast. If I 
 remember right, none of the party were very talkative. 
 
 'I have heard that about' that time he wrote one day in fun 
 an oracle, in the style of Herodotus, to his brother scholar, who
 
 PRINCIPAL SHAIRP'S RECOLLECTIONS, xxiii 
 
 was reading like himself for the Schools. The Greek I forget; 
 the translation he sent with it ran something like this : 
 
 1 Whereas of Lancashire 
 
 Shall in the Schools preside, 
 And Wynter l to St. Mary's go 
 
 With the pokers by his side ; 
 Two scholars there of Balliol, 
 
 Who on double firsts had reckoned, 
 Between them two shall with much ado 
 
 Scarce get a double second. 
 
 ' This turned out only too true an oracle. Since the begin- 
 ning of class-lists, the succession of firsts among Balliol scholars 
 was unbroken. And few Balliol scholars had equalled, none 
 ever surpassed, Clough's reputation. I well remember going, 
 towards the end of May or beginning of June, with one of the 
 scholars of my own standing, to the School quadrangle to hear 
 the class-list read out, the first time I had heard it. What was 
 our surprise when the list was read out, and neither of our 
 scholars appeared in the first class. We rushed to Balliol and 
 announced it to the younger Fellows who were standing at their 
 open window. Many causes were assigned at the time for this 
 failure some in the examiners, some in Clough's then state 
 of spirits ; but whatever the cause, I think the result for some 
 years shook faith in firsts among Clough's contemporaries. It 
 made a great impression upon others ; on himself I fancy it made 
 but little. I never heard him afterwards allude to it as a thing 
 of any consequence. He once told me he was sick of conten- 
 tions for prizes and honours before he left Rugby.' 
 
 Thus he missed his first class, of which perhaps the worst re- 
 sult was that for the time it seriously distressed his parents and 
 his friends, especially Dr. Arnold, who had looked forward to his 
 achieving great distinction, and whose well-known dislike of the 
 Tractarian movement made him doubly grieve at what he re- 
 garded as indirectly one of its consequences. Clough himself 
 seems always to have felt a solid confidence in his own powers, 
 and perhaps to have too little regarded the outward means of 
 displaying them. Perhaps, too, he was somewhat conscious of 
 that inaptitude to put himself forward to the best advantage, 
 which many of his friends have noticed, and accepted it with his 
 1 Head of St. John's, and at that time Vice-chancellor.
 
 xxiv LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 usual stoic philosophy. At any rate his failure did not long 
 produce the effects he most feared, of want of pupils; for 
 through Dr. Arnold's kindness he was soon provided with profi- 
 table employment in teaching a number of Rugby boys who 
 were kept at home at Liverpool by the breaking out of fever in 
 the school. During this time he stayed at home with his family. 
 In the autumn he returned to Oxford, and tried for a fellowship 
 at Balliol. In this he was unsuccessful. He continued, how- 
 ever, to reside at Oxford, and supported himself on the ex- 
 hibition. and scholarship which he still held. In the spring of 
 1842 he was elected Fellow of Oriel, which was in every way a 
 great and cheering success to him. It healed the disappoint- 
 ment which his former failure and the judgment of others on it 
 had caused, and seemed to give him a new life. It is clear by 
 this determination of his to abide by Oxford and to seek his 
 career and his living there, that he had as yet formed no definite 
 views at variance with the principles of the Church. He had 
 come, we believe, to see the unimportance of many things com- 
 monly insisted on ; his intellect could no longer accept the ordi- 
 nary formulas of religious opinion; but he was not provided 
 with any other scheme to set up ; his habits and his affections 
 all clung to the old ways ; then and many years afterwards he 
 continued to feel that real liberality, width of view, and mental 
 and moral cultivation were more commonly found among those 
 nursed in the Anglican Church than in any exclusive sect, and 
 probably the idea of any violent move, of quitting the home in 
 which he had been reared, had never yet crossed his mind. His 
 pleasure in his success in obtaining the fellowship was much 
 enhanced by the satisfaction which it gave to Dr. Arnold, and 
 in a practical way it was doubly valuable, because more troubles 
 were now thickening round him and his family. Money diffi- 
 culties pressed hard on his parents at this time ; his help was much 
 needed, and was unsparingly given. For some sketches of this 
 period and a little later we will again quote Mr. Shairp's words. 
 ' In the November of the same year he tried for a Balliol fel- 
 lowship, but was not successful. Tait, 1 however, was strong in 
 his favour, and, I believe, some other of the Fellows. I remem- 
 ber one of them telling me at the time that a character of Saul 
 
 1 Afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, at that time Fellow and tutor of Balliol 
 College.
 
 ELECTED FKLLOW OF ORIEL. xxv 
 
 which Clough wrote in that examination was, I think he said, 
 the best, most original, thing he had ever seen written in any 
 examination. But Oriel had at that time a way of finding out 
 original genius better than either Balliol or the Schools. In 
 the spring of 1842, Arthur Hugh Clough was elected Fellow of 
 Oriel, the last examination I believe in which Newman took 
 part. The announcement of that success I remember well. It 
 was on the Friday morning of the Easter week of that year. 
 The examination was finished on the Thursday evening. I had 
 asked Clough and another friend, who was a candidate at the 
 same time, to breakfast with me on the Friday morning, as 
 their work was just over. Most of the scholars of the College 
 were staying up and came to breakfast too. The party con- 
 sisted of about a dozen. We had little notion that anything 
 about the examination would be known so soon, and were all 
 sitting quietly, having just finished breakfast, but not yet risen 
 from the table. The door opened wide ; entered a Fellow of 
 another college, and, drawing himself up to his full height, he 
 addressed the other candidate : " I am sorry to say you have 
 not got it." Then, " Clough, you have ; " and stepping forward 
 into the middle of the room, held out his hand, with "Allow 
 me to congratulate you." We were all so little thinking of the 
 fellowship, and so taken aback by this formal announcement, that 
 it was some little time before we knew what it was all about. 
 The first thing that recalled my presence of mind was seeing the 
 delight on the face of dough's younger brother, who was present. 
 ' In the summer of 1842, while I was reading in a retired part 
 of Wales with two or three others, Clough, then wandering 
 through the Welsh mountains, one morning looked in on us. I 
 took a walk with him, and he at once led me up Moe'l Wyn, the 
 highest mountain within reach. Two things I remember that 
 day : one, that he spoke a good deal (for him) of Dr. Arnold, 
 whose death had happened only a few weeks before : another, 
 that a storm came down upon the mountain when we were half- 
 way up. In the midst of it we lay for some time close above a 
 small mountain tarn, and watched the storm-wind working on 
 the face of the lake, tearing and torturing the water into most 
 fantastic, almost ghostly shapes, the like of which I never saw 
 before or since. These mountain sights, though he did not say 
 much, he used to eye most observantly.
 
 xxvi LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 1 Early in the autumn of 1843, Clough came to Grasmere to 
 read with a Balliol reading-party, of which I was one. He was 
 with us about six weeks, I think staying till towards the end of 
 September. This was his earliest long vacation party, all things 
 on a smaller scale than his later ones by Loch Ness, or on Dee- 
 side, but still very pleasant. He lived in a small lodging immedi- 
 ately to the west of Grasmere church ; we in a farm-house on 
 the lake. During these weeks I read the Greek tragedians with 
 him, and did Latin prose. His manner of translating, especially 
 the Greek choruses, was quite peculiar ; a quaint archaic style 
 of language, keeping rigidly to the Greek order of the words, 
 and so bringing out their expression better, more forcibly and 
 poetically, than any other translations I had heard. When 
 work was done we used to walk in the afternoon with him all 
 over that delightful country. His "eye to country" was won- 
 derful. He knew the whole lie of the different dales relatively 
 to each other; every tarn, beck, and bend in them. He used, 
 if I remember right, to draw pen-and-ink maps, showing us the 
 whole lineaments of the district. Without any obtrusive enthu- 
 siasm, but in his own quiet manly way, he seemed as if he never 
 could get too much of it never walk too far or too often over 
 it. Bathing, too, formed one of his daily occupations up in a 
 retired pool of the stream that afterwards becomes the Rotha, 
 as it comes out of Easedale. One walk, our longest, was on a 
 Saturday, up Easedale, over the Eaise by Greenup, Borrowdale, 
 Honister Crag, under the starlight, to Buttermere. In the small 
 inn there we stayed all Sunday. Early on Monday morning we 
 walked, by two mountain passes, to a farm at the head of Wast- 
 water to breakfast. On the way we crossed Ennerdale, and up 
 the pass close under the nearly perpendicular precipices of the 
 Pillar a tall mountain, which is the scene of Wordsworth's 
 pastoral of " The Brothers." From the head of Wastwater, up 
 past the great gorge of the Mickledoor, to the top of Scawfell, 
 then down past the east side of Bowfell towards Langdale Pikes, 
 and so home to Grasmere. As we passed under Bowfell a beau- 
 tiful autumn afternoon, we lay a long time by the side of the 
 lovely Angle Tarn. The sun, just before he sunk beside Bow- 
 fell, was showering down his light, which dimpled the smooth 
 face of the tarn like heavy drops of sun-rain. Every now and 
 then a slight breeze would come and scatter the rays broadcast
 
 SPEECHES AT THE DECADE. xxvii 
 
 over the little loch, as if some unseen hand was sowing it with 
 golden grain. It was as memorable an appearance as that dif- 
 ferent one we had seen a year ago on Moe'l Wyn. These things, 
 though Clough observed closely, and took pleasure in, he did 
 not speak often about, much less indulge in raptures. 
 
 ' Some of our party were very good hill-men. One day, five 
 or six in all set out on a race from our door by Grasmere Lake 
 to the top of Fairfield. He was the second to reach the summit. 
 His action uphill was peculiar ; he used to lay himself forward 
 almost horizontally towards the slope, and take very long strides 
 which carried him quickly over the ground. Few men, so stout 
 as he then was, could have matched him up a mountain. 
 
 ' Shortly after this time at Oxford, somewhere that is between 
 1843 and 1845, I remember to have heard him speak at a small 
 debating society called the Decade, in which were discussed 
 often graver subjects, and in a less popular way, than in the 
 Union. Having been an unfrequent attender, I heard him only 
 twice. But both times what he said, and the way he said it, 
 were so marked and weighty as to have stuck to memory when 
 almost everything else then spoken has been forgotten. The 
 first time was in Oriel Common-room ; the subject proposed 
 " That Tennyson was a greater poet than Wordsworth." This 
 was one of the earliest expressions of that popularity since 
 become nearly universal which I remember. Clough spoke 
 against the proposition, and stood up for Words worth's great- 
 ness with singular wisdom and moderation. He granted fully 
 that Wordsworth was often prosy, that whole pages of the " Ex- 
 cursion " had better have been written in prose ; but still, when 
 he was at his best, he was much greater than any other modern 
 English poet, saying his best things without knowing they were 
 so good, and then drawling on into prosaic tediousness, without 
 being aware where the inspiration failed and the prose began. 
 In this kind of unconsciousness, I think he said, lay much of 
 his power. One of the only other times I heard him speak was, 
 about the same time, when a meeting of the Decade was held 
 in lialliol Common-room. The subject of debate was " That 
 the character of a gentleman was in the present day made too 
 much of." To understand the drift of this would require one 
 to know how highly pleasant manners and a good exterior un- 
 rated in Oxford at all times, and to understand something of
 
 xxviii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 the peculiar mental atmosphere of Oxford at that time. Clough 
 spoke neither for nor against the proposition ; but for an hour 
 and a half well on two hours he went into the origin of 
 the ideal, historically tracing from mediaeval times how much 
 was implied originally in the notion of a " gentle knight " 
 truthfulness, consideration for others (even self-sacrifice), cour- 
 tesy, and the power of giving outward expression to these moral 
 qualities. From this high standard he traced the deterioration 
 into the modern Brummagem pattern which gets the name. 
 These truly gentlemen of old time had invented for themselves 
 a whole economy of manners, which gave true expression to 
 what was really in them, to the ideal in which they lived. These 
 manners, true in them, became false when adopted traditionally 
 and copied from without by modern men placed in quite differ- 
 ent circumstances, and living different lives. When the same 
 qualities are in the hearts of men now, as truly as in the best 
 of old time, they will fashion for themselves a new expression, 
 a new economy of manners suitable to their place and time. 
 But many men now, wholly devoid of the inward reality, yet 
 catching at the reputation of it, adopt these old traditional ways 
 of speaking and of bearing themselves, though they express 
 nothing that is really in them. 
 
 ' One expression I remember he used, to illustrate the truth 
 that where the true gentle spirit exists, it will express itself in 
 its own rather than in the traditional way. "I have known 
 peasant men and women in the humblest places in whom 
 dwelt these qualities as truly as they ever did in the best of 
 lords and ladies, and who had invented for themselves a whole 
 economy of manners to express them, who were very ' poets of 
 courtesy.' " 
 
 ' His manner of speaking was very characteristic, slow and 
 deliberate, never attempting rhetorical flow, stopping at times 
 to think the right thing, or to feel for the exactly fitting word, 
 but with a depth of suggestiveness, a hold of reality, a poetry of 
 thought, not found combined in any other Oxonian of our time. 
 
 'It must have been in the autumn of 1845 that Clough and 
 I first met in Scotland. One visit there to Walrond's family at 
 Calder Park I especially remember. On a fine morning early 
 in September we started from Calder Park to drive to the Falls 
 of Clyde. We were to spend the day at Milton Lockhart, and
 
 SCOTCH WANDERINGS. xxix 
 
 go on to Lanark in the evening. Besides Walrond and Clough, 
 there were T. Arnold, E. Arnold, and myself. It was one of 
 the loveliest September mornings that ever shone, and the drive 
 lay through one of the most lovely regions in south Scotland, 
 known as " the Trough of Clyde." The sky was bright blue, 
 fleeced with whitest clouds. From Hamilton to Milton Lock- 
 hart, about ten miles, the road keeps down in the hollow of the 
 trough, near the water, the banks covered with orchards, full of 
 heavy-laden apple and other fruit trees bending down till they 
 touched the yellow corn that grew among them. There is a 
 succession of fine country houses, with lawns that slope towards 
 lime trees that bend over the river. It was the first time any of 
 us but Walrond had been that way, and in such a drive, under 
 such a sky, you may believe we were happy enough. We reached 
 Milton Lockhart, a beautiful place, built on a high grassy head- 
 land, beneath and round which winds the Clyde. Sir Walter 
 Scott, I believe, chose the site, and none could be more beauti- 
 fully chosen. It looks both ways, up and down the lovely vale. 
 ' As we drove up, near ten o'clock, we found the late Mr. J. 
 G. Lockhart (Scott's biographer) walking on the green terrace 
 that looks over the river. The laird himself being from home, 
 his brother was our host. Soon after we arrived, his daughter, 
 then very young, afterwards Mrs. Hope-Scott, came out on the 
 terrace to say that breakfast was ready. After breakfast she 
 sang, with great spirit and sweetness, several of her grand- 
 father's songs, copied into her mother's books by herself, when 
 they were still newly composed. After listening to these for 
 some time, her brother, Walter Scott Lockhart, then a youth of 
 nineteen or so, and with a great likeness to the portraits of Sir 
 Walter when a young man, was our guide to an old castle, situ- 
 ated on a bank of one of the small glens that come down to 
 the Clyde from the west. It was the original of Scott's Tillie- 
 tudlem in "Old Mortality." A beautiful walk thither; the 
 castle large, roofless and green with herbage and leafage. We 
 stayed some time roaming over the green deserted place, then 
 returned to a lunch, which was our dinner; more songs, and 
 then drove off late in the afternoon to the Falls of Clyde and 
 Lanark for the night. It was a pleasant day. Clough enjoyed 
 it much in his own quiet way quietly, yet so humanly inter- 
 ested in all he met. Many a joke he used to make about that
 
 xxx LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 day afterwards. Not he only, but all our entertainers of that 
 day, Mr. J. G. Lockhart, his son and daughter, are now gone. 
 
 ' In the summer of 1847, C lough had a reading party at 
 Drumnadrochet, iu Glen Urquhart, about two miles north from 
 Loch Ness, where, about the beginning of August, I, along with 
 T. Arnold and Walrond, paid him a visit. Some of the inci- 
 dents and characters in " The Bothie " were taken from that 
 reading party, though its main scenes and incidents lay in 
 Braemar. One anecdote I specially remember connected with 
 that visit. On our way to Drumnadrochet, T. Arnold and I 
 had made a solitary walk together from the west end of Loch 
 Rannoch, up by Loch Ericht, one of the wildest, most unfre- 
 quented lochs in the Highlands. All day we saw only one 
 house, till, late at night, we reached another on the side of the 
 loch, about six miles from Dalwhinnie. It was one of the love- 
 liest, most primitive places I ever saw even in the most out-of- 
 the-way parts of the Highlands. We told Clough of it, and 
 when his reading party was over, later in the autumn, he went 
 on our track. He spent a night at the inn at the west end of 
 Loch Rannoch, called Tighnalyne, where he met with some of 
 the incidents which appeared in " The Bothie." He also visited 
 the house by the side of Loch Ericht, a small heather-thatched 
 hut, occupied by one of the foresters of the Ben Aulder forest. 
 He found one of the children lying sick of a fever, the father 
 I think from home, and the mother without any medicines or 
 other aid for her child. He immediately set off and walked to 
 Fort William, about two days' journey from the place, but the 
 nearest place where medicines and other supplies were to be 
 had. These he got at Fort William, and returned on his two 
 days' journey, and left them with the mother. He had four 
 days' walk, over a rough country, to bring medicines to this lit- 
 tle child, and the people did not even know his name. On these 
 occasions in Scotland, he told me that he used to tell the peo- 
 ple he was a " Teacher," and they were at once at ease with 
 him then. I doubt whether he ever mentioned this to any one 
 but myself, and to me it only came out casually. 
 
 'If I am not mistaken, it was from this place that he took 
 the original name of what is now Tober-na-Vuolich. In this 
 year he visited the West Highlands, and went through " Loch- 
 aber, anon in Locheil, in Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower,
 
 VISITS THE WEST HIGHLANDS, xxxi 
 
 and Ardnamurchan." In the first edition this line was " Knoy- 
 dart, Moydart, Croydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan." But he 
 discovered afterwards that Croydart was only the way that the 
 Gael pronounce what is spelt Knoydart. During this wander 
 he saw all the country about Ben Nevis, westward to the Atlan- 
 tic 
 
 ' Where the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the wester- 
 most Islands. 
 
 He walked "where pines are grand in Glen-Mally," and saw 
 all the country which in a few lines here and there he has 
 pictured so powerfully in " The Bothie." The expression 
 about Ben Nevis, with the morning sprinkling of snow on his 
 shoulders, is absolutely true to reality. 
 
 'In this expedition he came to Glenfinnan, at the head of 
 Loch Shiel, the place where Prince Charles met the Highland 
 clans, and unfurled his standard. Here there used to stand a 
 nice quiet little-frequented inn, where one could live for weeks 
 undisturbed. But at the time when Clough reached it, a great 
 gathering was being held there. The Queen had gone to Loch 
 Laggan, and the ships that escorted her to Fort William were 
 lying at the head of Loch Linnhe. McDonald of Glen Aladale 
 had invited all the officers of these ships to have a day's deer- 
 stalking on his property of Glen Aladale, down the side of Loch 
 Shiel, and to have a ball at the Glenfinnan Inn after their day's 
 sport. Clough came in for the ball. It was a strange gather- 
 ing the English sailors, officers, a few Highland lairds, High- 
 land farmers and shepherds, with their wives and daughters, 
 were all met altogether at the ball. Clough and one of his read- 
 ing party were invited to join the dance, and they danced High- 
 land reels, and went through all the festivities like natives. 
 The uproar was immense, and the ludicrous scenes not few. 
 He often used to speak of it afterwards, as one of the motliest, 
 drollest gatherings he had ever fallen in with. 
 
 ' Often afterwards he used to speak of his Scotch adventures 
 with great heartiness. There was much in the ways of life he 
 saw there that suited the simplicity of his nature. Even when 
 Englishmen would laugh at the baldness of our Presbyterian 
 services, he would defend them as better than English ritualism 
 and formality.'
 
 xxxii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 To these reminiscences of Principal Shairp's may be added 
 some notes supplied by Professor Conington, of his recollections 
 of the speeches made by Clough in the debates of a society at 
 Oxford, called the Decade. Mr. Conington was himself the 
 secretary of the society at the time of which he speaks. ' The 
 first occasion of my meeting Mr. Clough at the Decade,' he says, 
 ' was on February 14, 1846, when I myself brought forward the 
 subject for discussion. The subject was " That means ought 
 to be adopted by the Legislature for recognising formally the 
 social and political importance of the manufacturing interest." 
 Sir Robert Peel's change of policy about the corn laws had just 
 been announced, and those of us who were on the movemen 
 side were naturally more or less enthusiastic in favour of the 
 manufacturers, who appeared to us as the winners of a great 
 social victory. My proposal, if I remember rightly, was to the 
 effect that they ought to be made peers, just as great land- 
 owners were. In this the bulk of the members present at that 
 meeting do not seem to have concurred with me; but I had 
 Mr. Clough's support. I do not recollect thoroughly a single 
 sentence of his speech, bnt I can recall his commanding manner, 
 and the stately serene tones in which he delivered a kind of 
 prophecy of the new era which in a few days was to be inaugu- 
 rated, and told us that " these men " (the manufacturers) " were 
 the real rulers of England." The next occasion was some 
 months afterwards, on June 9, 1846, when the question for de- 
 bate was " That any system of moral science, distinct from a 
 consideration of Christianity, is essentially imperfect." Mr. 
 Clough is reported as having spoken for this motion in part. 
 He eventually moved a rider, which, with the motion, was 
 unanimously accepted " But the existence of moral science is 
 recognised and presupposed by the idea of a revelation." The 
 only point which remains on my mind is an application by him 
 of the text " comparing spiritual things with spiritual ; " " that 
 is," said he, "comparing the spiritual things in a revelation 
 with the spiritual things in one's own mind." 
 
 'I see there were five other occasions, in 1847 and the early 
 part of 1848, on which Mr. Clough appeared at the Decade dur- 
 ing my membership. One dwells in my memory with tolerable 
 distinctness a speech made in a debate on March 6, 1847, the 
 subject being "That the study of philosophy is more irnpor-
 
 SPEECHES AT THE 'DECADE.' xxxiii 
 
 tant for the formation of opinion than that of history." I see 
 that he made five speeches on that evening. I have entered him 
 as supporting the motion " with qualifications," a common mode 
 of registering opinion in our debates : but I remember that, as 
 the debate grew warm, his qualifications seemed to disappear, 
 and in the speech which I happen to recollect, few if any of them 
 were visible. " What is it to me," he said, "to know the fact 
 of the battle of Marathon, or the fact of the existence of Crom- 
 well? I have it all within me." Correcting himself afterwards, 
 he said, " I do not mean that it is of no importance to me that 
 there should have been such a battle or such a person ; it is of a 
 great deal : but it is of no importance that I should know it." 
 
 ' The only other occasion when I recollect anything of Mr. 
 Clough which seems worth recording was a conversation which 
 I had with him in the autumn of 1848. He had given up his 
 fellowship, and was living for a few weeks in small cheap lodg- 
 ings in Holywell Street, Oxford, where I remember finding him 
 without a fire on a cold day. His "Bothie" was just about to 
 be published, and he gave me some account of it, particularly 
 of the metre. He repeated in his melodious way, several lines, 
 intended to show me how a verse might be read so that one syl- 
 lable should take up the time of two, or, conversely, two of one. 
 The line which he instanced (altered, I think, from "Evan- 
 geline ") was this : 
 
 White | naked | feet on the | gleaming | floor of her | chamber. 
 
 This was new to me, as I had not risen beyond the common 
 notion of spondees, dactyls, and the rest. So I asked for more 
 explanation. He bade me scan the first line of the " Paradise 
 Lost." I began, " ' Of man's : ' iambus." " Yes." " ' First 
 
 dis-' " There I was puzzled. It did not seem an iambus or 
 
 a spondee : it was nearly a trochee, but not quite one. He then 
 explained to me his conception of the rhythm. The two feet 
 " first disobe- " took up the time of four syllables, two iambic 
 feet : the voice rested awhile on the word " first," then passed 
 swiftly over "diso-," then rested again on "be-," so as to re- 
 cover the previous hurry. I think he went on to explain that 
 in the next foot, " dience and," both syllables were short, but 
 that the loss of time was made up for by the pause required by 
 the sense after the former of the two, and that finally the voice
 
 xxxiv LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 rested on the full sounded word "fruit." Possibly this last im- 
 pression may really be the result of my own subsequent use of 
 the clue which he then gave me. But a clue it was in the 
 fullest sense of the term : it gave me an insight into rhythm 
 which I had not before, and which has constantly been my 
 guide since both in reading and writing.' 
 
 In June 1842 occurred the death of Dr. Arnold, which was a 
 severe shock as well as a great grief to Clough from its sudden- 
 ness as well as from the intense reverence and aifection he felt 
 for him. ' He was for a long time more than a father to me,' 
 were his own words, and no doubt the sensitive boy, exiled from 
 his own family in his childhood, clung with even more of filial 
 feeling than is common to the teacher to whom he owed so much. 
 He heard the news at Oxford, and came home immediately, 
 seeming, as his sister describes him, completely stunned by the 
 blow, incapable of realising or speaking of what had happened, 
 and unable to rest. He soon left home, and wandered away among 
 the Welsh hills, where Mr. Shairp tells us of their meeting. 
 
 Later in the summer he had some pupils in Ireland, but left 
 them to come over to bid farewell to his brother George, who 
 sailed for America in October 1842. He was deeply attached 
 to this his youngest brother, whose lively spirits combined with 
 most affectionate devotion to him had done a great deal to 
 cheer him even in his darkest moments. And this was, as it 
 proved, their last meeting. The poor young fellow, only just 
 twenty-two, was struck down by fever at Charleston, when away 
 from all his own family, and died there, after a very few days' ill- 
 ness. His father had sailed for America, intending to join him, 
 before the news of his illness reached England, and arrived in 
 Boston only to hear that all was over. The shock was a dread- 
 ful one to the unhappy father, and came with a double force, 
 because he relied on his son's help at this moment in a period 
 of great anxiety concerning business. He never recovered the 
 blow, and in the following summer, in 1843, he returned home 
 much shaken by grief and very ill in health, and after lingering 
 on for a few months, during which time he was most tenderly 
 nursed by all his family, including Arthur, he also died. 
 
 During his father's illness, and the years that immediately 
 followed, Arthur spent much of his time with his own family ; 
 and when he was away from them, he always took an active
 
 LIFE AS TUTOR. xxxv 
 
 part in all plans and arrangements for their comfort and happi- 
 ness. He had never become estranged in any way from his 
 home, as is often the case with sons and brothers whose calling 
 separates them from their families. Essentially tender and 
 domestic in his feelings, and full of consideration for others, it 
 always seemed natural to him to enter into their interests, and 
 to undertake trouble and responsibility for their sakes. 
 
 In 1843 he had been appointed tutor as well as Fellow of 
 Oriel, and he is spoken of as being remarkably effective in this 
 capacity. ' A most excellent tutor, and exceedingly beloved by 
 the undergraduates,' one of those who best knew has called 
 him. But little need be said of this period. He led a quiet, 
 hardworking, uneventful tutor's life, diversified with the read- 
 ing parties, which have been commemorated in the ' Bothie.' 
 This was the time when most of the poems in the little volume 
 called < Ambarvalia ' were written. He took a warm and in- 
 creasing interest in all social questions, and in every way he 
 seems to have been full of spirit and vigour. To his younger 
 friends and pupils he especially endeared himself. Mr. Wal- 
 rond says : ' My Oxford days seem all coloured with the recol- 
 lection of happy and most instructive walks and talks with him. 
 We used to meet every day almost, though at different colleges ; 
 and it was my regular Sunday holiday to breakfast with him, 
 and then take a long ramble over Cumnor Hurst or Bagley 
 Wood. When I recall those days, the one thing that comes 
 back upon me most, even more than the wisdom and loftiness 
 and suggestiveness of his conversation, is his unselfishness and 
 tender kindness. Many must have told you what a gift he had 
 for making people personally fond of him ; I can use no other 
 word. For myself, I owe him more than I can ever tell, for the 
 seed of just and noble thoughts sown, for the pure and lofty type 
 of character set before me ; but the feeling of personal attach- 
 ment is the strongest of all.' Another friend of this period 
 says: 'In him I felt I had an example of a nobleness and ten- 
 derness of nature most rare, and one, too, who, since I was an 
 undergraduate, had always given me not only sincere love, but 
 wise and sincere counsel in many difficulties. What he would 
 think on any doubtful point was indeed often in the mind of 
 many others with me. Often, too, I have remembered that, by 
 his taste, I was first led to read and take pleasure in Wordsworth.'
 
 xxxvi LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 Thus his life passed on with much of cheerful and active 
 interest and work. Yet it would seem, from his letters, that 
 he was living at Oxford under a sense of intellectual repression. 
 He appears at one time to have doubted about undertaking the 
 tutor's work, but to have overcome the doubt. He evidently 
 regarded teaching as his natural vocation, and he had great 
 enjoyment in it ; but the sense of being bound by his position 
 to silence on many important subjects probably oppressed him. 
 At intervals he expresses vague inclinations to leave Oxford, and 
 seek work elsewhere ; but the difficulty of finding this, and the 
 undefined nature of his objections, appear to have hindered him. 
 At this time, in order to secure the comfort of a near relative, 
 he entered into a pecuniary arrangement, by which he bound 
 himself to pay 100Z. a year, on condition of receiving a consider- 
 able sum at the death of one of the parties to the negotiation. 
 This was looked on as an event certain to occur very soon, but, 
 in fact, it did not come to pass for fifteen years ; and this lia- 
 bility, very easily borne while his circumstances were prosper- 
 ous, became a drag upon him when he had no longer any 
 assured income. Thus, though everything in his outward 
 circumstances combined to make it desirable for him to remain 
 in his present position, yet by degrees his dissatisfaction with 
 it became too strong to be endured. His was a nature 'which 
 moveth all together, if it move at all ' ; and, once entered upon 
 the course of free inquiry, nothing could stop the expansion of 
 his thought in that direction. His absolute conscientiousness 
 and intense unworldliness prevented the usual influences which 
 slacken men's movements from telling upon his. 
 
 It is not very obvious what eventually decided him to quit 
 Oxford at the precise moment when he did so. In the year 1847 
 he was powerfully stirred by the distress in Ireland at the time 
 of the potato famine, as may be seen from the pamphlet on 
 ' Retrenchment ' ; and the general ferment of his nature, as 
 well as the ripening of opinions in his own mind, probably 
 tended to make him more open to change. Emerson also visited 
 England in this year. Clough became intimate with him, and 
 his influence must have tended to urge him on in the direction 
 in which he was already moving. With another friend, also, 
 whose general dissatisfaction with European life was strong, he 
 was at this time very familiar. We are, therefoi'e, disposed to
 
 LEAVES OXFORD. xxxvii 
 
 think that it was some half accidental confirmation of his own 
 doubts as to the honesty and usefulness of his own course, which 
 brought him at last almost suddenly face to face with the ques- 
 tion whether he ought to resign his tutorship. After a corre- 
 spondence with the head of his college in speaking of whom 
 he always expressed a strong sense of the uniform kindness 
 which he had received from him under these trying circum- 
 stances he eventually gave up his tutorship in 1848 ; and this 
 done, though his fellowship had not yet expired, he began to 
 feel his whole position hollow ; and six months later (in October 
 1848) he resigned this likewise, and thus left himself unprovided 
 with any present means of making a livelihood, and with the 
 burden of the annuity to which we have alluded still hanging 
 on him. The sacrifice was greater to him than to many men, 
 because he had no natural aptitude for making money. His 
 power of literary production was always uncertain, and very 
 little within his own control. His conscientious scruples inter- 
 fered with his writing casually, as many would have done ; for 
 instance, we are told that he would not contribute to any paper 
 or review with whose general principles he did not agree. He 
 was, therefore, constrained to look out for some definite post in 
 the line of education ; and from the best chances in this depart- 
 ment he had cut himself adrift by resigning his fellowship. 
 He did, nevertheless, take this step, apparently with a certain 
 lightness of heart and buoyancy, in singular contrast with what 
 might be expected to be the feeling of a man taking a decision 
 so important to his future life. It is clear that he ' broke away 
 with delight ' from what he felt to be the thraldom of his posi- 
 tion in Oxford. 
 
 Immediately after laying down his tutorship, he made use of 
 his leisure to go to Paris, in company with Emerson, where he 
 spent a month in seeing the sights of the Revolution. 
 
 It was in September of this year (1848), when staying at home 
 with his mother and sister in Liverpool, that he wrote his first 
 long poem, the ' Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich.' This was his 
 utterance to the world on quitting Oxford, and not the theologi- 
 cal pamphlet which was expected from him. In the later days 
 he would often speak of the amusement it had been to him to 
 think of the disappointment which the appearance of these 
 lively verses would produce aniong those who looked for a seri-
 
 xxxviii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 ous vindication of his conduct. Some further explanation of 
 his feeling will be furnished by an unpublished letter, which we 
 subjoin : 
 
 ' My objection in limine to subscription would be, that it is a 
 painful restraint on speculation ; but beyond this, to examine 
 myself in detail on the Thirty-nine Articles, and say how far 
 my thoughts upon them had passed the limit of speculation and 
 begun to assume the form of concretion, would be not only diffi- 
 cult and distasteful to me, but absolutely impossible. I could 
 not do it with any approximation to accuracy ; and I have no 
 wish to be hurried into precipitate declarations which, after all, 
 might misrepresent my mind. It is fair to say that the points 
 in question with me would not be subordinate matters ; but at 
 the same time I feel no call to the study of theology, and for 
 the present certainly should leave these .controversies to them- 
 selves, were they not in some measure forced upon my notice. 
 Of joining any sect I have not the most distant intention.' 
 
 This year he spent chiefly at home ; and, in the winter of 1848, 
 he received an invitation to take the Headship of University 
 Hall, London, an institution professing entirely unsectarian prin- 
 ciples, founded for the purpose of receiving students attending 
 the lectures at University College. His tenure of office was to 
 date from October 1849, and he determined before this to take 
 his first long holiday of travel, and to go to Rome. Thus his 
 visit coincided accidentally with the siege of Rome by the French ; 
 and this, though it deprived him of many opportunities of travel 
 and sight-seeing, was historically and politically of very great 
 interest to him. This was the scene and the time during which 
 he wrote his second long poem, the 'Amours de Voyage.' 
 
 In October 1849 he returned to enter on his diities at Univer- 
 sity Hall. His new circumstances were, of course, very differ- 
 ent from those of his Oxford life, and the change was in many 
 respects painful to him. The step he had taken in resigning 
 his fellowship isolated him greatly; many of his old friends 
 looked coldly on him, and the new acquaintances among whom 
 he was thrown were often uncongenial to him. The transition 
 from the intimate and highly refined society of Oxford to the 
 bustling miscellaneous external life of London, to one not well 
 furnished with friends, and without a home of his own, could
 
 LIFE AT UNIVERSITY If ALL. xxxix 
 
 hardly fail to be depressing. lie had hoped for liberty of 
 thought and action ; he had found solitude, but not perfect 
 freedom. Though not bound by any verbal obligations, he 
 found himself expected to express agreement with the opinions 
 of the new set among whom he had fallen, and this was no more 
 possible to him here than it had been at Oxford. His old pres- 
 tige at Oxford availed him little in London ; it has been remarked 
 by his friends that he often failed to show himself to the best 
 advantage, and this was doubly the case when he felt himself 
 not understood. This was without doubt the dreariest, loneliest 
 period of his life, and he became compressed and reserved to a 
 degree quite unusual with him, both before and afterwards. 
 He shut himself up, and went through his life in silence. 
 
 Yet here too he gradually formed some new and valuable 
 friendships. Among these, his acquaintance with Mr. Carlyle 
 was one of the most important; and to the end of his life he 
 continued to entertain the warmest feeling for that great man. 
 It was part of the sensitiveness of his character to shrink from 
 going back on old impressions ; and though he always retained 
 his affection for his early friends, yet intercourse with fresh 
 minds was often easier to him than with those to whom his 
 former phases of life and thought were more familiar. In the 
 autumn of 1850 he took advantage of his vacation to make a 
 hasty journey to Venice, and during this interval he began his 
 third long poem of ' Dipsychus,' which bears the mark of Venice 
 in all its framework and its local colouring. 
 
 We have now mentioned, at the dates at which they were com- 
 posed, all his longest works the 'Bothie,' the 'Amours de Voy- 
 age ' and ' Dipsychus.' No other long work of his remains except 
 the ' Mari Magno,' which is properly a collection of short poems, 
 more or less united by one central idea, and bound together by 
 their setting, as a series of tales related to each other by a party of 
 companions on a sea voyage. The 'Ambarvalia,' poems written 
 between 1840 and 1847, chiefly at Oxford, though without any 
 setting at all, have something of the same inward coherence. 
 They are all poems of the inner life, while the 'Mari Magno' 
 poems deal with social problems, and the questions of love and 
 marriage. His voyage to America, again, produced a cluster of 
 little sea poems, closely linked together by one or two main 
 thoughts.
 
 xl LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 It has often been a subject of surprise, that with such evident 
 powers and even facility of production, Clough should have left 
 so little behind him, even considering the shortness of his life, 
 and that for such long periods he should have been entirely 
 silent. We think the best explanation is to be found in his 
 peculiar temper of mind, and we might say physical conforma- 
 tion of brain, which could not work unless under a combination 
 of favourable circumstances. His brain, though powerful, was 
 slow to concentrate itself, and could not carry on several occu- 
 pations at once. Solitude and repose were necessary for produc- 
 tion. This, combined with a certain inertia, a certain slowness 
 of movement, constantly made it hard for him to get over the 
 initial difficulties of self-expression, and would often, no doubt, 
 cause him to delay too long and lose the passing inspiration or 
 opportunity. But, once started, his very weight carried him on, 
 as it did in the 'Bothie,' 'Amours,' and 'Dipsychus,' and 'Mari 
 Magno.' 
 
 Besides this, much in the very quality of his poetry will ex- 
 plain this scantiness of production. His absolute sincerity of 
 thought, his intense feeling of reality, rendered it impossible 
 for him to produce anything superficial, and therefore actually 
 curtailed the amount of his creations. His excessive conscien- 
 tiousness winnowed away so much as to leave often a sense 
 of baldness. His peculiar habits of thought also, his sense of 
 being constantly at variance with the ordinary sentiments of 
 those who surrounded him, his incapability of treating the com- 
 mon themes of poetry in the usual manner, his want of interest 
 in any poetry which did not touch some deep question, some 
 vital feeling in human nature (always excepting his love for the 
 simple beauty of nature), all combined to diminish his range 
 of subjects. He had to enter on a new line, to create a new 
 treatment of old subjects, to turn them over and bring them 
 out in the new light of his critical but kindly philosophy. This, 
 in ' Mari Magno,' he had begun to do, and the rapid production 
 of these last poems makes us believe that this new vein would 
 have continued had he lived, and that we should have received 
 a further expression of his views about the daily problems of 
 social life. 
 
 Looking now to the facts of his life, we see that there were 
 in it very few intervals during which he enjoyed the combina-
 
 HABITS OF WRITING. xli 
 
 tion of favourable circumstances necessary to enable him to 
 write. He never was free, except during those short intervals, 
 from the pressure of constant, hard, practical work. He was 
 constantly under the necessity of using his power of work for 
 the purpose of immediately making a living. His conscientious 
 efforts, first to relieve his pai'ents from the burden of his educa- 
 tion, and then to assist them, have been related before. As 
 Fellow and tutor his earnings were freely contributed, and no 
 doubt the desire of doing this was one great reason for under- 
 taking the tutor's work at Oriel. It is true that this was a time 
 of comparative wealth, but it was earned by hard labour of a 
 practical kind, and it has been already shown that during this 
 period he made a pecuniary engagement which burdened him 
 for many years after. Thus his duty to others never allowed 
 him for any interval to cast himself on his fortune, and run 
 risks for a while for the sake of freedom and opportunities. To 
 many men this burden would have been lighter, but he was a 
 heavy moving vessel; he could not turn and set his sails to 
 catch light favouring winds. He could not use spare half-hours 
 to write well-paid reviews or popular articles, or even poetry. 
 The demand for his wares seemed to spoil the supply. That 
 it should be profitable, seemed to make it impossible to him 
 to write. Thus he was driven to harder, less congenial work, 
 simply because it was positive and certain. Nothing, for in- 
 stance, would have been more grateful to him than after leaving 
 Oxford to be free for a few years to roam about the world be- 
 fore settling to a new vocation, but this was never to be thought 
 of. No doubt there is another side to the picture ; the real 
 acquaintance with life and men, which this entire acceptance 
 of various positions taught him, not only gave him valuable 
 training, but furnished him with materials which in a mind of 
 his calibre would, we doubt not, have come out in some literary 
 form. But for the time they simply choked his power of pro- 
 duction, and no doubt prevented the utterance of many thoughts 
 on religious and other subjects. 
 
 After two years at University Hall, the founding of a new 
 college at Sydney induced him to seek a change, and he pre- 
 sented himself as a candidate for its principalship, a post which 
 Dr. Woolley eventually obtained. This would have brought 
 him a safe income, and one on which he could afford to marry.
 
 xlii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 He had great hopes of success, and this tempted him to engage 
 himself to be married. But very soon after he had done this 
 the appointment was decided against him, and he was at the 
 same time obliged to give up University Hall. His prospects 
 were thus less hopeful than ever. Yet the stimulus which he 
 had received supported him in the struggle to obtain some kind 
 of position in which he might gain a livelihood. His friends 
 endeavoured to procure an appointment for him in the Educa- 
 tion Office ; but the downfall of the Liberal Ministry destroyed 
 all his chances for the time. Then, after much deliberation 
 and inward hesitation, he resolved to go out to America, and 
 try what opening he might find there, as a teacher or a literary 
 man. But to leave England, to make a new beginning in life, 
 and to pull himself up again, as it were, by the roots, was not 
 an easy matter to one of his tenacious temperament. Some 
 expression of the feelings which possessed him comes out in 
 the poems written on shipboard. Eventually he sailed, in 
 October 1852, and settled at Cambridge, Massachusetts. There 
 he was welcomed with remarkable cordiality, and formed many 
 friendships which lasted to the end of his life. Still his posi- 
 tion was too solitary to be cheerful, but he appreciated very 
 highly the hopefulness and the moral healthiness of the new 
 country, and he always retained warm feelings of admiration 
 and affection for its citizens. 
 
 At Cambridge he remained some time without much employ- 
 ment, but by degrees he gathered a certain number of pupils. 
 He also wrote several articles at this time in the ' North Ameri- 
 can Review,' and in ' Putnam's Magazine,' and other magazines, 
 and before long undertook a revision of the translation, known 
 as Dryden's, of Plutarch's ' Lives,' for an American publisher. 
 Thus he carried on a great deal of work, and was gradually 
 making himself an assured position ; and he would probably 
 have felt no difficulty in settling down in America as his home, 
 had not the offer of an examinership in the Education Office, 
 which his friends obtained for him, come to draw him home- 
 wards again. The certainty of a permanent, though small 
 income, the prospects of immediate marriage, and his nat- 
 ural affection for his own country, decided him to accept the 
 place, and give up his chances in America, not without some 
 regret, after he had gradually brought his mind to the idea of
 
 EXAMINER IN EDUCATION OFFICE, xliii 
 
 adopting a new country. His genuine democratic feeling re- 
 joiced in the wider diffusion of prosperity and substantial com- 
 forts which he found in America ; at the same time he would 
 doubtless have suffered greatly from the expatriation, and 
 would probably have always regretted his exclusion from what 
 he calls ' the deeper waters of ancient knowledge and experi- 
 ence ' to be found in the old country. 
 
 In July 1853 he returned to England, and at once entered on 
 the duties of his office. Henceforth his career was decided for 
 him. He was freed from perplexing questions as to choice of 
 occupation. His business life was simple, straightforward, and 
 hard-working; but it was made up of little beyond official 
 drudgery, and the fact of his entering the public service so late 
 diminished his prospect of reaching higher posts. His immedi- 
 ate objects, however, were answered ; and in June 1854 he mar- 
 ried. For the next seven years he lived quietly at home ; and 
 during this time three children were born to him, who formed 
 his chief and unfailing delight. No events of any moment 
 marked this period ; but it was one of real rest and content- 
 ment. It is hard to speak of happiness which has vanished 
 from the earth ; yet what comfort remains lies chiefly in the 
 thought that now at last his life did reach a sort of culmination, 
 that a great-hearted man did for a short time find his natural 
 repose in the pleasures of a home, and that he was able, for a 
 short space at least, to devote his great faculties freely to the 
 service of others. Up to this date we may almost say that he 
 had been too free from active and absorbing employment for 
 his own happiness. Circumstances had forced him to try dif- 
 ferent schemes and to engage in various undertakings with very 
 moderate success, and the want of definite and continuous 
 occupation left his mind free to deal restlessly with the great 
 insoluble problems of the world, which had for him so true a 
 vitality that he could not dismiss them from his thoughts. 
 After his marriage there was none of this enforced and painful 
 communing with self alone. He had plenty to do; and the 
 close relations into which he was brought with various members 
 of his wife's family kept him actively employed, and tasked his 
 sympathies to the full. All the new duties and interests of 
 domestic life grew up and occupied his daily thoughts. The 
 humour which in solitude had been inclined to take the hue of
 
 xliv LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 irony and sarcasm, now found its natural and healthy outlet. 
 The practical wisdom and insight into life, for which he was 
 distinguished, were constantly exercised in the service of his 
 friends ; and the new experience which he was daily gathering 
 at home made many perplexed questions, both social and reli- 
 gious, clear and simple to his mind. In this way, though he 
 did not cease to think about the problems which hitherto had 
 occupied his leisure, he thought about them in a different way, 
 and was able, so to speak, to test them by the facts of actual 
 life, and by the intuitions and experience of those whose char- 
 acter he valued, instead of submitting them only to the cruci- 
 ble of his own reflection. The close and constant contact with 
 another mind gave him a fresh insight into his own, and devel- 
 oped a new understanding of the wants of other people, so that 
 the results of many years of meditation grew distinct and solid. 
 Having thus passed from the speculative to the constructive 
 phase of thought, it is quite certain, from little things which he 
 was in the habit of saying, that, had he been permitted, he 
 would have expressed his mature convictions in works of a more 
 positive and substantial kind. But, unfortunately, he was too 
 willing and too anxious to take work of every sort, and to spend 
 himself for others. Therefore he soon became involved in 
 labours too exciting for a constitution already somewhat over- 
 tasked, nor was he ever able to yield himself wholly to the 
 healthful indolence of private life. To a period of wasting 
 thought and solitude succeeded one of over-strenuous exertion ; 
 bracing indeed, but, for a man of his sympathetic temperament 
 and laborious past life, too absorbing and engrossing. What, 
 however, must always be remembered is, that Clough was happy 
 in his work, and happy in his home life. It would be easy, were 
 it necessary, to show from his poems how strong in him was the 
 sense of family feeling, how tenderly and delicately he appre- 
 ciated the family relations, how fond he was of children and 
 young people, how naturally he enjoyed domestic life. Nor can 
 any one doubt that in work itself he found full satisfaction, 
 especially in such work as made him helpful to others, and 
 brought him into vivid human contact with his fellow-workers. 
 Both of these sources of satisfaction, home life and congenial 
 work, had hitherto been denied him. Now they were largely 
 given to him, and, had his strength been equal to the demands
 
 CHARACTER AND INFLUENCE. xlv 
 
 which were made upon it, a long life of happiness and useful- 
 ness was clearly open to him. 
 
 Besides the work of the office, the translation of Plutarch, 
 begun in America, absorbed a great part of his scanty leisure 
 during five years after his return from America. In the spring 
 of 185G he was appointed secretary to a commission for examin- 
 ing the scientific military schools on the Continent. Revisited, 
 in consequence, the great schools for artillery and engineers in 
 France, Prussia, and Austria. The travelling lasted about three 
 months, and besides being very interesting and agreeable, it 
 afforded him much occupation during a considerable time after- 
 wards. Another employment, which frequently fell to him, was 
 the examining of candidates in his own special subject of Eng- 
 lish literature, sometimes for Woolwich, sometimes in his own 
 office. But the work in which he took the deepest interest was 
 that of his friend and relation, Miss Nightingale. He watched 
 over every step in her various undertakings, affording her assist- 
 ance not merely with advice, and little in his life gave him 
 greater satisfaction than to be her active and trusted friend. 
 
 We see that his life, though uneventful, was full of work, and 
 we can also understand why this period of his life produced no 
 poetical result. The conditions under which he could create 
 were at this time wholly wanting. He had not time or strength 
 or leisure of mind to spend on his natural gift of writing ; and 
 to his friends it must ever be a source of sorrow that his natural 
 vocation, what he himself felt as such, was unfulfilled. He 
 himself always looked forward to some time when greater oppor- 
 tunity might be granted him, when the various experiences of 
 later life, the results of his later thought, might ' assort them- 
 selves upon the brain,' and be given out in some definite form. 
 In the meantime he waited, not impatiently or unwillingly, for 
 he was slow to draw conclusions, as he was also patient in hear- 
 ing the views of others, and ready in his appi-eciation of them. 
 Yet his mind did not fail to exercise a powerful influence upon 
 others. All who knew him well will bear witness to the strong 
 impression left by his character, and by the force and original- 
 ity of his intellect. He was not prompt to give out distinct 
 opinions or answers to theoretical questions, but he seldom failed 
 to find a practical solution to any immediate difficulty, whether 
 mental or practical. His mind turned more and more to action
 
 xlvi LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 as its natural relief ; and in his family circle his gentle wisdom 
 and patience and great tenderness of feeling caused him to be 
 constantly appealed to in all difficulties. It was indeed only in 
 the intimacy of daily life that the full charm and grace of his 
 nature was felt, the intense lovableness of it, the tender unselfish- 
 ness, and the manly courage with which he met the difficulties 
 of life, and helped others through them. His was a character 
 not easy to describe, whose charm was so personal that it seems 
 to evaporate when translated into words. He was a singular 
 combination of enthusiasm and calmness, of thoughtfulness and 
 imagination, of speech and silence, of serkmsness and humour. 
 Ordinarily somewhat slow of utterance, he often seemed, as a 
 friend said of him, ' to be choked by his own fulness.' His own 
 words in the ' Bothie ' not unaptly described him 
 
 Author forgotten and silent of currentest phrases and fancies ; 
 Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals playing ; 
 Mute and abstracted, or strong and abundant as rain in the tropics. 
 
 On special occasions he would pour out the accumulation of his 
 mind, but most often the stream remained hid, and only came 
 to the surface in his poetry, or in little incisive phrases, most 
 apt to engrave themselves sharply on the minds of his hearers. 
 He had a strong sense of humour, and was always ready to look 
 on this side of the daily incidents of life ; and his friends will 
 long remember his genial smile, and his hearty, almost boyish, 
 laugh. This brightness and the sunny sweetness of his temper, 
 gave cheerfulness to what might otherwise have been too seri- 
 ous a temperament, for though not specially anxious in personal 
 things, yet the habit of his mind, his high-wrought conscien- 
 tiousness and susceptibility of feeling, rendered him liable to be 
 deeply impressed by the sad things of the world, the great diffi- 
 culties especially of modern social life, which were in truth to 
 him ' a heavy and a weary weight.' 
 
 It has been remarked that in his later poems there is no dis- 
 tinct expression of the peace he had attained. It is true we find 
 in them rather a freedom from disturbance than a positive ex- 
 pression of belief. But his peace was not the result of a crisis, 
 of a sudden conversion, which often pours itself out in words ; 
 it was the fruit of years of patient thought and action, it was a 
 temper of mind. lie felt no impulse to speak of it. He turned
 
 FAILING HEALTH. xlvii 
 
 his mind to the practical questions of the world, as appears in 
 these later poems, which instantly began to flow forth as soon as 
 his brain was relieved from the constant pressure of work. 
 
 With so much of inward peace, absolutely free from envy or 
 jealousy, not depressed by the want of outward success given in 
 so much larger measure to many of his contemporaries, capable of 
 looking at outward things from a truly philosophic height, gifted 
 with genuine humour, and open in his soul to all kindly natural 
 feelings, endowed with a rare power of inspiring unclouded af- 
 fection, he could not but enjoy a high degree of happiness. It 
 has been called a broken life. Broken indeed it was, by death, 
 too soon for the work he might have done, too soon for any full 
 comprehension of him by the public, or by any but his near 
 friends, too soon for those who loved him and depended on him- 
 But not too soon for the realisation of a great and manly char- 
 acter, for the achievement in himself of the highest and purest 
 peace ; not too soon to give to a few who really knew him the 
 strongest sense of what he was in himself. It was easiest to de- 
 scribe him by negatives, yet perhaps no one ever made a more con- 
 crete positive impression on those who knew him. As one of his 
 friends said, ' I always felt his presence ; ' and truly he was above 
 all a power, a warm supporting presence. His poems tell us of 
 his perplexities, his divided thoughts, his uncertainties ; those 
 who remember him will think rather of his simple directness of 
 speech and action, the clearness of his judgment on any moot 
 point ; above all, it is remarkable how unanimous all those who 
 knew him are in expressing their feeling of his entire nobleness, 
 his utter purity of character. It seems impossible to speak of 
 him without using these words. 
 
 But now this happy and peaceful though laborious life was 
 approaching a too early close. There was never to be any com- 
 plete opportunity given here for showing to the full what his 
 best friends believed to be in him, and what his poems partly 
 reveal. Probably ever since very early youth he had been sub- 
 jected to a too severe moral and intellectual strain. His health, 
 though good, had never been strong, and after 1859 it began to 
 cause anxiety to his family, when a series of small illnesses and 
 accidents combined to weaken his constitution. In the summer 
 of 1860, he also suffered the loss of his mother. After a linger- 
 ing illness of several years, she died of paralysis, a disease to
 
 xlviii LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 which several of the family had succumbed, and which was so 
 soon after to strike down her son. 
 
 His usual autumn holiday, this time spent chiefly in Scotland, 
 failed of its usual good effect in reviving him, and finding him- 
 self seriously out of health, he obtained six months' leave from 
 the Council Office. He then underwent several weeks' treat- 
 ment at Malvern, which appeared to improve his health. After- 
 wards, in February 1861, he removed to Freshwater, in the Isle 
 of Wight, and here, though at first in a suffering state, he soon 
 improved and regained his spirits, and for the last time really 
 enjoyed his family life with his wife and children. He was 
 naturally fond of children, and to his own little ones he was a 
 most tender and devoted father ; he never tired of strolling 
 about with them, carrying them on his back along the country 
 lanes, and listening to their just beginning talk. The pleasures 
 of the country had always had a strong hold upon him, and the 
 opening spring in that sweet spot brought many pleasant sights ; 
 many walks among daffodil and snowdrop beds, and discoveries 
 of ferns in sheltered nooks. He always rose early, and was 
 often seen strolling over the downs before breakfast. At this 
 time he I'eturned to his old employment of translating Homer, 
 the only form of versification which he had not laid aside alto- 
 gether during his office work. This became now a great pleas- 
 ure to him. At this time too he wrote two or three of the 
 miscellaneous poems. Here also it was a source of great enjoy- 
 ment to him to be near friends whom he especially valued, and 
 whose society gave him just the intellectual stimulus he needed 
 for enjoyment. 
 
 But this pleasant time came too soon to an end. Though 
 himself unwilling to move from a place where he felt happy, 
 and where he had experienced an improvement in his health, 
 he was warned that the good would soon be exhausted, and that 
 the climate was too relaxing for warmer weather. Further 
 change of air, and still more change of scene, were ordered, and 
 in the middle of April he went alone to Greece and Constanti- 
 nople. Apparently he greatly enjoyed this journey, and no 
 sooner was he again at leisure and in solitude than the old 
 fountain of verse, so long dry within him, reopened afresh. 
 During this journey he wrote the first and perhaps the second 
 of the ' Mari Magno ' stories. In June lie returned for a few
 
 JOURNEY TO THE PYRENEES. xlix 
 
 weeks to England ; he seemed unable to bear any protracted 
 absence, and to long for his home ; yet he consented to quit it 
 again in July and go to Auvergne and the Pyrenees. There he 
 was fortunate enough to join, though but for a short time, his 
 friends Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson, whose companionship made his 
 solitary wanderings pleasant, and to it he owed probably more 
 than pleasure, some of the stimulus which produced the poems 
 which were his last creations. While travelling in Auvergne 
 and the Pyrenees he composed all the remaining 'Mari Magno' 
 tales, except the last, which was conceived and written entirely 
 during his last illness. In the south of France he remained till 
 the middle of September, when he went to Paris to join his wife. 
 Their three little children had been left in England; he had 
 very much wished to come home and see them before starting 
 on a further journey, but in the present state of his nerves it 
 was considered desirable to avoid any unnecessary emotion, and 
 he unwillingly yielded this point. He felt the privation very 
 keenly, though he shrank from any words, and he could hardly 
 endure to hear about the children whom he had not been allowed 
 to revisit. In this way it unfortunately came to pass that he 
 never even saw his youngest child, a little girl who was born 
 after he left England the second time. In Paris he spent a few 
 days and then set out to travel through Switzerland to the 
 Italian lakes, intending to stay some time at Florence, and reach 
 Rome before the winter. He was then able to enjoy much, 
 though he could bear but little fatigue. They stopped at Dijon 
 to see the beautiful Puits de Moyse and the sculptures in the 
 Museum by the same hand; and then crossed the Jura from 
 Salines to Pontarlier and Neufchfitel. Between Salines and 
 Pontarlier was then still a beautiful drive in the diligence over 
 low grassy hills crowned with pine woods. At Pontarlier they 
 rejoined the railway; a striking line, seen as they saw it by 
 moonlight, a 'chemin tres accidente,' keeping half-way up the 
 hill-side, equally steep whether looking up or down, and con- 
 tinually darting in and out through numerous tunnels. After 
 this came three pleasant vetturino days over the Simplon, one 
 spent in the long drive up the Valais, monotonous but pleasant, 
 with occasional walks and halts to gather the deep blue gentians 
 and mountain pinks on the wayside. The next day, on which 
 they crossed the pass, a sudden deep snow came on, unusual so
 
 1 LIFE OF ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 
 
 early in the year as September ; many little avalanches fell, and 
 it was with some difficulty they reached the crest. Then on de- 
 scending the slope of the great alpine wall, into the country of 
 the sun, everything changed suddenly, the snow disappeared, 
 and all seemed bursting into rich vegetation. Arthur enjoyed 
 this part of the journey excessively ; first the beautiful Pass of 
 Gondo, full of waterfalls and cascades, then the descent lower 
 down on Domo d'Ossola, among walnut and chestnut trees. 
 The sense of southern beauty and richness seemed to penetrate 
 him with enjoyment. The third day's drive to Stresa on Lago 
 Maggiore was also full of pleasure. At Stresa they rested a few 
 days and made expeditions to Isola Bella, Orta, and Magadino ; 
 but here he became slightly unwell, and hurried on to Milan, 
 thinking it would be more bracing. He did apparently improve, 
 and took pleasure in visiting the pictures and churches, but never 
 recovered himself; and they continued their painful journey 
 during which he grew gradually worse, to Florence, where they 
 expected to meet friends, and where they found good medical 
 help. Some days were better than others, and at Parma he 
 spent a few hours among the pictures of Correggio with great 
 enjoyment. The last day before entering Florence they had a 
 drive of several hours over the Apennines, coming down on 
 Pistoia. It was a lovely sunny day ; the hills were covered with 
 young chestnuts and flowering arbutus ; the air was fresh and 
 soothing, and he seemed to revive on the heights, but looked 
 with dread on the valley lying beneath, with its white towns 
 shining hot in the sun. 
 
 They reached Florence early in the day of October 10. That 
 afternoon Arthur went to the Boboli Gardens, and to look at 
 the grand arches of Orcagna in the Piazza del Granduca. The 
 next day too he attempted to walk as far as the Cathedral and 
 the Baptistery, which were close to the hotel. But on the 12th, 
 when a permanent lodging had been found, he went to bed, un- 
 able longer to resist the fever. He had suffered much rheu- 
 matic pain in the head, but it very soon gave way to treatment, 
 and after this he did not suffer much. The fever, a sort of ma- 
 laria, had its course, and appeared to give way. During the first 
 three weeks he seemed perpetually occupied with a poem he was 
 writing, the last in the volume of his poems ; and when he be- 
 gan apparently to recover, and was able to sit up for several
 
 HIS DEATH AT FLORENCE. \\ 
 
 hours in the day, he insisted on trying to write it out, and when 
 tliis proved too great an effort he begged to dictate it. But he 
 broke down before it was finished, and returned to bed never to 
 leave it again. A few days before his death he begged for a 
 pencil and contrived to write down two verses, and quite to the 
 end his thoughts kept hold of his poem. Fortunately it had all 
 been completed and written out in pencil in the first stage of 
 his illness, and was found after his death in his notebook. It 
 seemed a comfort to him to have his mind preoccupied and re- 
 lieved from the weight of illness and anxiety by this creative 
 instinct. 
 
 The fever left him worn out, and then paralysis, with which 
 he had been threatened, struck him down. On the 13th of 
 November he died, in his forty-third year. 
 
 Three days before his death his sister reached him from Eng- 
 land. He knew her, and was glad to see her near him, but he 
 was too weak to realise the parting that was coming. 
 
 He lies buried in the little Protestant cemetery, just outside 
 the walls of Florence, looking towards Fiesole and the hills 
 which lie loved and which he had gazed on as he entered Flor- 
 ence, little thinking he should leave it no more. ' Tall cy- 
 presses wave over the graves, and the beautiful hills keep guard 
 around ; ' nowhere could there be a lovelier resting-place. 
 
 The memory of Arthur Clough will be safe in the hearts of 
 his friends. Few beyond his friends have known him at all ; 
 his writings may not reach beyond a small circle ; but those 
 who have received his image into their hearts know that some- 
 thing has' been given them which no time can take away, and 
 to them we think no words will seem fitter than those of the 
 poet, happily also his friend, which have cherished the memory 
 of another beautiful soul : 
 
 So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
 We see thee as thou art, and know 
 Thy likeness to the wise below, 
 
 Thy kindred with the great of old.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 AN EVENING WALK IN SPRING. 
 
 IT was but some few nights ago 
 
 I wandered down this quiet lane ; 
 I pray that I may never know 
 
 The feelings then I felt, again. 
 The leaves were shining all about, 
 
 You might almost have seen them springing ; 
 I heard the cuckoo's simple shout, 
 
 And all the little birds were singing. 
 It was not dull, the air was clear, 
 
 All lovely sights and sounds to deal, 
 My eyes could see, my ears could hear, 
 
 Only my heart, it would not feel ; 
 And yet that it should not be so, 
 
 My mind kept telling me within ; 
 Though nought was wrong that I did know, 
 
 I thought I must have done some sin. 
 For I am sure as I can be, 
 
 That they who have been wont to look 
 On all in Nature's face they see, 
 
 Even as in the Holy Book ; 
 They who with pure and humble eyes 
 
 Have gazed and read her lessons high, 
 And taught their spirits to be wise 
 
 In love and human sympathy, 
 That they can soon and surely tell 
 
 When ought has gone amiss within, 
 When the mind is not sound and well, 
 
 Nor the soul free from taint of sin. 
 For as God's Spirit from above, 
 
 So Beauty is to them below, 
 And when they slight that holy love, 
 
 Their hearts that presence may not know. 
 1
 
 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 So I turned home the way I carne, 
 
 With downcast looks and heavy heart, 
 A guilty thing and full of shame, 
 
 With a dull grief that had no smart. 
 It chanced when I was nearly there 
 
 That all at once I raised my eyes 
 Was it a dream, or vision rare, 
 
 That then they saw before them rise ? 
 I see it now, before me here, 
 
 As often, often I have done, 
 As bright as it could then appear, 
 
 All shining in the setting sun. 
 Elms, with their mantling foliage spread, 
 
 And tall dark poplars rising out, 
 And blossomed orchards, white and red, 
 
 Cast, like a long low fence, about ; 
 And in the midst the grey church-tower, 
 
 With one slight turret at its side, 
 Bringing to mind with silent power 
 
 Those thousand homes the elm trees hide. 
 And then there came the thought of one 
 
 Who on his bed of sickness lay, 
 Wliilst I beneath the setting sun 
 
 Was dreaming this sweet hour away. 
 I thought of hearts for him that beat, 
 
 Of aching eyes their watch that kept ; 
 The sister's and the mother's seat 
 
 And oh ! I thought I should have wept. 
 And oh ! my spirit melted then, 
 
 The weight fell off me that I bore, 
 And now I felt in truth again 
 
 The lovely things that stood before. 
 
 blessed, blessed scene, to thee, 
 
 For that thy sweet and softening power, 
 
 1 could have fallen upon my knee, 
 
 Thy stately elms, thy grey church-tower. 
 So then I took my homeward way, 
 
 My heart in sweet and holy frame, 
 With spirit, I may dare to say, 
 
 More good and soft than when I came. 
 1830.
 
 KMILY POEMS. 
 
 AN INCIDENT. 
 
 'TwAs on a sunny summer day 
 
 I trod a mighty city's street, 
 And when I started on my way 
 
 My heart was full of fancies sweet ; 
 But soon, as nothing could be seen, 
 But countenances sharp and keen, 
 Nought heard or seen around but told 
 Of something bought or something sold, 
 And none that seemed to think or care 
 That any save himself was there, 
 
 Full soon my heart began to sink 
 
 With a strange shame and inward pain, 
 
 For I was sad within to think 
 Of this absorbing love of gain, 
 
 And various thoughts my bosom tost ; 
 
 When suddenly my path there crossed, 
 
 Locked hand in hand with one another, 
 
 A little maiden and her brother 
 
 A little maiden, and she wore 
 
 Around her waist a pinafore. 
 
 And hand in hand along the street 
 
 This pretty pair did softly go, 
 And as they went, their little feet 
 
 Moved in short even steps and slow : 
 It was a sight to see and bless, 
 That little sister's tenderness ; 
 One hand a tidy basket bore 
 Of flowers and fruit a chosen store, 
 Such as kind friends oft send to others 
 And one was fastened in her brother's. 
 
 It was a voice of meaning sweet, 
 And spake amid that scene of strife 
 
 Of home and homely duties meet, 
 And charities of daily life ; 
 
 And often, should my spirit fail, 
 
 And under cold strange glances quail,
 
 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 'Mid busy shops and busier throng, 
 That speed upon their ways along 
 The thick and crowded thoroughfare, 
 I'll call to mind that little pair. 
 1836. 
 
 THE THREAD OF TRUTH. 
 
 TKUTH is a golden thread, seen here and there 
 In small bright specks upon the visible side 
 Of our strange being's party-coloured web. 
 How rich the converse ! 'Tis a vein of ore 
 Emerging now and then on Earth's rude breast, 
 But flowing full below. Like islands set 
 At distant intervals on Ocean's face, 
 We see it on our course ; but in the depths 
 The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps 
 Its faithful way, invisible but sure. 
 Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men 
 Pass by so many marks, so little heeding ? 
 1839. 
 
 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, meseemed, 
 I too had in my body breath to wind
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 The magic horn of song ; I too possessed 
 Up-welling in ray being's depths a fount 
 Of the true poet-nectar whence to fill 
 The golden urns of verse. 
 1839. 
 
 THE SHADY LANE. 
 
 WHENCE comest thou, shady lane ? and why and how ? 
 
 Thou, where with idle heart, ten years ago, 
 
 I wandered, and with childhood's paces slow 
 
 So long unthought of, and remembered now ! 
 
 Again in vision clear thy pathwayed side 
 
 I tread, and view thy orchard plots again 
 
 With yellow fruitage hung, and glimmering grain 
 
 Standing or shocked through the thick hedge espied. 
 
 This hot still noon of August brings the sight ; 
 
 This quelling silence as of eve or night, 
 
 Wherein Earth (feeling as a mother may 
 
 After her travail's latest bitterest throes) 
 
 Looks up, so seemeth it, one half repose, 
 
 One half in effort, straining, suffering still. 
 
 1839. 
 
 THE HIGHER COURAGE. 1 
 
 COME back again, my olden heart ! 
 
 Ah, fickle spirit and untrue, 
 I bade the only guide depart 
 
 Whose faithfulness I surely knew : 
 I said, my heart is all too soft ; 
 He who would climb and soar aloft 
 Must needs keep ever at his side 
 The tonic of a wholesome pride. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! 
 Alas, I called not then for thee ; 
 
 1 This and the following Early Poems are reprinted from the 
 volume called Ambarcalia.
 
 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I called for Courage, and apart 
 
 From Pride if Courage could not be, 
 Then welcome, Pride ! and I shall find 
 In thee a power to lift the mind 
 This low and grovelling joy above 
 'Tis but the proud can truly love. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! 
 
 With incrustations of the years 
 Uncased as yet, as then thou wert, 
 
 Full-filled with shame and coward fears 
 Wherewith amidst a jostling throng 
 Of deeds, that each and all were wrong, 
 The doubting soul, from day to day, 
 Uneasy paralytic lay. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! 
 
 I said, Perceptions contradict, 
 Convictions come, anon depart, 
 
 And but themselves as false convict. 
 Assumptions, hasty, crude and vain, 
 Full oft to use will Science deign ; 
 The corks the novice plies to-day 
 The swimmer soon shall cast away. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! 
 
 I said, Behold, I perish quite, 
 Unless to give me strength to start, 
 
 I make myself my rule of right : 
 It must be, if I act at all, 
 To save my shame I have at call 
 The plea of all men understood, 
 Because I willed it, it is good. 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! 
 
 I know not if in very deed 
 This means alone could aid impart 
 
 To serve my sickly spirit's need ; 
 But clear alike of wild self-will, 
 And fear that faltered, paltered still, 
 Kemorseful thoughts of after days 
 A way espy betwixt the ways.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Come back again, old heart! Ah me I 
 Methinks in those thy coward fears 
 
 There might, perchance, a courage be, 
 That fails in these the manlier years j 
 
 Courage to let the courage sink, 
 
 Itself a coward base to think, 
 
 Rather than not for heavenly light 
 
 Wait on to show the truly right. 
 
 1840. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BRIDGE. 
 
 WHEN soft September brings again 
 To yonder gorse its golden glow, 
 
 And Snowdon sends its autumn rain 
 To bid thy current livelier flow ; 
 
 Amid that ashen foliage light 
 
 When scarlet beads are glistering bright, 
 
 While alder boughs unchanged are seen 
 
 In summer livery of green ; 
 
 When clouds before the cooler breeze 
 
 Are flying, white and large ; with these 
 
 Returning, so may I return, 
 
 And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern. 
 
 1840. 
 
 A RIVER POOL. 
 
 SWEET streamlet bason ! at thy side 
 Weary and faint within me cried 
 My longing heart, In such pure deep 
 How sweet it were to sit and sleep ; 
 To feel each passage from without 
 Close up, above me and about, 
 Those circling waters crystal clear, 
 That calm impervious atmosphere ! 
 There on thy pearly pavement pure, 
 To lean, and feel myself secure, 
 Or through the dim-lit inter-space, 
 Afar at whiles upgazing trace
 
 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 The dimpling bubbles dance around 
 Upon thy smooth exterior face ; 
 Or idly list the dreamy sound 
 Of ripples lightly flung, above 
 That home, of peace, if not of love. 
 1840. 
 
 IN A LECTURE-BOOM. 
 
 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 skyey 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, 
 
 Eight onward to the Eternal Shore ? 
 
 1840. 
 
 ' Blank Misgivings of a Creature moving about in Worlds 
 not realised.' 
 
 HERE am I yet, another twelvemonth spent, 
 One-third departed of the mortal span, 
 Carrying on the child into the man, 
 Nothing into reality. Sails rent, 
 And rudder broken, reason impotent, 
 Affections all unfixed; so forth I fare 
 On the mid seas unheedingly, so dare 
 To do and to be done by, well content. 
 So was it from the first, so is it yet ;
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Yea, the first kiss that by these lips Avas set 
 On any human lips, methinks was sin 
 Sin, cowardice, and falsehood; for the will 
 Into a deed e'en then advanced, wherein 
 God, unidentified, was thought-of still. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Though to the vilest things beneath the moon 
 
 For poor Ease' sake I give away my heart, 
 
 And for the moment's sympathy let part 
 
 My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon, 
 
 My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon, 
 
 Almost, as gained ; and though aside I start, 
 
 Belie Thee daily, hourly, still Thou art, 
 
 Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon ; 
 
 How much so e'er I sin, whate'er I do 
 
 Of evil, still the sky above is blue, 
 
 The stars look down in beauty as before : 
 
 It is enough to walk as best we may, 
 
 To walk, and, sighing, dream of that blest day 
 
 When ill we cannot quell shall be no more. 
 
 in. 
 
 Well, well, Heaven bless you all from day to day ! 
 
 Forgiveness too, or e'er we part, from each, 
 
 As I do give it, so must I beseech : 
 
 I owe all much, much more than I can pay ; 
 
 Therefore it is I go ; how could I stay 
 
 Where every look commits me to fresh debt, 
 
 And to pay little I must borrow yet ? 
 
 Enough of this already, now away ! 
 
 With silent woods and hills untenanted 
 
 Let me go commune ; under thy sweet gloom, 
 
 kind maternal Darkness, hide my head : 
 
 The day may come I yet may reassume 
 
 My place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seek 
 
 The task for which I now am all too weak. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way, 
 Bearing the liar's curse upon my head ;
 
 10 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Letting my weak and sickly heart be fed 
 
 On food which does the present craving stay, 
 
 But may be clean-denied me e'en to-day, 
 
 And tho' 'twere certain, yet were ought but bread ; 
 
 Letting for so they say, it seems, I said, 
 
 And I am all too weak to disobey ! 
 
 Therefore for me sweet Nature's scenes reveal not 
 
 Their charm ; sweet Music greets me and I feel not 
 
 Sweet eyes pass off me uninspired; yea, more, 
 
 The golden tide of opportunity 
 
 Flows wafting-iii friendships and better, I 
 
 Unseeing, listless, pace along the shore. 
 
 v. 
 
 How often sit I, poring o'er 
 
 My strange distorted youth, 
 Seeking in vain, in all my store, 
 
 One feeling based on truth ; 
 Amid the maze of petty life 
 
 A clue whereby to move, 
 A spot whereon in toil and strife 
 
 To dare to rest and love. 
 So constant as my heart would be, 
 
 So fickle as it must, 
 'Twere well for others as for me 
 
 'Twere dry as summer dust. 
 Excitements come, and act and speech 
 
 Flow freely forth ; but no, 
 Nor they, nor ought beside can reach 
 
 The buried world below. 
 1841. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Like a child 
 
 In some strange garden left awhile alone, 
 I pace about the pathways of the world, 
 Plucking light hopes and joys from every stem 
 With qualms of vague misgivings in my heart 
 That payment at the last will be required, 
 Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred, 
 And shame to be endured. 
 1841.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 11 
 
 VII. 
 
 Roused by importunate knocks 
 
 I rose, I turned the key, and let them in, 
 First one, anon another, and at length 
 In troops they came ; for how could I, who once 
 Had let in one, nor looked him in the face, 
 Show scruples e'er again ? So in they came, 
 A noisy band of revellers, vain hopes, 
 Wild fancies, fitful joys ; and there they sit 
 Iri my heart's holy place, and through the night 
 Carouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawn 
 Gleams from the East, to tell me that the time 
 For watching and for thought bestowed is gone. 
 1841. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 kind protecting Darkness ! as a child 
 
 Flies back to bury- in its mother's lap 
 
 His shame and his confusion, so to thee, 
 
 Mother Night, come I ! within the folds 
 
 Of thy dark robe hide thou me close ; for I 
 
 So long, so heedless, with external things 
 
 Have played the liar, that whate'er I see, 
 
 E'en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars 
 
 Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me 
 
 Smiling those smiles, which I may not return, 
 
 Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice, 
 
 As angry claimants or expectants sure 
 
 Of that I promised and may not perform, 
 
 Look me in the face ! hide me, Mother Night ! 
 
 1841. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Once more the wonted road I tread, 
 
 Once more dark heavens above me spread, 
 
 Upon the windy down I stand, 
 
 My station whence the circling land 
 
 Lies mapped and pictured wide below ; 
 
 Such as it was, such e'en again, 
 
 Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain 
 
 By hedge or tree unbroken ; lo ! 
 
 A few grey woods can only show
 
 12 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 How vain their aid, and in the sense 
 Of one unaltering impotence, 
 Relieving not, meseems enhance 
 The sovereign dulness of the expanse. 
 Yet marks where human hand hath been, 
 Bare house, unsheltered village, space 
 Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between 
 (Such aspect as methinks may be 
 In some half-settled colony), 
 From Nature vindicate the scene ; 
 A wide, and yet disheartening view, 
 A melancholy world. 
 
 'Tis true, 
 
 Most true ; and yet, like those strange smiles 
 By fervent hope or tender thought 
 Prom distant happy regions brought, 
 Which upon some sick bed are seen 
 To glorify a pale worn face 
 With sudden beauty, so at whiles 
 Lights have descended, hues have been, 
 To clothe with half-celestial grace 
 The bareness of the desert place. 
 Since so it is, so be it still ! 
 Could only thou, my heart, be taught 
 To treasure, and in act fulfil 
 The lesson which the sight has brought : 
 In thine own dull and dreary state 
 To work and patiently to wait : 
 Little thou think'st in thy despair 
 How soon the o'ershaded sun may shine, 
 . And e'en the dulling clouds combine 
 To bless with lights and hues divine 
 That region desolate and bare, 
 Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine. 
 
 Still doth the coward heart complain ; 
 The hour may come, and come in vain ; 
 The branch that withered lies and dead 
 No suns can force to lift its head. 
 True! yet how little thou canst tell 
 How much in thee is ill or well ; 
 Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee,
 
 EARLY POEMS. 13 
 
 Be sure, was life designed to be 
 A draught of dull complacency. . 
 One Power too is it/ who doth give 
 The food without us, and within 
 The strength that makes it nutritive ; 
 He bids the dry bones rise and live, 
 And e'en in hearts depraved to sin 
 Some sudden, gracious influence, 
 May give the long-lost good again, 
 And wake within the dormant sense 
 And love of good ; for mortal men, 
 So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see 
 Defeat itself is victory. 
 
 So be it : yet, Good and Great, 
 
 In whom in this bedarkened state 
 
 I fain am struggling to believe, 
 
 Let me not ever cease to grieve, 
 
 Nor lose the consciousness of ill 
 
 Within me ; and refusing still 
 
 To recognise in things around 
 
 What cannot truly there be found, 
 
 Let me not feel, nor be it true, 
 
 That, while each daily task I do, 
 
 I still am giving day by day 
 
 My precious things within away 
 
 (Those thou didst give to keep as thine), 
 
 And casting, do whate'er I may, 
 
 My heavenly pearls to earthly swine. 
 
 1841. 
 
 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.
 
 14 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 TO KoA.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 wouldst choose ! 
 
 The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above; 
 
 Do thou, as best thou mayst, thy duty do : 
 Amid the things allowed thee live and love ; 
 
 Some day thou shalt it view. 
 1841.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 15 
 
 Xpvcrea K\rj^ CTTI 
 
 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. 
 
 THE SILVER WEDDING. 1 
 
 THE Silver Wedding ! on some pensive ear 
 
 From towers remote as sound the silvery bells, 
 
 To-day from one far unforgotten year 
 A silvery faint memorial music swells. 
 
 And silver-pale the dim memorial light 
 Of musing age on youthful joys is shed, 
 
 The golden joys of fancy's dawning bright, 
 The golden bliss of, Woo'd, and won, and wed. 
 
 Ah, golden then, but silver now ! In sooth, 
 
 The years that pale the cheek, that dim the eyes, 
 
 And silver o'er the golden hairs of youth, 
 Less prized can make its only priceless prize. 
 
 1 This was written for the twenty-fifth wedding-day of Mr, and 
 Mrs. Walrond, of Calder Park.
 
 16 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Not so; the voice this silver name that gave 
 To this, the ripe and unenfeebled date, 
 
 For steps together tottering to the grave, 
 Hath bid the perfect golden title wait. 
 
 Rather, if silver this, if that be gold, 
 
 From good to better changed on age's track, 
 
 Must it as baser metal be enrolled, 
 
 That day of days, a quarter-century back. 
 
 Yet ah, its hopes, its joys, were golden too, 
 But golden of the fairy gold of dreams : 
 
 To feel is but to dream ; until we do, 
 
 There's nought that is, and all we see but seems. 
 
 What was or seemed it needed cares and tears, 
 And deeds together done, and' trials past, 
 
 And all the subtlest alchemy of years, 
 
 To change to genuine substance here at last. 
 
 Your fairy gold is silver sure to-day ; 
 
 Your ore by crosses many, many a loss, 
 As in refiners' fires, hath purged away 
 
 What erst it had of earthly human dross. 
 
 Come years as many yet, and as they go, 
 In human life's great crucible shall they 
 
 Transmute, so potent are the spells they know, 
 Into pure gold the silver of to-day. 
 
 Strange metallurge is human life! 'Tis true; 
 
 And Use and Wont in many a gorgeous case 
 Full specious fair for casual outward view 
 
 Electrotype the sordid and the base. 
 
 Nor lack who praise, avowed, the spurious ware, 
 Who bid young hearts the one true love forgo, 
 
 Conceit to feed, or fancy light as air, 
 Or greed of pelf and precedence and show. 
 
 True, false, as one to casual eyes appear, 
 To read men truly men may hardly learn; 
 
 Yet doubt it not that wariest, glance would here 
 
 Faith, Hope and Love, the true Tower-stamp discern.
 
 EARLY POEMS. 17 
 
 Come years again ! as many yet ! and purge 
 Less precious earthier elements away, 
 
 And gently changed at life's extremest verge, 
 Bring bright in gold your perfect fiftieth day ! 
 
 That sight may children see and parents show ! 
 
 If not yet earthly chains of metal true, 
 By love and duty wrought and fixed below, 
 
 Elsewhere will shine, transformed, celestial-new ; 
 
 Will shine of gold, whose essence, neavenly bright, 
 No doubt-damps tarnish, worldly passions fray ; 
 
 Gold into gold there mirrored, light in light, 
 Shall gleam in glories of a deathless day. 
 
 1845. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD AND OF THE SOUL. 
 
 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 humming 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, 
 
 And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these re- 
 treat, advance ;
 
 18 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 n. 
 
 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 J t has come, and been, and passed away : 
 
 Yet turn to other none, 
 
 Turn not, oh, turn not thou ! 
 
 But listen, listen, listen, if haply be heard it may ; 
 Listen, listen, listen, is it not sounding now ? 
 
 in. 
 
 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,
 
 EARLY POEMS. 19 
 
 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. 
 
 LOVE, NOT DUTY. 
 
 THOUGHT may well be ever ranging, 
 And opinion ever changing, 
 Task-work be, though ill begun, 
 Dealt with by experience better ; 
 By the law and by the letter 
 Duty done is duty done : 
 Do it, Time is on the wing ! 
 
 Hearts, 'tis quite another thing, 
 Must or once for all be given, 
 Or must not at all be given ; 
 Hearts, 'tis quite another thing ! 
 
 To bestow the soul away 
 
 Is an idle duty-play ! 
 
 Why, to trust a life-long bliss 
 
 To caprices of a day, 
 
 Scarce were more depraved than this ! 
 
 Men and maidens, see you mind it ; 
 Show of love, where'er you find it, 
 Look if duty lurk behind it ! 
 Duty-fancies, urging on 
 Whither love had never gone ! 
 
 Loving if the answering breast 
 Seem not to be thus possessed, 
 Still in hoping have a care ; 
 If it do, beware, beware ! 
 But if in yourself you find it, 
 Above all things mind it, mind it ! 
 1841.
 
 20 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 LOVE AND REASON. 
 
 WHEX panting sighs the bosom fill, 
 
 And hands by chance united thrill 
 
 At once with one delicious pain 
 
 The pulses and the nerves of twain ; 
 
 When eyes that erst could meet with ease, 
 
 l)o seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun 
 
 Extatic conscious unison, 
 
 The sure beginnings, say, be these 
 
 Prelusive to the strain of love 
 
 Which angels sing in heaven above ? 
 
 Or is it but the vulgar tune, 
 Which all that breathe beneath the moon 
 So accurately learn so soon ? 
 With variations duly blent ; 
 Yet that same song to all intent, 
 Set for the finer instrument ; 
 It is ; and it would sound the same 
 In beasts, were not the bestial frame, 
 Less subtly organised, to blame ; 
 And but that soul and spirit add 
 To pleasures, even base and bad, 
 A zest the soulless never had. 
 
 It may be well indeed I deem ; 
 But what if sympathy, it seem, 
 And admiration and esteem, 
 Commingling therewithal, do make 
 The passion prized for Reason's sake ? 
 Yet, when my heart would fain rejoice, 
 A small expostulating voice 
 Falls in ; Of this thou wilt not take 
 Thy one irrevocable choice ? 
 1 ii accent tremulous and thin 
 I hear high Prudence deep within, 
 Pleading the bitter, bitter sting, 
 Should slow-maturing seasons bring, 
 Too late, the veritable thing, 
 l-'-.r if (the Poet's tale of bliss)
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 A* love, wherewith commeasured this 
 Is weak and beggarly, and none, 
 Exist a treasure to be won, 
 And if the vision, though it stay, 
 Be yet for an appointed day, 
 This choice, if made, this deed, if done, 
 The memory of this present past, 
 With vague foreboding might o'ercast 
 The heart, or madden it at last. 
 
 Let Reason first her office ply ; 
 Esteem, and admiration high, 
 And mental, moral sympathy, 
 Exist they first, nor be they brought, 
 By self-deceiving afterthought, 
 What if an halo interfuse 
 With these again its opal hues, 
 That all o'erspreading and o'erlying, 
 Transmuting, mingling, glorifying, 
 About the beauteous various whole, 
 With beaming smile do dance and quiver ; 
 Yet, is that halo of the soul ? 
 Or is it, as may sure be said, 
 Phosphoric exhalation bred 
 Of vapour, steaming from the bed 
 Of Fancy's brook, or Passion's river ? 
 So when, as will be by and by, 
 The stream is waterless and dry, 
 This halo and its hues will die ; 
 And though the soul contented rest 
 With those substantial blessings blest, 
 Will not a longing, half confest, 
 Betray that this is not the love, 
 The gift for which all gifts above 
 Him praise we, Who is Love, the Giver ? 
 
 I cannot say the things are good : 
 Bread is it, if not angels' food ; 
 But Love ? Alas ! I cannot say ; 
 A glory on the vision lay ; 
 A light of more than mortal day 
 About it played, upon it rested ; 
 It did not, faltering and weak,
 
 22 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Beg Reason on its side to speak : 
 
 Itself was Reason, or, if not, 
 
 Such substitute as is, I wot, 
 
 Of seraph-kind the loftier lot ; 
 
 Itself was of itself attested ; 
 
 To processes that, hard and dry, 
 
 Elaborate truth from fallacy, 
 
 With modes intuitive succeeding, 
 
 Including those and superseding ; 
 
 Reason sublimed and Love most high 
 
 It was, a life that cannot die, 
 
 A dream of glory most exceeding. 
 
 1844. 
 
 'O eos JU.CTO. crov ! l 
 * # # * 
 
 FAREWELL, my Highland lassie! when the year returns 
 
 around, 
 Be it Greece, or be it Norway, where my vagrant feet are 
 
 found, 
 
 I shall call to mind the place, I shall call to mind the day, 
 The day that's gone forever, and the glen that's far away; 
 I shall mind me, be it Rhine or Rhone, Italian land or 
 
 France, 
 Of the laughings and the whispers, of the pipings and the 
 
 dance ; 
 I shall see thy soft brown eyes dilate to wakening woman 
 
 thought, 
 And whiter still the white cheek grow to which the blush 
 
 was brought ; 
 
 And oh, with mine commixing I thy breath of life shall feel, 
 Arid clasp thy shyly passive hands in joyous Highland reel ; 
 I shall hear, and see, and feel, and in sequence sadly true, 
 Shall repeat the bitter-sweet of the lingering last adieu; 
 I shall seem as now to leave thee, with the kiss upon the 
 
 brow, 
 And the fervent benediction of C O cos /ACTCI <rou! 
 
 Ah me, my Highland lassie ! though in winter drear and 
 long 
 
 1 Ho Theos meta sou God be with you 1
 
 EARLY POEMS. 23 
 
 Deep arose the heavy snows, and the stormy winds were 
 
 strong, 
 Though the rain, in summer's brightest, it were raining 
 
 every day, 
 With worldly comforts few and far, how glad were I to 
 
 stay! 
 I fall to sleep with dreams of life in some black bothie 
 
 spent, 
 Coarse poortith's ware thou changing there to gold of 
 
 pure content, 
 With barefoot lads and lassies round, and thee the cheery 
 
 wife, 
 
 In the braes of old Lochaber a laborious homely life ; 
 But I wake to leave thee, smiling, with the kiss upon 
 
 the brow, 
 
 And the peaceful benediction of 'O os p.tra <rov I 
 ****** 
 
 WIRKUNG IN DER FERNE. 
 
 WHEN the dews are earliest falling, 
 When the evening glen is grey, 
 Ere thou lookest, ere thou speakest, 
 My beloved, 
 
 I depart, and I return to thee, 
 Return, return, return. 
 
 Dost thou watch me while I traverse 
 Haunts of men, beneath the sun 
 Dost thou list while I bespeak them 
 With a voice whose cheer is thine ? 
 
 my brothers ! men, my brothers, 
 You are mine, and I am yours; 
 
 1 am yours to cheer and succour, 
 I am yours for hope and aid : 
 
 Lo ; my hand to raise and stay you, 
 Lo, my arm to guard and keep, 
 My voice to rouse and warn you, 
 And my heart to warm and calm ; 
 My heart to lend the life it owes 
 To her that is not here, 
 In the power of her that dwelleth
 
 24 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Where you know not no, nor guess not 
 Whom you see not; unto whom, 
 Ere the evening star hath sunken, 
 Ere the glow-worm lights its lamp, 
 Ere the wearied workman slumbers, 
 I return, return, return. 
 
 CTTt AttT/MO). 
 
 ON the mountain, in the woodland, 
 
 In the shaded secret dell, 
 
 I have seen thee, I have met thee ! 
 
 In the soft ambrosial hours of night, 
 
 In darkness silent sweet, 
 
 I beheld thee, I was with thee, 
 I was thine, and thou wert mine! 
 
 When I gazed in palace-chambers, 
 When I trod the rustic dance, 
 Earthly maids were fair to look on, 
 Earthly maidens' hearts were kind : 
 Fair to look on, fair to love : 
 But the life, the life to me, 
 'Twas the death, the death to them, 
 In the spying, prying, prating 
 Of a curious cruel world. 
 At a touch, a breath they fade, 
 They languish, droop, and die; 
 Yea, the juices change to sourness, 
 And the tints to clammy brown; 
 And the softness unto foulness, 
 And the odour unto stench. 
 Let alone and leave to bloom ; 
 Pass aside, nor make to die, 
 In the woodland, on the mountain, 
 Thou art mine, and I am thine. 
 
 So I passed. Amid the uplands, 
 In the forests, on whose skirts 
 Pace unstartled, feed uiif'r:iriiig 
 Do the roe-deer and thn red,
 
 . EARLY POEMS. 25 
 
 While I hungered, while I thirsted, 
 While the night was deepest dark, 
 Who was I, that thou shouldst meet me ? 
 Who was I, thou didst not pass ? 
 Who was I, that I should say to thee 
 Thou art mine, and I am thine ? 
 
 To the air from whence thou earnest 
 Thou returnest, thou art gone; 
 Self-created, discreated, 
 Re-created, ever fresh, 
 
 Ever young! 
 
 As a lake its mirrored mountains 
 At a moment, unregretting, 
 Unresisting, unreclaiming, 
 Without preface, without question, 
 On the silent shifting levels 
 Lets depart, 
 
 Shows, effaces and replaces ! 
 For what is, anon is not ; 
 What has been, again 's to be, 
 Ever new and ever young 
 Thou art mine, and I am thine. 
 
 Art thou she that walks the skies, 
 That rides the starry night? 
 
 I know not 
 
 For my meanness dares not claim the truth 
 
 Thy loveliness declares. 
 
 But the face thou show'st the world is not 
 
 The face thou show'st to me ; 
 
 And the look that I have looked in 
 
 Is of none but me beheld. 
 
 I know not ; but I know 
 
 I am thine, and thou art mine. 
 
 And I watch : the orb behind 
 As it fleeteth, faint and fair 
 In the depth of azure night, 
 In the violet blank, I trace 
 By an outline faint and fair 
 Her whom none but I beheld. 
 By her orb she uioveth slow,
 
 26 CLOUGWS POEMS. . 
 
 Graceful-slow, serenely firm, 
 Maiden-Goddess ! while her robe 
 The adoring planets kiss. 
 And I too cower and ask, 
 Wert thou mine, and was I thine ? 
 
 Hath a cloud o'ercast the sky ? 
 
 Is it cloud upon the mountain-sides 
 
 Or haze of dewy river-banks 
 
 Below ? 
 
 Or around me, 
 
 To enfold me, to conceal, 
 
 Doth a mystic magic veil, 
 
 A celestial separation, 
 
 As of curtains hymeneal, 
 
 Undiscerned yet all excluding, 
 
 Interpose ? 
 
 For the pine-tree boles are dimmer, 
 
 And the stars bedimmed above ; 
 
 In perspective brief, uncertain, 
 
 Are the forest-alleys closed, 
 
 And to whispers indistinctest 
 
 The resounding torrents lulled. 
 
 Can it be, and can it be ? 
 
 Upon Earth and here below, 
 
 In the woodland at my side 
 
 Thou art with me, thou art here. 
 
 'Twas the vapour of the perfume 
 
 Of the presence that should be, 
 
 That enwrapt me ? 
 
 That enwraps us, 
 
 my Goddess, my Queen ! 
 
 And I turn 
 
 At thy feet to fall before thee ; 
 
 And thou wilt not : 
 
 At thy feet to kneel and reach and kiss thy 
 
 finger-tips ; 
 And thou wilt not : 
 And I feel thine arms that stay me, 
 And I feel 
 
 mine own, mine own, mine own, 
 
 1 am thine, and thou art mine!
 
 EARLY POEMS. 27 
 
 A PEOTEST. 
 
 LIGHT words they were, and lightly, falsely said : 
 
 She heard them, and she started, and she rose, 
 
 As in the act to speak ; the sudden thought 
 
 And unconsidered impulse led her on. 
 
 In act to speak she rose, but with the sense 
 
 Of all the eyes of that mixed company 
 
 Now suddenly turned upon her, some with age 
 
 Hardened and dulled, some cold and critical ; 
 
 Some in whom vapours of their own conceit, 
 
 As moist malarious mists the heavenly stars, 
 
 Still blotted out their good, the best at best 
 
 By frivolous laugh and prate conventional 
 
 All too untuned for all she thought to say 
 
 With such a thought the mantling blood to her cheek 
 
 Flushed-up, and o'er-flushed itself, blank night her soul 
 
 Made dark, and in her all her purpose swooned. 
 
 She stood as if for sinking. Yet anon 
 
 With recollections clear, august, sublime, 
 
 Of God's great truth, and right immutable, 
 
 Which, as obedient vassals, to her mind 
 
 Came summoned of her will, in self-negation 
 
 Quelling her troublous earthy consciousness, 
 
 She queened it o'er her weakness. At the spell 
 
 Back rolled the ruddy tide, and leaves her cheek 
 
 Paler than erst, and yet not ebbs so far 
 
 But that one pulse of one indignant thought 
 
 Might hurry it hither in flood. So as she stood 
 
 She spoke. God in her spoke and made her heard. 
 
 1846. 
 
 SIC ITUE. 
 
 As, at a railway junction, men 
 Who came together, taking then 
 One the train up, one down, again 
 
 Meet never ! Ah, much more as they 
 Who take one street's two sides, and say 
 Hard parting words, but walk one way :
 
 28 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Though moving other mates between, 
 While carts and coaches intervene, 
 Each to the other goes unseen ; 
 
 Yet seldom, surely, shall there lack 
 Knowledge they walk not back to back, 
 But with an unity of track, 
 
 Where common dangers each attend, 
 And common hopes their guidance lend 
 To light them to the self-same end. 
 
 Whether he then shall cross to thee, 
 
 Or thou go thither, or it be 
 
 Some midway point, ye yet shall see 
 
 Each other, yet again shall meet. 
 
 Ah, joy ! when with the closing street, 
 
 Forgivingly at last ye greet ! 
 
 1845. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 O TELL me, friends, while yet we part, 
 And heart can yet be heard of heart, 
 tell me then, for what is it 
 Our early plan of life we quit ; 
 From all our old intentions range, 
 And why does all so wholly change ? 
 tell me, friends, while yet we part ? 
 
 O tell me, friends, while yet we part, 
 The rays that from the centre start 
 Within the orb of one warm sun, 
 Unless I err, have once begun, 
 \Vhy is it thus they still diverge? 
 And whither tends the course they urge? 
 O tell me, friends, while yet we part ! 
 
 O tell me, friends, while yet ye limr, 
 May it not be, some coining year,
 
 EARLY POEMS. 29 
 
 These ancient paths that here divide 
 Shall yet again run side by side, 
 And you from there, and I from here, 
 All on a sudden reappear ? 
 tell me, friends, while yet ye hear ! 
 
 tell me, friends, ye hardly hear, 
 
 And if indeed ye did, I fear 
 
 Ye would not say, ye would not speak, 
 
 Are you so strong, am I so weak, 
 
 And yet, how much so e'er I yearn, 
 
 Can I not follow, nor you turn ? 
 
 tell me, friends, ye hardly hear ! 
 
 tell me, friends, ere words are o'er ! 
 There 's something in me sad and sore 
 Eepines, and underneath my eyes 
 
 1 feel a somewhat that would rise, 
 tell me, my friends, and you, 
 Do you feel nothing like it too ? 
 
 tell me, friends, ere words are o'er ! 
 
 tell me, friends that are no more, 
 Do you, too, think ere it is o'er 
 Old times shall yet come round as erst, 
 And we be friends, as we were first ? 
 Or do you judge that all is vain, 
 Except that rule that none complain ? 
 tell me, friends that are no more ! 
 
 QUA CUKSUM 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 :
 
 30 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 But blithe breeze ; and 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, 
 
 bounding breeze, rushing seas ! 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 WEN GOTT BETRClGT, 1ST WOHL BETROGEN.' 
 
 Is it true, ye gods, who treat us 
 
 As the gambling fool is treated ; 
 
 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,
 
 EARLY POEMS. 31 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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.
 
 POEMS ON RELIGIOUS AND BIBLICAL 
 SUBJECTS. 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF THE MYSTERY OF THE FALL. 1 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Adam and Eve. 
 
 Adam. Since that last evening we have fallen indeed ! 
 Yes, we have fallen, my Eve ! O yes ! 
 One, two, and three, and four; the Appetite, 
 The Enjoyment, the aftervoid, the thinking of it 
 Specially the latter two, most specially the last. 
 There, in synopsis, see, you have it all: 
 Come, let us go and work ! 
 
 Is it not enough ? 
 What, is there three, four, five ? 
 
 Eve. Oh, guilt, guilt, guilt ! 
 
 Adam. Be comforted ; muddle not your soul with 
 
 doubt. 
 
 'Tis done, it was to be done ; if, indeed, , 
 Other way than this there was, I cannot say : 
 This was one way, and a way was needs to be found. 
 That which we were we could no more remain 
 Than in the moist provocative vernal mould 
 A seed its suckers close and rest a seed ; 
 We were to grow. Necessity on us lay 
 This way or that to move ; necessity, too, 
 Not to be over careful this or that, 
 So only move we should. 
 
 Come, my wife, 
 
 1 The manuscript of this poem is very imperfect, and bears no 
 title. 
 
 33
 
 34 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 We were to grow, and grow I think we may, 
 And yet bear goodly fruit. 
 
 Eve. Oh, guilt ! oh, guilt ! 
 
 Adam. You weary me with your ' Oh, guilt ! oh, 
 
 guilt ! ' 
 
 Peace to the senseless iteration. What ! 
 Because I plucked an apple from a twig 
 Be damned to death eterne ! parted from Good, 
 Enchained to 111 ! No, by the God of gods ; 
 No, by the living will within my breast, 
 It cannot be, and shall not ; and if this, 
 This guilt of your distracted fantasy, 
 Be our experiment's sum, thank God for guilt, 
 Which makes me free ! 
 
 But thou, poor wife ! poor mother, shall I say ? 
 Big with the first maternity of man, 
 Draw'st from thy teeming womb thick fancies fond, 
 That with confusion mix thy delicate brain ; 
 Fondest of which and cloudiest call the dream 
 (Yea, my beloved, hear me, it is a dream) 
 Of the serpent, and the apple, and the curse : 
 Fondest of dreams and cloudiest of clouds. 
 
 Well I remember, in our marriage bower, 
 How in the dewiest balminess of rest, 
 Inarmed as we lay, sudden at once 
 Up from my side you started, screaming ' Guilt ! ' 
 And ' Lost ! lost ! lost ! ' I on my elbow rose, 
 And rubbed unwilling eyes, and cried, ' Eve ! Eve ! 
 My love ! my wife ! ' and knit anew the embrace, 
 And drew thee to me close, and calmed thy fear, 
 And wooed thee back to sleep. In vain ; for soon 
 I felt thee gone, and opening widest eyes, 
 Beheld thee kneeling on the turf, hands now 
 Clenched and uplifted high, now vainly outspread 
 To hide a burning face and streaming eyes 
 And pale small lips that muttered faintly, 'Death.' 
 And thou wouldst fain depart ; thou saidst the place 
 Was for the like of us too good : we left 
 The pleasant woodland shades, and passed abroad 
 Into this naked champaign glorious soil 
 For digging and for delving, but indeed, 
 Until I killed a beast or two, and spread 
 Skins upon sticks to make our palace here,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 35 
 
 A residence sadly exposed to wind and rain. 
 
 But I in all submit to you. ; and then 
 
 I turned out too, and trudged a furlong's space, 
 
 Till you fell tired and fain would wait for morn. 
 
 So as our nightly journey we began, 
 
 Because the autumnal fruitage that had fallen 
 
 From trees whereunder we had slept, lay thick, 
 
 And we had eaten overnight, and seen, 
 
 And saw again by starlight when you woke me, 
 
 A sly and harmless snake glide by our couch ; 
 
 And because, some few hours before, a lamb 
 
 Pell from a rock and broke its neck, and I 
 
 Had answered, to your wonder, that 'twas dead, 
 
 Forsooth the molten lava of your fright 
 
 Forth from your brain, its crater, hurrying down, 
 
 Took the chance mould ; the vapour blowing by 
 
 Caught and reflected back some random, shapes. 
 
 A vague and queasy dream was obstinate 
 
 In waking thoughts to find itself renewed, 
 
 And lo ! the mighty Mythus of the Fall ! 
 
 Nay, smile with me, sweet mother ! 
 
 Eve. Guilt ! oh, guilt ! 
 
 Adam. Peace, woman, peace ; I go. 
 
 Eve. Nay, Adam, nay ; 
 
 Hear me, I am not dreaming, am not crazed. 
 Did not yourself confess that we are changed ? 
 Do not you too ? 
 
 Adam. Do not I too ? Well, well, 
 
 Listen ! I too when homeward, weary of toil, 
 Through the dark night I have wandered in rain and wind, 
 Bewildered, haply scared, I too have lost heart, 
 And deemed all space with angry power replete, 
 Angry ; almighty and panic-stricken have cried, 
 ' What have I done ? ' ' What wilt thou do to me ? ' 
 Or with the coward's ' No, I did not, I will not,' 
 Belied my own soul's self. I too have heard, 
 And listened, too, to a voice that in my ear 
 Hissed the temptation to curse God, or worse, 
 And yet more frequent, curse myself and die ; 
 Until, in fine, I have begun to half believe 
 Your dream my dream too, and the dream of both 
 No dream but dread reality ; have shared 
 Your fright ; e'en so share thou, sweet life, my hope ;
 
 36 C LOUGH'S POEMS. ' 
 
 I too, again, when weeds with growth perverse 
 
 Have choked my corn and marred a season's toil, 
 
 Have deemed I heard in heaven abroad a cry, 
 
 ' Cursed is the ground for thy sake ; thou art cursed.' 
 
 But oftener far, and stronger also far, 
 
 In consonance with all things out and in, 
 
 I hear a voice more searching bid me, ' On ! 
 
 On ! on ! it is the folly of the child 
 
 To choose his path and straightway think it wrong, 
 
 And turn right back and lie on the ground to weep. 
 
 Forward ! go, conquer ! work and live ! ' Withal 
 
 A word comes, half command, half prophecy, 
 
 ' Forgetting things behind thee, onward press 
 
 Unto the mark of your high calling.' Yea, 
 
 And voices, too, in woods and flowery fields 
 
 Speak confidence from budding banks and boughs, 
 
 And tell me, ' Live and grow,' and say, < Look still 
 
 Upward, spread outward, trust, be patient, live ; ' 
 
 Therefore, if weakness bid me curse and die, 
 
 I answer, No ! I will not curse myself, 
 
 Nor aught beside ; I shall not die, but live. 
 
 Eve. Ah me ! alas ! alas ! 
 
 More dismally in my face stares the doubt, 
 More heavily on my heart weighs the world. 
 Methinks 
 
 The questionings of ages yet to be, 
 The thinkings and cross-thinkings, self-contempts, 
 Self-horror ; all despondencies, despairs, 
 Of multitudinous souls on souls to come, 
 In me imprisoned fight, complain and cry. 
 Alas! 
 Mystery, mystery, mystery evermore. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Adam, alone. 
 
 Adam. Misery, oh my misery ! God, God ! 
 How could I ever, ever, could I do it ? 
 Whither am I come ? where am I ? O me, miserable ! 
 My God, my God, that I were back with Thee! 
 fool ! fool ! irretrievable act !
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 37 
 
 Irretrievable what, I should like to know ? 
 What act, I wonder ? What is it I mean ? 
 
 heaven ! the spirit holds me ; I must yield ; 
 Up in the air he lifts me, casts me down ; 
 I writhe in vain, with limbs convulsed, in the void. 
 
 Well, well ! go, idle words, babble your will ; 
 I think the fit will leave me ere I die. 
 
 Fool, fool ! where am I ? O my God ! Fool, fool ! 
 Why did we do't ? Eve, Eve ! where are you ? quick ! 
 His tread is in the garden ! hither it comes ! 
 Hide us, bushes ! and ye thick trees, hide ! 
 He comes, on, on. Alack, and all these leaves, 
 These petty, quivering and illusive blinds, 
 Avail us nought : the light comes in and in ; 
 Displays us to ourselves ; displays ah, shame 
 Unto the inquisitive day our nakedness. 
 He comes ; He calls. The large eye of His truth, 
 His full, severe, all-comprehending view, 
 Fixes itself upon our guiltiness. 
 God, God ! what are we ? what shall we be ? 
 
 What is all this about, I wonder now ? 
 Yet I am better, too. I think it will pass. 
 
 'Tis going now, unless it comes again. 
 A terrible possession while it lasts. 
 Terrible, surely ; and yet indeed 'tis true. 
 E'en in my utmost impotence I find 
 A fount of strange persistence in my soul ; 
 Also, and that perchance is stronger still, 
 A wakeful, changeless touchstone in my brain, 
 Receiving, noting, testing all the while 
 These passing, curious, new phenomena 
 Painful, and yet not painful unto it. 
 Though tortured in the crucible I lie, 
 Myself my own experiment, yet still 
 I, or a something that is I indeed, 
 A living, central, and more inmost I, 
 Within the scales of mere exterior me's, 
 I, seem eternal, thou God, as Thou ; 
 Have knowledge of the evil and the good, 
 Superior in a higher good to both. 
 
 Well, well, well ! it has gone from me, though still 
 Its images remain upon me whole ;
 
 38 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And undisplaced upon my mind I view 
 
 The reflex of the total seizure past. 
 
 Really now, had I only time and space, 
 
 And were not troubled with this wife of mine, 
 
 And the necessity of meat and drink 
 
 I really do believe, 
 
 With time and space and proper quietude, 
 
 I could resolve the problem in my brain. 
 
 But, no ; I scarce can stay one moment more 
 
 To watch the curious seething process out. 
 
 If I could only dare to let Eve see 
 
 These operations, it is like enough 
 
 Between us two we two could make it out. 
 
 But she would be so frightened think it proof 
 
 Of all her own imaginings. 'Twill not do ; 
 
 - So as it is 
 
 I must e'en put a cheery face on it, 
 Suppress the whole, rub off the unfinished thoughts, 
 For fear she read them. O, 'tis pity indeed, 
 But confidence is the one and main thing now : 
 Who loses confidence, he loses all. 
 A de mi-grain of cowardice in me 
 Avowed, were poison to the whole mankind ; 
 When men are plentier, 'twill be time to try ; 
 At present, no. 
 No; 
 
 Shake it all up and go. 
 That is the word, and that must be obeyed. 
 I must be off. But yet again some day 
 Again will I resume it ; if not I, 
 I in some child of late posterity. 
 Yes, yes, I feel it ; it is here the seed, 
 Here in my head ; but, O thou Power unseen, 
 In whom we live and move and have our being, 
 Let it not perish ; grant, unlost, unhurt, 
 In long transmission, this rich atom some day, 
 In some posterity of distant years 
 If ow many thou intendest to have I know not 
 
 In some matured and procreant human brain, 
 
 May germinate, burst, and rise into a tree. 
 
 No ; I shall not tell Eve.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 39 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 ('Now the birth of Cain was in this wise.') 
 Adam and Eve. 
 
 Eve. Oh, Adam, I am comforted indeed; 
 Where is he ? my little one ! 
 My heart is in the garden as of old, 
 And Paradise come back. 
 
 Adam. My love, 
 
 Blessed be this good day to thee indeed ; 
 Blessed the balm of joy unto thy soul. 
 A sad unskilful nurse was I to thee ; 
 But nature teaches mothers, I perceive. 
 
 Eve. But you, my husband, you meantime, I feel, 
 Join not your perfect spirit in my joy. 
 No ; your spirit mixes not, I feel, with mine. 
 
 Adam. Alas ! sweet love, for many a weary day, 
 You and not I have borne this heavy weight : 
 How can I, should I, might I feel your bliss, 
 Now heaviness is changed to glory ? Long, 
 In long and unparticipated pangs, 
 Your heart hath known its own great bitterness : 
 How should, in this its jubilant release, 
 . A stranger intermeddle with its joy ? 
 
 Eve. My husband, there is more in it than this ; 
 Nay, you are surely, positively sad. 
 
 Adam. What if I was (and yet I think I am not), 
 'Twere but the silly and contrarious mood 
 Of one whose sympathies refuse to mix 
 In ought not felt immediate from himself. 
 But of a truth, 
 Your joy is greater mine seems therefore none. 
 
 Eve. Nay, neither this I think nor that is true. 
 Evermore still you love to cheat me, Adam : 
 You hide from me your thoughts like evil beasts 
 Most foolishly ; for I, thus left to guess, 
 Catch at all hints, and where perchance one is, 
 People the forest with a hundred ills, 
 Each worse perhaps a hundred times than it.
 
 40 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 No ; you have got some fearful thoughts no, no ; 
 Look not in that way on my baby, Adam 
 You do it hurt ; you shall not ! 
 
 Adam. Hear me, Eve, 
 
 If hear you will and speak I think I must 
 Hear me. 
 
 What is it I would say ? I think 
 And yet I must so hear me, mother blest, 
 That sittest with thy nursling at thy heart, 
 Hope not too greatly, neither fear for him, 
 Feeling on thy breast his small compressing lips, 
 And glorying in the gift they draw from thee ; 
 Hope not too greatly in thyself and him. 
 And hear me, young mother I must speak. 
 This child is born of us, and therefore like us ; 
 Is born of us, and therefore is as we ; 
 Is born of us, and therefore is not pure ; 
 Earthly as well as godlike ; bound to strive 
 Not doubtfully I augur from the past 
 Through the same straits of anguish and of doubt, 
 'Mid the same storms of terror and alarm, 
 To the calm ocean which he yet shall reach, 
 He or himself or in his sons hereafter, 
 Of consummated consciousness of self. 
 The self-same stuff which wrought in us to grief 
 Runs in his veins ; and what to work in him ? 
 What shape of unsuspected deep disguise, 
 Transcending our experience, our best cares 
 Battling, evading all preventive thought, 
 Will the old mischief choose, I wonder, here ? 
 O born to human trouble ! also born 
 Else wherefore born to some diviner lot. 
 Live, and may chance treat thee no worse than us. 
 There, I have done : the dangerous stuff is out ; 
 My mind is freed. And now, my gentle Eve, 
 Forgive thy foolish spouse, and let me set 
 A father's kiss upon these budding lips, 
 A husband's on the mother's the full flower. 
 There, there ; and so, my own and only wife, 
 Believe me, my worst thought is now to learn 
 How best and most to serve this child and thee. 
 
 Tliis child is born of us, and therefore like us 
 Most true, mine own ; and if a man like me
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 41 
 
 Externally, internally I trust 
 
 Most like to thee, the better of the twain. 
 
 Is born of us, and therefore is not pure 
 Did I say that ? I know not what I said ; 
 It was a foolish humour ; but, indeed, 
 Whatever you may think, I have not learnt 
 The trick of deep suppression, e'en the skill 
 To sort my thoughts and sift my words enough. 
 Not pure, indeed ! And if it is not pure, 
 What is ? Ah, well ! but most I look to the days 
 When these small arms, with pliant thews filled out, 
 Shall at my side break up the fruitful glebe, 
 And aid the cheery labours of the year 
 Aid, or in feebler wearier years, replace, 
 And leave me longer hours for home and love. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Adam and Eve. 
 
 Eve. Adam, it was I was godless then ; 
 But you were mournful, heavy, but composed. 
 At times would somewhat fiercely bite your lip 
 And pass your hand about your brow ; but still 
 Held out, denied not God, acknowledged still 
 Those glories that were gone. No, I never 
 Felt all your worth to me before ; I feel 
 You did not fall as I did. 
 
 Adam. Nay, my child, 
 
 About our falls I don't profess to know. 
 I know I ne'er was innocent as thou ; 
 I only know, as you will have it so, 
 Were your descent more lengthy than was mine, 
 It is not that your place is lower now, 
 But that first 'twas higher up than mine ; 
 It is that I being bestial, you divine, 
 We now alike are human beings both. 
 About our fall I won't profess to know, 
 But know I do 
 
 That I was never innocent as thou. 
 Moping again, my love ; yes, I dare swear, 
 All the day long while I have been at work,
 
 42 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 With some religious folly in your head. 
 
 Eve. No, Adam, I am cheerful quite to-day ; 
 I vary much, indeed, from hour to hour, 
 But since my baby's birth I am happier far ; 
 And I have done some work as well as you. 
 
 Adam. What is it tho' ? for I will take my oath 
 You've got some fancy stirring in your brain. 
 
 Eve. Nay, but it vexes me for evermore 
 To find in you no credence to my thought. 
 
 Adam. What is it then you wish me to subscribe to ? 
 That we were in a garden put by God, 
 Allowed to eat of all the trees but one. 
 Somehow I don't know how a serpent tempted us, 
 And eat we did and so were doomed to die ; 
 Whereas before we were meant to live forever. 
 Meantime, turned out 
 
 Eve. You do not think, then, Adam, 
 
 We have been disobedient unto God ? 
 
 Adam. My child, how should I know, and what do 
 
 you mean ? 
 
 Your question's not so simple as it looks ; 
 For if you mean that God said this or that 
 As that ' You shall not touch those apples there,' 
 And that we did why, all that I can say 
 Is that I can't conceive the thing to be. 
 But if it were so, I should then believe 
 We had done right at any rate no harm. 
 
 Eve. Adam, I can scarcely think I hear ; 
 For if God said to us God being God 
 ' You shall not,' is not His commandment His ? 
 And are not we the creatures He hath made ? 
 
 Adam. My child, God does not speak to human minds 
 In that unmeaning arbitrary way. 
 God were not God if so, and good not good. 
 Search in your heart, and if you tell me there 
 You find a genuine voice no fancy, mind you 
 Declaring to you this or that is evil, 
 Why this or that I daresay evil is. 
 Believe me, I will listen to the word ; 
 For not by observation of without 
 Cometh the kingdom of the voice of God : 
 It is within us let us seek it there. 
 
 Eve. Yet I have voices, surely, in my heart.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 43 
 
 Often you say I heed them over much. 
 
 Adam. God's voice is of the heart : I do not say 
 All voices, therefore, of the heart are God's ; 
 And to discern the voice amidst the voices 
 Is that hard task, my love, that we are born to. 
 
 Eve. Ah me, in me I am sure the one, one voice 
 Goes somehow to the sense of what I say 
 The sense of disobedience to God. 
 
 Adam, some way, some time, we have done wrong, 
 And when I think of this, I still must think 
 
 Of Paradise, and of the stately tree 
 Which in the middle of the garden grew, 
 The golden fruit that hung upon its boughs, 
 Of which but once we ate, and I must feel 
 That whereas once in His continual sight 
 We lived, in daily communing with Him, 
 We now are banished, and behold not Him. 
 Our only present communing, alas ! 
 Is penitential mourning, and the gaze 
 Of the abased and prostrate prayerful soul ; 
 But you, yourself, my Adam, you at least 
 Acknowledge some time somehow we did wrong. 
 
 Adam,. My child, I never even granted that. 
 
 Eve. Oh, but you let strange words at times fall from 
 
 you. 
 They are to me like thunderbolts from heaven ; 
 
 1 listen terrified and sick at heart, 
 
 Then haste and pick them up and treasure them. 
 What was it that you said when Cain was born ? 
 'He's born of us and therefore is not pure.' 
 0, you corrected well, my husband, then 
 My foolish, fond exuberance of delight. 
 
 Adam. My child, believe me, truly I was the fool ; 
 But a first baby is a strange surprise. 
 I shall not say so when another comes ; 
 And I beseech you treasure up no words. 
 You know me : I am loose of tongue and light. 
 I beg you, Eve, remember nought of this ; 
 Put not at least, I pray you nay, command 
 Put not, when days come on, your own strange whim 
 And misconstruction of my idle words 
 Into the tender brains of our poor young ones.
 
 44 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Adam with Cain and Abel. 
 
 Adam. Cain, beware! 
 
 Strike not your brother ! I have said, beware ! 
 A heavy curse is on this thing, my son. 
 With doubt and fear, 
 Terror and toil and pain already here, 
 Let us not have injustice too, my son. 
 So Cain, beware ! 
 And Abel, too, see you provoke him not. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Abel alone. 
 
 Abel. At times I could believe 
 
 My father is no better than his son : 
 If not as overbearing, proud and hard, 
 Yet prayerless, worldly, almost more than Cain. 
 Enlighten and convert him ere the end, 
 My God ! spurn not my mother's prayers and mine. 
 Since I was born, was I not left to Thee, 
 In an unspiritual and godless house, 
 Unfathered and unbrothered Thine and hers ? 
 They think not of the fall : e'en less they think 
 Of the redemption, which God said should be ; 
 Which, for we apprehend it by our faith, 
 Already is is come for her and me. 
 Ye#,, though I sin, my sin is not to death ; 
 In my repentance I have joy, such joy 
 That almost I could sin to seek for it 
 Yea, if I did not hate it and abhor, 
 And know that Thou abhorr'st and hatest it, 
 And will'st, for an example to the rest, 
 That Thine elect should keep themselves from it. 
 Alas! 
 
 My mother calls the fall a mystery; 
 Redemption is so too. But oh, my God,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 45 
 
 Thou wilt bring all things in the end to good. 
 
 Yea, though the whole world lie in wickedness, I 
 
 Am with Thee, with Thee, with Thee evermore. 
 
 Ah, yet I am not satisfied with this '! 
 
 Am I not feeding spiritual pride, 
 
 Rejoicing over sinners, inelect 
 
 And unadmitted to the fellowship 
 
 Which I, unworthy, most unworthy, share ? 
 
 What can I do how can I help it then ? 
 
 God, remove it from my heart; pluck out, 
 Whatever pain, whatever wrench to me, 
 
 These sinful roots and remnants which, whate'er 
 
 1 do, how high so e'er I soar from earth, 
 Still, undestroyed, still germinate within. 
 Take them away in Thy good time, God. 
 Meantime, for that atonement's precious sake 
 Which in T.hy counsels predetermined works 
 Already to the saving of the saints, 
 
 Father, view with mercy, and forgive ; 
 Nor let my vexed perception of my sin, 
 Nor any multitude of evil thoughts, 
 Crowding like demons in my spirit's house, 
 Nor life, nor death, things here or things below, 
 Cast out the sweet assurance of my soul 
 That I am Thine, and Thou art mine, my God. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 Cain alone. 
 
 Cain. Am I or am I not this which they think me ? 
 My mother loves me not ; my brother Abel, 
 Searing my heart, commends my soul to God ; 
 My father does not shun me there's my comfort: 
 Almost I think they look askance on him. 
 Ah, but for him, 
 
 I know not what might happen ; for at times 
 Ungovernable angers take the waves 
 Of my deep soul and sweep them who knows whither ? 
 And a strange impulse, struggling to the truth, 
 Urges me onward to put forth my strength, 
 No matter how. A wild anxiety
 
 46 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Possesses me moreover to essay 
 
 This world of action round me so unknown ; 
 
 And to be able to do this or that 
 
 Seems cause enough without a cause for doing it. 
 
 My father, he is cheerful and content, 
 
 And leads me frankly forward. Yet, indeed, 
 
 His leading or, more truly, to be led 
 
 At all, by any one, and not myself 
 
 Is mere dissatisfaction : evermore 
 
 Something I must do individual, 
 
 To vindicate my nature, to give proof 
 
 I also am as Adam is, a man. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Adam and Eve. 
 
 Adam. These sacrifices, my best beloved, 
 These rites and forms which you have taught our boys, 
 Which I nor practise nor can understand, 
 Will turn, I trust, to good ; but I much fear. 
 Besides the superstitious search of signs 
 In merest accidents of earth and air, 
 They cause, I think, a sort of jealousy 
 Ill-blood. Hark, now ! 
 
 Eve. God, whose cry is that ? 
 Abel, where is my Abel ? 
 
 Adam. Cain ! what, Cain ! 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Cain alone with the body of Abel. 
 
 Cain. What! fallen? so quickly down so easily 
 
 felled, 
 
 And so completely ? Why, he does not move. 
 Will not he stir will he not breathe again ? 
 Still as a log still as his own dead lamb. 
 Dead is it then ? O wonderful ! O strange ! 
 Dead ! dead ! And we can slay each other then ? 
 If we are wronged, why we can right ourselves ; 
 If we are plagued and pestered with a fool 
 That will not let us be, nor leave us room
 
 . RELIGIOUS POEMS. 47 
 
 To do our Avill and shape our path in peace, 
 We can be rid of him. There he is gone ; 
 Victory ! victory ! victory ! My heaven, 
 Methinks, from infinite distances borne back, 
 It comes to me re-borne in multitude 
 Echoed, re-echoed, and re-echoed again, 
 Victory ! victory ! distant, yet distinct 
 Uncountable times repeated. ye gods ! 
 Where am I come, and whither am I borne ? 
 
 I stand upon the pinnacle of earth, 
 And hear the wild seas laughing at my feet ; 
 Yet I could wish that he had struggled more 
 That passiveness was disappointing. Ha ! 
 He should have writhed and wrestled in my arms, 
 And all but overcome, and set his knee 
 Hard on my chest, till I all faint, yet still 
 Holding my fingers at his throat at last, 
 Inch after inch, had forced him to relax : 
 But he went down at once, without a word, 
 Almost without a look. 
 
 Ah! hush! My God! 
 
 Who was it spoke ? What is this questioner ? 
 Who was it asked me where my brother is ? 
 Ha, ha ! Was I his keeper ? I know not. 
 Each for himself ; he might have struck again. 
 Why did he not ? I wished him to. Was I 
 To strike for both at once ? No ! Yet, ah ! 
 Where is thy brother ? Peace, thou silly voice ; 
 Am I my brother's keeper ? I know not, 
 I know not ought about it ; let it be. 
 Henceforth I shall walk freely upon earth, 
 And know my will, and do it by my might. 
 My God ! it will not be at peace my God ! 
 It flames ; it bursts in fury in my soul. 
 What is it that will come of this ? Ah me ! 
 What is it I have done ? Almighty God ! 
 I see it ; I behold it as it is, 
 As it will be in all the times to come : 
 Slaughter on slaughter, blood for blood, and death, 
 For ever, ever, ever, evermore ! 
 And all for what ? 
 
 Abel, brother mine, 
 Where'er thou art, more happy far than me !
 
 48 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Adam alone. 
 
 Adam. Abel is dead, and Cain ah, what is Cain ? 
 Is he not even more than Abel dead ? 
 Well, we must hope in Seth. This merest man, 
 This unambitious commonplace of life, 
 Will after all perhaps mend all ; and though 
 Record shall tell men to the after-time 
 No wondrous tales of him, in him at last, 
 And in his seed increased and multiplied, 
 Earth shall be blest and peopled and subdued, 
 And what was meant to be be brought to pass. 
 Oh but, my Abel and my Cain, e'en so 
 You shall not be forgotten nor unknown. 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Cain and Eve. 
 
 Cain. I am come. Curse me ; 
 Curse Cain, my mother, ere he goes. He waits. 
 
 Eve. Who ? What is this ? 
 Oh Abel ! my gentle, holy child, 
 My perfect son ! 
 Monster ! and did I bear thee too ? 
 
 Cain. He was so good, his brother hated him, 
 And slew him for't. Go on, my mother, on. 
 
 Eve. ***** 
 
 For there are rites and holy means of grace 
 Of God ordained for man's eternal [weal]. 
 With these, my son, address thyself to Him, 
 And seek atonement from a gracious God, 
 With whom is balm for every wounded heart. 
 
 Cain. I ask not for atonement, mother mine ; 
 I ask but one thing never to forget. 
 I ask but not to add to one great crime 
 Another self-delusion scarcely less. 
 I could ask more, but more 1 know is sin.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 49 
 
 If sacrifices and the fat of lambs, 
 And whole burnt-offerings upon piles of turf, 
 Will bring me this, I'd till the heaven with sinoke, 
 And deface earth with million fiery scars. 
 I could ask back (and think it but my right, 
 And passionately claim it as my right) 
 That precious life which one misguided blow, 
 Which one scarce conscious momentary act, 
 One impulse blindly followed to its close, 
 Ended forever ; but that I know this vain. 
 If they shall only keep my sin in mind, 
 I shall not, be assured, neglect them either. 
 
 Eve. You ask not for atonement ! O my son 
 Cain, you are proud and hard of heart e'en now. 
 Beware ! 
 
 Prostrate your soul in penitential prayer, 
 Humble your heart beneath the mighty hand 
 Of God, whose gracious guidance oft shall lead 
 Through sin and crime the changed and melted heart 
 To sweet repentance and the sense of Him. 
 You ask not for atonement ! my son ! 
 What, to be banished from the sight of God ; 
 To dwell with wicked spirits, be a prey 
 To them and prey yourself on human souls ; 
 What, to be lost in wickedness and wrath, 
 Deeper and deeper down ; 
 What, Cain, do you choose this ? 
 
 Cain. Alas ! my mother, 
 
 I know not ; there are mysteries in your heart 
 Which I profess not knowledge of : it may be 
 That this is so; if so, may God reveal it. 
 Have faith you too in my heart's secrets ; yea, 
 All I can say, alas, is that to me, 
 As I now comprehend it, this were sin. 
 Atonement no : not that, but punishment. 
 But what avails to talk ? talk as we will, 
 As yet we shall not know each other's hearts ; 
 Let me not talk, but act. Farewell, forever.
 
 50 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Adam and Cain. 
 
 Cain. This is the history then, my father, is it ? 
 This is the perfect whole ? 
 
 Adam. My son, it is. 
 
 And whether a dream, or if it were a dream, 
 A transcript of an inward spiritual fact 
 (As you suggest, and I allow, might be), 
 Not the less true because it was a dream. 
 I know not my Cain, I cannot tell, 
 But in my soul I think it was a dream, 
 And but a dream ; a thing, whence'er it came, 
 To be forgotten and considered not. 
 
 Cain. Father, you should have told me this before ; 
 It is no use now. Oh God, my brother ! oh God ! 
 ****** 
 
 Adam. For what is life, and what is pain or death ? 
 You have killed Abel : Abel killed the lamb 
 An act in him prepense, in you unthought of. 
 One step you stirred, and lo ! you stood entrapped. 
 
 Cain. My father, this is true, I know ; but yet, 
 There is some truth beside : I cannot say, 
 But I have heard within my soul a voice 
 Asking, ' Where is thy brother ? ' and I said 
 That is, the evil heart within me said 
 ' Am I my brother's keeper ? go ask him. 
 Who was it that provoked me ? should he rail, 
 And I not smite ? his death be on his head.' 
 But the voice answered in my soul again, 
 So that the other ceased and was no more. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Adam and Cain. 
 
 Cain. My father, Abel's dead. 
 
 Adam. My son, 'tis done, it was to be done ; some 
 good end
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 51 
 
 Thereby to come, or else it had not been. 
 Go, for it must be. Cain, I know your heart, 
 You cannot be with us. Go, then, depart ; 
 But be not over scrupulous, my son. 
 
 Cain. Curse me, my father, ere I go. Your curse 
 Will go with me for good ; your curse 
 Will make me not forget, 
 Alas ! I am not of that pious kind, 
 Who, when the blot has fallen upon their life, 
 Can look to heaven and think it white again 
 Look up to heaven and find a something there 
 To make what is not be, altho' it is. 
 My mother ah, how you have spoke of this ! 
 The dead to him 'twas innocence and joy, 
 And purity and safety from the world : 
 To me the thing seems sin the worst of sin. 
 If it be so, why are we here ? the world, 
 Why is it as I find it ? The dull stone 
 Cast from my hand, why comes it not again ? 
 The broken flow'ret, why does it not live ? 
 If it be so. 
 
 Why are we here, and why is Abel dead ? 
 Shall this be true 
 
 Of stocks and stones and mere inanimate clay, 
 And not in some sort also hold for us ? 
 
 Adam. My son, Time healeth all, 
 Time and great Nature ; heed her speech, and learn. 
 
 Cain. My father, you are learned in this sort : 
 You read the earth, as does my mother heaven. 
 Both books are dark to me only I feel 
 That this one thing 
 
 And this one word in me must be declared ; 
 That to forget is not to be restored ; 
 To lose with time the sense of what we did 
 Cancels not that we did; what's done remains 
 I am my brother's murderer. Woe to me ! 
 Abel is dead. No prayers to empty heaven, 
 No vegetative kindness of the earth, 
 Will bring back warmth into his clay again, 
 The gentleness of love into his face. 
 Therefore, for me farewell ; 
 Farewell for me the soft, 
 The balmy influences of night and sleep,
 
 52 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 The satisfaction of achievement done, 
 
 The restorative pulsing of the blood 
 
 That changes all and changes e'en the soul 
 
 And natural functions, moving as they should, 
 
 The sweet good-nights, the sweet delusive dreams 
 
 That lull us out of old things into new. 
 
 But welcome Fact, and Fact's best brother, Work ; 
 
 Welcome the conflict of the stubborn soil, 
 
 To toil the livelong day, and at the end, 
 
 Instead of rest, recarve into my brow 
 
 The dire memorial mark of what still is. 
 
 Welcome this worship, which I feel is mine ; 
 
 Welcome this duty 
 
 the solidarity of life 
 And unity of individual soul. 
 That which I did, I did, I who am here : 
 There is no safety but in this ; and when 
 I shall deny the thing that I have done, 
 I am a dream. 
 
 Adam. My son, 
 What shall I say ? 
 
 That which your soul, in marriage with the world, 
 Imbreeds in you, accept ; how can I say 
 Refuse the revelations of the soul ? 
 Yet be not over scrupulous, my son, 
 And be not over proud to put aside 
 The due consolements of the circling years. 
 What comes, receive ; be not too wise for God. 
 The past is something, but the present more ; 
 Will not it too be past ? nor fail withal 
 To recognise the future in our hopes ; 
 Unite them in your manhood each and all, 
 Nor mutilate the perfectness of life. 
 You can remember, you can also hope ; 
 And, doubtless, with the long instructive years, 
 Comfort will come to you, my son, to me, 
 Even to your mother, comfort; but to us 
 Knowledge, at least the certainty of things 
 Which, as I think, is consolation's sum. 
 For truly now, to-day, to-morrow, yes, 
 Days many more to come, alike to you, 
 Whose, earlii'st revelation of the world 
 Is, horrible indeed, this fatal fact
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 53 
 
 And unto me, who, knowing not much before, 
 Look gropingly and idly into this, 
 And recognise no figure I have seen 
 Alike, my son, to me, and to yourself, 
 Much is now dark which one day will be light ; 
 AVith strong assurance fortify your soul 
 Of this : and that you meet me here again, 
 Promise me, Cain. Farewell, to meet again. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 Adam's Vision. 
 
 Adam. Cain, the words of Adam shall be said ; 
 Come near, and hear your father's words, my son. 
 I have been in the spirit, as they call it, 
 Dreaming, which is, as others say, the same. 
 I sat, and you, Cain, with me, and Eve 
 (We sat as in a picture people sit, 
 Great figures, silent, with their place content) ; 
 And Abel came and took your hand, my son, 
 And wept and kissed you, saying, ' Forgive me, Cain. 
 Ah me ! my brother, sad has been thy life 
 For my sake, all thro' me ; how foolishly, 
 Because we knew not both of us were right ; ' 
 And you embraced and wept, and we too wept. 
 
 Then I beheld through eyes with tears suffused, 
 
 And deemed at first 'twas blindness thence ensuing ; 
 
 Abel was gone, and you were gone, my son 
 
 Gone, and yet not gone ; yea, I seemed to see 
 
 The decomposing of those coloured lines 
 
 Which we called you, their fusion into one, 
 
 And therewithal their vanishing and end. 
 
 And Eve said to me, ' Adam, in the day 
 
 When in the inexistent void I heard God's voice, 
 
 An awful whisper, bidding me to be, 
 
 How slow was I to come, how loth to obey ; 
 
 As slow, as sad, as lingeringly loth, 
 
 I fade, I vanish, sink, and cease to be, 
 
 By the same sovereign strong compulsion borne : 
 
 Ah, if I vanish, take me into thee ! ' 
 
 She spoke, nor, speaking, ceased I listening ; but
 
 54 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I was alone, yet not alone, with her 
 
 And she with me, and you with us, my sons, 
 
 As at the first ; and yet not wholly yea, 
 
 And that which I had witnessed thus in you, 
 
 This fusion, and mutation, and return, 
 
 Seemed in my substance working too. I slept, 
 
 I did not dream, my sleep was sweet to me. 
 
 Yes, in despite of all disquietudes, 
 
 For Eve, for you, for Abel, which indeed 
 
 Impelled in me that gaiety of soul 
 
 Without your fears I had listened to my own 
 
 In spite of doubt, despondency, and death, 
 
 Though lacking knowledge alway, lacking faith 
 
 Sometimes, and hope ; with no sure trust in ought 
 
 Except a kind of impetus within, 
 
 Whose sole credentials were that trust itself ; 
 
 Yet, in despite of much, in lack of more, 
 
 Life has been beautiful to me, my son, 
 
 And I, if I am called, will come again. 
 
 As he hath lived he dies. My comforter, 
 
 Whom I believed not, only trusted in, 
 
 What had I been without thee ? how survived ? 
 
 Would I were with thee whereso'er thou art ! 
 
 Would I might follow thee still ! 
 
 But sleep is sweet, and I would sleep, my son. 
 
 Oh Cain ! behold your father's words are said ! 
 
 THE SONG OF LAMECH. 
 
 HEARKEN to me, ye mothers of my tent : 
 Ye wives of Lamech, hearken to my speech : 
 Adah, let Jubal hither lead his goats : 
 And Tubal Cain, O Zillah, hush the forge; 
 Naamah her wheel shall ply beside, and thou, 
 My Jubal, touch, before 1 speak, the string. 
 Yea, Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string. 
 Hear ye my voice, beloved of my tent, 
 Dear ones of Laraech, listen to my speech. 
 
 For Evo made answer, Cain, my son, my own. 
 0, if I cursed thee, O my child, I sinned,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 55 
 
 And He that heard me, heard, and said me nay : 
 My first, my only one, thou shalt not go ; 
 And Adam answered also, Cain, my son, 
 He that is gone forgiveth, we forgive : 
 Eob not thy mother of two sons at once ; 
 My child, abide with us and comfort us. 
 
 Hear ye my voice ; Adah and Zillah, near ; 
 Ye wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 For Cain replied not. But, an hour more, sat 
 Where the night through he sat ; his knit brows seen, 
 Scarce seen, amid the foldings of his limbs. 
 But when the sun was bright upon the field, 
 To Adam still, and Eve still waiting by, 
 And weeping, lift he up his voice and spake. 
 
 Cain said, The sun is risen upon the earth ; 
 
 The day demands my going, and I go. 
 
 As you from Paradise, so I from you : 
 
 As you to exile, into exile I : 
 
 My father and my mother, I depart. 
 
 As betwixt you and Paradise of old, 
 
 So betwixt me, my parents, now, and you, 
 
 Cherubim I discern, and in their hand 
 
 A flaming sword that turneth every way, 
 
 To keep the way of my one tree of life, 
 
 The way my spirit yearns to, of my love. 
 
 Yet not, Adam and Eve, fear not. 
 
 For He that asked me, Where is Abel ? He 
 
 Who called me cursed from the earth, and said 
 
 A fugitive and vagabond thou art, 
 
 He also said, when fear had slain my soul, 
 
 There shall not touch thee man nor beast. Fear not. 
 
 Lo, I have spoke with God, and He hath said, 
 
 Fear not ; and let me go as He hath said, 
 
 Cain also said (0 Jubal, touch thy string), 
 
 Moreover, in the darkness of my mind, 
 
 When the night's night of misery was most black, 
 
 A little star came twinkling up within, 
 
 And in myself I had a guide that led, 
 
 And in myself had knowledge of a soul. 
 
 Fear not, Adam and Eve : I go.
 
 56 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Children of Larnech, listen to iny speech. 
 
 For when the years were multiplied, and Cain 
 
 Eastward of Eden, in this land of Nod, 
 
 Had sons, and sons of sons, and sons of them, 
 
 Enoch and Irad and Mehujael 
 
 (My father, and my children's grandsire he), 
 
 It came to pass that Cain, who dwelt alone, 
 
 Met Adam, at the nightfall, in the field : 
 
 Who fell upon his neck, and wept, and said, 
 
 My son, has not God spoken to thee, Cain ? 
 
 And Cain replied, when weeping loosed his voice, 
 
 My dreams are double, my father, good 
 
 And evil. Terror to my soul by night, 
 
 And agony by day, when Abel stands 
 
 A dead, black shade, and speaks not, neither looks, 
 
 Nor makes me any answer when I cry 
 
 Curse me, but let me know thou art alive. 
 
 But comfort also, like a whisper, comes, 
 
 In visions of a deeper sleep, when he, 
 
 Abel, as him we knew, yours once and mine, 
 
 Comes with a free forgiveness in his face, 
 
 Seeming to speak, solicitous for words, 
 
 And wearing ere he go the old, first look 
 
 Of unsuspecting, unforeboding love. 
 
 Three nights are gone I saw him thus, my Sire. 
 
 Dear ones of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 
 For Adam said, Three nights ago to me 
 Came Abel, in my sleep, as thou hast said, 
 And spake, and bade, Arise my father, go 
 Where in the land of exile dwells thy son ; 
 Say to my brother, Abel bids thee come, 
 Abel would have thee ; and lay thou thy hand, 
 My father, on his head, that he may come ; 
 Am I not weary, father, for this hour ? 
 Hear ye my voice, Adah and Zillah, hear ; 
 Children of Lamech, listen to my speech : 
 And, son of Zillah, sound thy solemn string. 
 
 For Adam laid upon the head of Cain 
 
 His li;m<i. and Cain bowed down, and slept, and died.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 57 
 
 And a deep sleep on Adam also fell, 
 And, in his slumber's deepest, he beheld, 
 Standing before the gate of Paradise, 
 With Abel, hand in hand, our father Cain. 
 Hear ye my voice, Adah and Zillah, hear ; 
 Ye wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. 
 
 Though to his wounding he did slay a man, 
 Yea, and a young man to his hurt he slew, 
 Fear not, ye wives, nor sons of Lamech fear : 
 If unto Cain was safety given and rest, 
 Shall Lamech surely and his people die ? 
 
 GENESIS XXIV. 
 
 WHO is this man 
 
 that walketh in the field, 
 Eleazar, 
 
 steward to my lord ? 
 
 And Eleazar 
 
 answered her and said, 
 Daughter of Bethuel, 
 
 it is other none 
 But my lord Isaac, 
 
 son unto my lord. 
 Who, as his wont is, 
 
 walketh in the field, 
 In the hour of evening, 
 
 meditating there. 
 
 Therefore Rebekah 
 
 hasted where she sat, 
 And from her camel 
 
 'lighting to the earth, 
 Sought for a veil 
 
 and put it on her face. 
 
 But Isaac also, 
 
 walking in the field, 
 Saw from af ar 
 
 a company that came,
 
 58 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Camels, and a seat 
 
 as where a woman sat ; 
 Wherefore he came 
 
 and met them on the way. 
 
 "Whom, when Rebekah 
 
 saw, she came before, 
 
 Saying, Behold 
 
 the handmaid of my lord, 
 
 Who, for my lord's sake, 
 
 travel from my land. 
 
 But he said, O 
 
 thou blessed of our God, 
 Come, for the tent 
 
 is eager for thy face. 
 Shall not thy husband 
 
 be unto thee more than 
 Hundreds of kinsmen 
 
 living in thy land ? 
 
 And-Eleazar answered, 
 
 Thus and thus, 
 Even according 
 
 as thy father bade, 
 Did we ; and thus and 
 
 thus it came to pass : 
 Lo ! is not this 
 
 Kebekah, Bethuel's child ? 
 
 And, as he ended, 
 
 Isaac spoke and said, 
 Surely niy heart 
 
 went with you on the way, 
 When with the beasts 
 
 ye came unto the place. 
 
 Truly, child 
 
 of Nahor, I was there, 
 When to thy mother 
 
 and thy mother's son 
 Thou madest answer, 
 
 saying, I will go. 
 And Isaac brought her 
 
 to his mother's tent.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 59 
 
 JACOB. 
 
 MY sons, and ye the children of my sons, 
 Jacob your father goes upon his way, 
 His pilgrimage is being accomplished. 
 Come near and here him ere his words are o'er. 
 
 Not as my father's or his father's days, 
 As Isaac's days or Abraham's, have been mine; 
 Not as the days of those that in the field 
 Walked at the eventide to meditate, 
 And haply, to the tent returning, found 
 Angels at nightfall waiting at their door. 
 They communed, Israel wrestled with the Lord. 
 No, not as Abraham's or as Isaac's days, 
 My sons, have been Jacob your father's days, 
 Evil and few, attaining not to theirs 
 In number, and in worth inferior much. 
 As a man with his friend, walked they with God, 
 In His abiding presence they abode, 
 And all their acts were open to His face. 
 But I have had to force mine eyes away, 
 To lose, almost to shun, the thoughts I loved, 
 To bend down to the work, to bare the breast, 
 And struggle, feet and hands, with enemies ; 
 To buffet and to battle with hard men, 
 With men of selfishness and violence ; 
 To watch by day, and calculate by night, 
 To plot and think of plots, and through a land 
 Ambushed with guile, and with strong foes beset, 
 To win with art safe wisdom's peaceful way. 
 Alas ! I know, and from the onset knew, 
 The first-born faith, the singleness of soul, 
 The antique pure simplicity with which 
 God and good angels communed undispleased, 
 Is not ; it shall not any more be said, 
 That of a blameless and a holy kind, 
 The chosen race, the seed of promise, comes. 
 The royal, high prerogatives, the dower 
 Of innocence and perf ectness of life, 
 Pass not unto my children from their sire, 
 As unto me they came of mine ; they fit
 
 60 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Neither to Jacob nor to Jacob's race. 
 
 Think ye, my sons, in this extreme old age 
 
 And in this failing breath, that I forget 
 
 How on the day when from my father's door, 
 
 In bitterness and ruefulness of heart, 
 
 I from my parents set my face, and felt 
 
 I never more again should look on theirs, 
 
 How on that day I seemed unto myself 
 
 Another Adam from his home cast out, 
 
 And driven abroad unto a barren land, 
 
 Cursed for his sake, and mocking still with thorns 
 
 And briers that labour and that sweat of brow 
 
 He still must spend to live ? Sick of my days, 
 
 I wished not life, but cried out, Let me die ; 
 
 But at Luz God came to me ; in my heart 
 
 He put a better mind, and showed me how, 
 
 While we discern it not, and least believe, 
 
 On stairs invisible betwixt His heaven 
 
 And our unholy, sinful, toilsome earth 
 
 Celestial messengers of loftiest good 
 
 Upward and downward pass continually. 
 
 Many, since I upon the field of Luz 
 
 Set up the stone I slept on, unto God, 
 
 Many have been the troubles of my life ; 
 
 Sins in the field and sorrows in the tent, 
 
 In mine own household anguish and despair, 
 
 And gall and wormwood mingled with my love. 
 
 The time would fail me should I seek to tell 
 
 Of a child wronged and cruelly revenged 
 
 (Accursed was that anger, it was fierce, 
 
 That wrath, for it was cruel) ; or of strife 
 
 And jealousy and cowardice, with lies 
 
 Mocking a father's misery ; deeds of blood, 
 
 Pollutions, sicknesses, and sudden deaths. 
 
 These many things against me many times, 
 
 The ploughers have ploughed deep upon my back, 
 
 And made deep furrows ; blessed be His name 
 
 Who hath delivered Jacob out of all, 
 
 And left within his spirit hope of good. 
 
 Come near to me, my sons : your father goes, 
 The hour of his <lc]>;ir!ur<' dr;i \vctli ni^h. 
 Ah me ! this eager rivalry of life,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 61 
 
 This cruel conflict for preeminence, 
 
 This keen supplanting of the dearest kin, 
 
 Quick seizure and fast unrelaxing hold 
 
 Of vantage-place ; the stony hard resolve, 
 
 The chase, the competition, and the craft 
 
 Which seems to be the poison of our life, 
 
 And yet is the condition of our life ! 
 
 To have done things on which the eye with shame 
 
 Looks back, the closed hand clutching still the prize ! 
 
 Alas ! what of all these things shall I say ? 
 
 Take me away unto Thy sleep, God ! 
 
 I thank Thee it is over, yet I think 
 
 It was a work appointed me of Thee. 
 
 How is it ? 1 have striven all my days 
 
 To do my duty to my house and hearth, 
 
 And to the purpose of my father's race, 
 
 Yet is my heart therewith not satisfied. 
 
 JACOB'S WIVES. 
 
 THESE are the words of Jacob's wives, the words 
 Which Leah spake and Rachel to his ears, 
 When, in the shade at eventide, he sat 
 By the tent door, a palm tree overhead, 
 A spring beside him, and the sheep around. 
 
 And Rachel spake and said, The nightfall comes - 
 Night, which all day I wait for, and for thee. 
 
 And Leah also spake, The day is done ; 
 My lord with toil is weary and would rest. 
 
 And Rachel said, Come, my Jacob, come; 
 And we will think we sit beside the well, 
 As in that day, the long long years agone, 
 When first I met thee with my father's flock. 
 
 And Leah said, Come, Israel, unto me ; 
 And thou shalt reap an harvest of fair sons, 
 E'en as before I bare thee goodly babes ; 
 For when was Leah fruitless to niy lord ?
 
 62 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And Eachel said, Ah come ! as then thou cam'st, 
 Come once again to set thy seal of love ; 
 As then, down bending, when the sheep had drunk, 
 Then settedst it, my shepherd sweet seal ! 
 Upon the unwitting, half-foretasting lips, 
 Which, shy and trembling, thirsted yet for thine 
 As cattle thirsted never for the spring. 
 
 And Leah answered, Are not these their names 
 As Eeuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah four ? 
 Like four young saplings by the water's brim, 
 Where straining rivers through the great plain wind 
 Four saplings soon to rise to goodly trees 
 Four trees whose growth shall cast an huger shade 
 Than ever yet on river-side was seen. 
 
 And Eachel said, And shall it be again 
 As, when dissevered far, unheard, alone, 
 Consumed in bitter anger all night long, 
 I moaned and wept, while, silent and discreet, 
 One reaped the fruit of love that Eachel's was 
 Upon the breast of him that knew her not ? 
 
 And Leah said, And was it then a wrong 
 That, in submission to a father's word, 
 Trembling yet hopeful, to that bond I crept, 
 Which God hath greatly prospered, and my lord, 
 Content, in after-wisdom not disowned, 
 Joyful, in after-thankfulness approved ? 
 
 And Eachel said, But we will not complain, 
 Though all life long, an alien, unsought third, 
 She trouble our companionship of love. 
 
 And Leah answered, No, complain we not, 
 Though years on years she loiter in the tent, 
 A fretful, vain, unprofitable wife. 
 
 And Eachel answered, Ah ! she little knows 
 What in old days to Jacob Eachel was. 
 
 And Leah said, And wilt thou dare to say, 
 Because my lord was gracious to thee then,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 63 
 
 No deeper thought his riper cares hath claimed, 
 
 No stronger purpose passed into his life ? 
 
 That, youth and maid once fondly, softly touched, 
 
 Time's years must still the casual dream repeat, 
 
 And all the river far, from source to sea, 
 
 One flitting moment's chance reflection bear ? 
 
 Also she added, Who is she to judge 
 
 Of thoughts maternal, and a father's heart ? 
 
 And Eachel said, But what to supersede 
 
 The rights which choice bestowed hath Leah done ? 
 
 What which my handmaid or which hers hath not ? 
 
 Is Simeon more than Naphtali ? is Dan 
 
 Less than his brother Levi in the house ? 
 
 That part that Billah and that Zilpah have, 
 
 That, and no more, hath Leah in her lord ; 
 
 And let her with the same be satisfied. 
 
 Leah asked then, And shall these things compare 
 (Fond wishes, and the pastime, and the play) 
 With serious aims and forward- working hopes 
 Aims as far-reaching as to earth's last age, 
 And hopes far-travelling as from east to west ? 
 
 Eachel replied, That love which in his youth, 
 Through trial proved, consoles his perfect age ; 
 Shall this with project and with plan compare ? 
 Is not forever shorter than all time, 
 And love more straitened than from east to west ? 
 
 Leah spake further, Hath my lord not told 
 How, in the visions of the night, his God, 
 The God of Abraham and of Isaac, spake 
 And said, Increase, and multiply, and fill 
 With sons to serve Me this thy land and mine ; 
 And I will surely do thee good, and make 
 Thy seed as is the sand beside the sea, 
 Which is not numbered for its multitude ? 
 Shall Eachel bear this progeny to God ? 
 
 But Eachel wept and answered, And if God 
 Hath closed the womb of Eachel until now, 
 Shall He not at His pleasure open it ?
 
 64 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Hath Leah read the counsels of the Lord ? 
 Was it not told her, in the ancient days, 
 How Sarah, mother of great Israel's sire, 
 Lived to long years, insulted of her slave, 
 Or e'er to light the Child of Promise came, 
 Whom Eachel too to Jacob yet may bear ? 
 
 Moreover, Kachel said, Shall Leah mock, 
 
 Who stole the prime embraces of my love, 
 
 My first long-destined, long-withheld caress ? 
 
 But not, she said, methought, but not for this, 
 
 In the old days, did Jacob seek his bride ; 
 
 Where art thou now, O thou that sought'st me then ? 
 
 Where is thy loving tenderness of old ? 
 
 And where that fervency of faith to which 
 
 Seven weary years were even as a few days ? 
 
 And Rachel wept and ended, Ah, my life ! 
 Though Leah bare thee sons on sons, methought 
 The child of love, late-born, were worth them all. 
 
 And Leah groaned and answered, It is well : 
 She that hath kept from me my husband's heart 
 Will set their father's soul against my sons. 
 Yet, also, not, she said, I thought, for this, 
 Not for the feverish nor the doating love, 
 Doth Israel, father of a nation, seek ; 
 Nor to light dalliance, as of boy and girl, 
 Incline the thoughts of matron and of man, 
 Or lapse the wisdom of maturer mind. 
 
 And Leah ended, Father of my sons, 
 
 Come, thou shalt dream of Kachel if thou wilt, 
 
 So Leah fold thee in a wife's embrace. 
 
 These are the words of Jacob's wives, who sat 
 In the tent door, and listened to their speech, 
 The spring beside him, and above the palm, 
 While all the sheep were gathered for the night.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 65 
 
 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, 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 ! ' 
 
 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.' 
 
 f He is ! They are ! ' in distance seen 
 On yon Olympus high,
 
 66 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 : 
 1 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, 
 By Science strict so speaks He now 
 
 To tell us, There is None ! 
 Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven's 
 
 A Mecanique 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,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 67 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 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, 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 : 
 And Israel all bows down to fall 
 
 Before the gilded beast.
 
 68 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 
 
 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, Man ! 
 1845. 
 
 QUI LABOEAT, OKAT. 
 
 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-eucentred thought, 
 
 My will adoreth Thine. 
 
 AVith 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.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 69 
 
 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. 
 
 v/xvos au/xvos. 
 
 THOU whose image in the shrine 
 Of human spirits dwells divine ; 
 Which from that precinct once conveyed, 
 To be to outer day displayed, 
 Doth vanish, part, and leave behind 
 Mere blank and void of empty mind, 
 Which wilful fancy seeks in vain 
 With casual shapes to fill again ! 
 
 Thou that in our bosom's shrine 
 Dost dwell, unknown because divine ! 
 
 1 thought to speak, I thought to say, 
 ' The light is. here,' 'behold the way/ 
 
 ' The voice was thus,' and ' thus the word/ 
 And ' thus I saw/ and ( that I heard/ 
 But from the lips that half essayed 
 The imperfect utterance fell unmade. 
 
 Thou, in that mysterious shrine 
 Enthroned, as I must say, divine ! 
 
 1 will not frame one thought of what 
 Thou mayest either be or not. 
 
 I will not prate of ' thus ' and '. so/ 
 And be profane with ' yes ' and ' no/ 
 Enough that in our soul and heart 
 Thou, whatsoe'er Thou mayst be, art.
 
 70 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Unseen, secure in that high shrine 
 Acknowledged present and divine, 
 I will not ask some upper air, 
 Some future day to place Thee there ; 
 Nor say, nor yet deny, such men 
 And women saw Thee thus and then : 
 Thy name was such, and there or here 
 To him or her Thou didst appear. 
 
 Do .only Thou in that dim shrine, 
 Unknown or known, remain, divine ; 
 There, or if not, at least in eyes 
 That scan the fact that round them lies 
 The hand to sway, the judgment guide, 
 In sight and sense Thyself divide : 
 Be Thou but there, in soul and heart, 
 I will not ask to feel Thou art. 
 
 THE HIDDEN LOVE. 
 
 LET me love my love unto myself alone, 
 
 And know my knowledge to the world unknown ; 
 
 No witness to my 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. 
 
 What is it then to me 
 
 If others are inquisitive to see ? 
 
 Why should I quit my place to go and ask 
 
 If other men are working at their task ? 
 
 Leave my own buried roots to go 
 
 And see that brother plants shall grow ; 
 
 And turn away from Thee, Thoii most Holy Light, 
 
 To look if other orbs their orbits keep aright, 
 
 Around their proper sun, 
 
 Deserting Thee, and being undone. 
 
 let me love my love unto myself alone, 
 
 And know my knowledge to the world unknown ;
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 71 
 
 And worship Thee, hid One, much sought, 
 As but man can or ought, 
 
 Within the abstracted'st shrine of my least breathed-on 
 thought. 
 
 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. 
 
 SHADOW AND LIGHT. 
 
 CEASE, empty Faith, the Spectrum saith, 
 
 I was, and lo, have been ; 
 I, God, am nought : a shade of thought, 
 
 Which, but by darkness seen, 
 Upon the unknown yourselves have thrown, 
 
 Placed it and light between. 
 
 At morning's birth on darkened earth, 
 
 And as the evening sinks, 
 Awfully vast abroad is cast 
 
 The lengthened form that shrinks 
 And shuns the sight in midday light, 
 
 And underneath you slinks. 
 
 From barren strands of wintry lands 
 
 Across the seas of time, 
 Borne onward fast ye touch at last 
 
 An equatorial clime ; 
 
 In equatorial noon sublime 
 
 At Zenith stands the sun, 
 And lo, around, far, near, are found 
 
 Yourselves, and Shadow none.
 
 72 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 A moment ! yea ! but when the day 
 
 At length was pei-fect day ! 
 A moment ! so ! and light we know 
 
 With dark exchanges aye, 
 
 Nor morn nor eve shall shadow leave 
 
 Your sunny paths secure, 
 And in your sight that orb of light 
 
 Shall humbler orbs obscure. 
 
 And yet withal, 'tis shadow all 
 Whate'er your fancies dream, 
 
 And I (misdeemed) that was, that seemed, 
 Am not, whate'er I seem. 
 
 '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. 1 
 I steadier step when I recall | 
 
 That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. \ 
 
 IN STRATIS VIARUM. 
 
 BLESSED are those who have not seen, 
 And who have yet believed 
 
 The witness, here that has not been, 
 From heaven they have received. 
 
 Blessed are those who have not known 
 The things that stand before them, 
 
 And for a vision of their own 
 Can piously ignore them. 
 
 So let me think whate'er befall, 
 That in the city duly
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 73 
 
 Some men there are who love at all, 
 Some women who love truly ; 
 
 And that upon two millions odd 
 
 Transgressors in sad plenty, - 
 Mercy will of a gracious God 
 
 Be shown because of twenty. 
 
 'PEKCHE PENSA? PENSANDO S' INVECCHIA.' 
 
 To spend uncounted years of pain, , 
 
 Again, again, and yet again, 
 
 In working out in heart and brain \ 
 
 The problem of our being here ; \ 
 To gather facts from far and near, \ 
 Upon the mind to hold them clear, i 
 And, knowing more may yet appear, 
 Unto one's latest breath to fear, , 
 The premature result to draw 
 Is this the object, end and law, 
 
 And purpose of our being here ? 
 
 '0 THOU OF LITTLE FAITH.' 
 
 IT may be true 
 
 That while we walk the troublous tossing sea, \ 
 That Avhen we see the o'ertoppiug waves advance, 
 And when we feel our feet beneath us sink, 
 There are who walk beside us ; and the cry 
 That rises so spontaneous to the lips, 
 The ( Help us or we perish/ is not nought, 
 An evanescent spectrum of disease. 
 It may be that indeed and not in fancy, 
 A hand that is not ours upstays our steps, 
 A voice that is not ours commands the waves ; 
 Commands the waves, and whispers in our ear, 
 
 thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt ? 
 At any rate, 
 
 That there are beings above us, I believe, 
 And when we lift up holy hands of prayer, 
 
 1 will not say they will not give us aid.
 
 74 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 < THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY. I/ 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 My child, we still must think, when we 
 That ampler life together see, 
 Some true result, will yet appear 
 Of what we are, together, here.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 75 
 
 AH ! YET CONSIDEB IT AGAIN ! 
 
 ' OLD things need not be therefore true,' 
 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. 
 
 NOLI ^EMULAEI. 
 
 IN controversial foul impureness 
 The peace that is thy light to thee 
 
 Quench not : in faith and inner sureness 
 Possess thy soul and let it be. 
 
 No violence perverse persistent 
 What cannot be can bring to be ; 
 
 No zeal what is make more existent, 
 And strife but blinds the eyes that see. 
 
 What though in blood their souls embruing, 
 The great, the good and wise they curse, 
 
 Still sinning, what they know not doing ; 
 Stand still, forbear, nor make it worse.
 
 76 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 By curves, by denunciation, 
 
 The coming fate they cannot stay ; 
 
 Nor thou, by fiery indignation, 
 Though just, accelerate the day. 
 
 'WHAT WENT YE OUT FOR TO SEE? 
 
 ACROSS the sea, along the shore, 
 
 In numbers more and ever more, 
 
 From lonely hut and busy town, 
 
 The valley through, the mountain down, 
 
 What was it ye went out to see, 
 
 Ye silly folk of Galilee ? 
 
 The reed that in the wind doth shake? 
 
 The weed that washes in the lake ? 
 
 The reeds that waver, the weeds that float ? 
 
 A young man preaching in a boat. 
 
 What was it ye went out to hear 
 By sea and land, from far and near ? 
 A teacher ? Rather seek the feet 
 Of those who sit in Moses' seat. 
 Go humbly seek and bow to them, 
 Far off in great Jerusalem. 
 From them that in her courts ye saw, 
 Her perfect doctors of the law, 
 What is it came ye here to note ? 
 A young man preaching in a boat. 
 
 A prophet ! Boys and women weak ! 
 
 Declare, or cease to rave ; 
 Whence is it he hath learned to speak ? 
 
 Say, who his doctrine gave ? 
 A prophet ? Prophet wherefore he 
 
 Of all in Israel tribes ? 
 He teacheth with authority, 
 
 And not as do the Scribes. 
 1861.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 77 
 
 EPI-STRAUSS-IUM. 
 
 MATTHEW and Mark and Luke and holy John 
 Evanished all and gone ! 
 Yea, he that erst his dusky curtains quitting, 
 Thro' Eastern pictured panes his level beams trans- 
 mitting, 
 
 With gorgeous portraits blent, 
 On them his glories intercepted spent : 
 Southwestering now, thro' windows plainly glassed, 
 On the inside face his radiance keen hath cast, 
 And in the lustre lost, invisible and gone, 
 Are, say you, Matthew, Mark and Luke and holy John ? 
 Lost, is it, lost, to be recovered never ? 
 However, 
 
 The place of worship the meantime with light 
 Is, if less richly, more sincerely bright, 
 And in blue skies the Orb is manifest to sight. 
 
 j THE SHADOW. 1 j j 
 
 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 
 
 1 The manuscript of this poem is incomplete ; but it lias been thought 
 best to give all the separate fragments, since they evidently are con- 
 ceived ou the same plan, and throw light oil each other.
 
 78 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 And Peter spoke the word : 
 ' 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 ; 
 
 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,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 79 
 
 Unto his country-house pursued his way. 
 And on the grave the Shadow sat all day. 
 
 ****** 
 
 And the poor Pope was sure it must be so, 
 
 Else wherefore did the people kiss his toe ? 
 
 The subtle Jesuit cardinal shook his head, 
 
 And mildly looked and said, 
 
 It mattered not a jot 
 
 Whether the thing, indeed, were so or not ; 
 
 Religion must be kept up, and the Church preserved, 
 
 And for the people this best served, 
 
 And then he turned, and added most demurely, 
 
 ' Whatever may befall, 
 
 We Catholics need no evidence at all, 
 
 The holy father is infallible, surely ! ' 
 
 <~~ 
 
 And English canons heard, 
 And quietly demurred. 
 Eeligion rests on evidence, of course, 
 And on inquiry we must put no force. 
 Difficulties still, upon whatever ground, 
 Are likely, almost certain, to be found. 
 The Theist scheme, the Pantheist, one and all, 
 Must with, or e'en before, the Christian fall. 
 And till the thing were plainer to our eyes, 
 To disturb faith was surely most unwise. 
 As for the Shade, who trusted such narration ? 
 Except, of course, in ancient revelation. 
 
 And dignitaries of the Church came by. 
 
 It had been worth to some of them, they said, 
 
 Some hundred thousand pounds a year a head. 
 
 If it fetched so much in the market, truly, 
 
 'Twas not a thing to be given up unduly. 
 
 It had been proved by Butler in one way, 
 
 By Paley better in a later day ; 
 
 It had been proved in twenty ways at once, 
 
 By many a doctor plain to many a dunce ; 
 
 There was no question but it must be so. 
 
 And the Shade answered that He did not know; 
 He had no reading, and might be deceived, 
 But still He was the Christ, as He believed.
 
 80 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And women, mild and pure, 
 
 Forth from still homes and village schools did pass, 
 
 And asked, if this indeed were thus, alas, 
 
 What should they teach their children and the poor ? 
 
 The Shade replied, He could not know, 
 But it was truth, the fact was so. 
 
 Who had kept all commandments from his youth 
 Yet still found one thing lacking even Truth: 
 And the Shade only answered, ( Go, make haste, 
 Enjoy thy great possessions as thou mayst.' 
 
 \\ 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 
 Of our most Holy and Anointed One. 
 
 He is not risen, no 
 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 Christ is not risen !
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 81 
 
 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 Emmaus' 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 ! 
 
 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 !
 
 82 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 equalest apportionment of ill 
 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 yoiir homes, your living children tend, 
 
 Your earthly spouses love ; 
 
 Set your affections not on things above, 
 Which moth and rust corrupt, which quicldiest come to 
 
 end : 
 Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye can,
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 83 
 
 For death ; since dead is He whom ye deemed more than 
 man, 
 
 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 down and be content, since this must even do : 
 He is not risen ! 
 
 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,
 
 84 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 ^EASTER DAY. \\ 
 
 n. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Though He return not, though 
 
 He lies and moulders low; 
 
 In the true creed 
 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen.
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 85 
 
 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.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 1 
 
 PROLOGUE TO DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 'I HOPE it is in good plain verse,' said my uncle, 'none of 
 your hurry-scurry anapsests, as you call them, in lines which 
 sober people read for plain heroics. Nothing is more disagree- 
 able than to say a line over two or, it may be, three or four 
 times, and at last not be sure that there are not three or four 
 ways of reading, each as good and as much intended as another. 
 Simplex dunlaxat et unum. But you young people think Horace 
 and your uncles old fools.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear sir,' said I ; ' that is, I mean, Horace and 
 my uncle are perfectly right. Still, there is an instructed ear 
 and an uninstructed. A rude taste for identical recurrences 
 would exact sing-song from " Paradise Lost," and grumble 
 because " II Penseroso " doesn't run like a nursery rhyme.' 
 ' Well, well,' said my uncle, ' sunt certi denique fines, no doubt. 
 So commence, my young Piso, while Aristarchus is tolerably 
 wakeful, and do not waste by your logic the fund you will want 
 for your poetry.' 
 
 PART I. SCEXE I. 
 The Piazza at Venice, 9 P.M. Dipsychus and the Spirit 
 
 DL THE scene is different, and the place, the air 
 Tastes of the nearer north ; the people 
 Not perfect southern lightness ; wherefore, then, 
 Should those old verses come into my mind 
 I made last year at Naples ? Oh, poor fool ! 
 Still resting on thyself a thing ill-worked 
 A moment's thought committed on the moment 
 
 1 This poem, as well as the ' Mari Maguo,' was not puhlished dur- 
 ing the author's lifetime, and should not he regarded as having re- 
 ceived his finishing touches. 
 
 87
 
 88 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 To unripe words and rugged verse : 
 
 ' 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 ! ' 
 
 Sp. Christ is not risen ? Oh, indeed, 
 
 I didn't know that was your creed. 
 
 Di. So it went on, too lengthy to repeat 
 ' Christ is not risen.' 
 
 Sp. Dear, how odd ! 
 
 He'll tell us next there is no God. 
 I thought 'twas in the Bible plain, 
 On the third day He rose again. 
 
 Di. ( Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the unjust, also of the just 
 Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
 Is He not risen, and shall we not rise ? 
 Oh, we unwise ! ' 
 
 Sp. H'ni ! and the tone, then, after all, 
 Something of the ironical ? 
 Sarcastic, say ; or were it fitter 
 To style it the religious bitter ? 
 
 Di. Interpret it I cannot. I but wrote it 
 At Naples, truly, as the preface tells, 
 Last year, in the Toledo ; it came on me, 
 And did me good at once. At Naples then, 
 At Venice now. Ah ! and I think at Venice 
 Christ is not risen either. 
 
 Sp. Nay, 
 
 Such things don't fall out every day : 
 Having once happened, as we know, 
 In Palestine so long ago, 
 How should it now at Venice here 
 Where people, true enough, appear 
 To appreciate more and understand 
 Their ices, and their Austrian band 
 And dark-eyed girls. 
 
 Di. The whole great square they fill, 
 
 From the red flaunting streamers on the staffs, 
 And that barbaric portal of St. Mark's, 
 To where, unnoticed, at the darker end, 
 I sit upon my step one great gay crowd.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 89 
 
 The Campanile to the silent stars 
 Goes up, above its apex lost in air 
 While these do what ? 
 
 Sp. Enjoy the minute, 
 
 And the substantial blessings in it : 
 Ices, par exemple; evening air, 
 Company, and this handsome square ; 
 And all the sweets in perfect plenty 
 Of the old dolce far niente. 
 Music ! Up, up ; it isn't fit 
 AVith beggars here on steps to sit. 
 Up, to the caffe ! take a chair, 
 And join the wiser idlers there. 
 And see that fellow singing yonder ; 
 Singing, ye gods, and dancing too 
 Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo 
 Fiddledi diddledi, diddle di di ; 
 Figaro sii, Figaro giii 
 Figaro qua, Figaro Id,! 
 How he likes doing it Ha, ha ! 
 
 Di. While these do what ? Ah, heaven ! too true, at 
 
 Venice 
 Christ is not risen either. 
 
 SCENE II. TJie Public Garden. 
 
 Di. Assuredly, a lively scene ! 
 And, ah, how pleasant something green! 
 With circling heavens one perfect rose 
 Each smoother patch of water glows, 
 Hence to where, o'er the full tide's face, 
 We see the Palace and the Place, 
 And the white dome ; beauteous, but hot. 
 Where in the meantime is the spot 
 My favourite Where by masses blue, 
 And white cloud-folds, I follow true 
 The great Alps, rounding grandly o'er, 
 Huge arc, to the Dalmatian shore ? 
 
 Sp. This rather stupid place, to-day, 
 It's true, is most extremely gay ; 
 And rightly the Assunzione 
 Was always a gran' funzione.
 
 90 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Di. What is this persecuting voice that haunts me ? 
 What ? whence ? of whom ? How am I to detect ? 
 Myself or not myself ? My own bad thoughts, 
 Or some external agency at work, 
 To lead me who knows whither ? 
 
 Sp. Eh ? 
 
 We're certainly in luck to-day : 
 What crowds of boats before us plying 
 Gay parties, singing, shouting, crying 
 Saluting others past them flying ! 
 What numbers at the causeway lying ! 
 What lots of pretty girls, too, hying 
 Hither and thither coming, going, 
 And with what satisfaction showing 
 Their dark exuberance of hair, 
 Black eyes, rich tints, and sundry graces 
 Of classic pure Italian faces ! 
 
 DL Ah me, me ! 
 
 Clear stars above, thou roseate westward sky, 
 Take up my being into yours ; assume 
 My sense to know you only ; steep my brain 
 In your essential purity ; or, great Alps, 
 That wrapping round your heads in solemn clouds 
 Seem sternly to sweep past our vanities, 
 Lead me with you take me away, preserve me ! 
 
 moon and stars, forgive ! and thou, clear heaven, 
 Look pureness back into me. Oh, great God ! 
 Why, why, in wisdom and in grace's name, 
 And in the name of saints and saintly thoughts, 
 Of mothers, and of sisters, and chaste wives, 
 And angel woman-faces we have seen, 
 And angel woman-spirits we have guessed, 
 And innocent sweet children, and pure love, 
 Why did I ever one brief moment's space 
 But parley with this filthy Belial ? 
 
 Was it the fear 
 
 Of being behind the world, which is the wicked ? 
 
 SCENE III. At the Hotel. 
 
 Sp. Come, then, 
 
 And with my aid go into good society.
 
 Dl PSYCH US. 91 
 
 Life little loves, 'tis true, this peevish piety ; 
 E'en they with whom it thinks to be securest 
 Your most religious, delicatest, purest 
 Discern, and show as pious people can 
 Their feeling that you are not quite a man. 
 Still the thing has its place ; and with sagacity, 
 Much might be done by one of your capacity. 
 A virtuous attachment formed judiciously 
 Would come, one sees, uncommonly propitiously : 
 Turn you but your affections the right way, 
 And what mayn't happen none of us can say ; 
 For in despite of devils and of mothers, 
 Your good young men make catches, too, like others. 
 
 Di. To herd with people that one owns no care for ; 
 Friend it with strangers that one sees but once ; 
 To drain the heart with endless complaisance ; 
 To warp the unfinished diction on the lip, 
 And twist one's mouth to counterfeit ; enforce 
 Reluctant looks to falsehoods ; base-alloy 
 The ingenuous golden frankness of the past ; 
 To calculate and plot ; be rough and smooth, 
 Forward and silent, deferential, cool, 
 Not by one's humour, which is the safe truth, 
 But on consideration. 
 
 Sp. That is, act 
 
 On a dispassionate judgment of the fact ; 
 Look all the data fairly in the face, 
 And rule your judgment simply by the case. 
 
 Di. On vile consideration. At the best, 
 With pallid hotbed courtesies to forestall 
 The green and vernal spontaneity, 
 And waste the priceless moments of the man 
 In regulating manner. Whether these things 
 Be right, I do not know : I only know 'tis 
 To lose one's youth too early. Oh, not yet 
 Not yet I make the sacrifice. 
 
 Sp. Du tout I 
 
 To give up nature's just what would not do. 
 By all means keep your sweet ingenuous graces, / 
 And use them at the proper times and places. 
 For work, for play, for business, talk and love, 
 I own as wisdom truly from above, 
 That scripture of the serpent and the dove ;
 
 92 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 \ Nor's aught so perfect for the world's affairs 
 As the old parable of wheat and tares ; 
 
 (What we all love is good touched up with evil \ 
 Religion's self must have a spice of devil. 
 
 DL Let it be enough, 
 
 That in our needful mixture with the world, 
 On each new morning with the rising sun, 
 Our rising heart, fresh from the seas of sleep, 
 Scarce o'er the level lifts his purer orb 
 Ere lost and sullied with polluting smoke 
 A noonday coppery disk. Lo, scarce come forth, 
 Some vagrant miscreant meets, and with a look 
 Transmutes me his, and for a whole sick day 
 Lepers me. 
 
 Sp. Just ther one thing, I assure you, 
 
 From which good company can't but secure you. 
 About the individual's not so clear, 
 But who can doubt the general atmosphere ? 
 
 Di. Ay truly, who at first ? but in a while 
 
 Sp. dear, this o'er-discernment makes me smile. 
 You don't pretend to tell me you can see 
 Without one touch of melting sympathy 
 Those lovely, stately flowers that fill with bloom 
 The brilliant season's gay parterre-like room, 
 Moving serene yet swiftly through the dances ; 
 Those graceful forms and perfect countenances, 
 Whose every fold and line in all their dresses 
 Something refined and exquisite expresses ? 
 To see them smile and hear them talk so sweetly, 
 In me destroys all lower thoughts completely ; 
 I really seem, without exaggeration, 
 To experience the true regeneration. 
 One's own dress, too one's manner, what one's doing 
 And saying, all assist to one's renewing. 
 I love to see, in these their fitting places, 
 The bows, the forms, and all you call grimaces. 
 I heartily could wish we'd kept some more of them, 
 However much we talk about the bore of them. 
 Fact is, your awkward parvenus are shy at it, 
 Afraid to look like waiters if they try at it. 
 'Tis sad to what democracy is leading 
 <iivo, me your Eighteenth Century for high breeding. 
 Though I can put up gladly with the present,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 93 
 
 And quite can think our modern parties pleasant. 
 
 One shouldn't analyse the thing too nearly : 
 
 The main effect is admirable clearly. 
 
 ' Good manners/ said our great-aunts, ( next to piety : ' 
 
 And so my friend, hurrah for good society ! 
 
 SCENE IV. On the Piazza. 
 
 Sp. Insulted ! by the living Lord ! 
 He laid his hand upon his sword. 
 1 Fort,' did he say ? a German brute, 
 With neither heart nor brains to shoot. 
 
 Di. What does he mean? he's wrong, I had done 
 
 nothing. 
 
 'Twas a mistake more his, I am sure, than mine. 
 He is quite wrong I feel it. Come, let us go. 
 
 Sp. Go up to him ! you must, that's flat. 
 Be threatened by a beast like that ! 
 
 Di. He's violent : what can I do against him ? 
 I neither wish to be killed nor to kill : 
 What's more, I never yet have touched a sword, 
 Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life. 
 
 Sp. Oh, never mind, 'twon't come to fighting 
 Only some verbal small requiting ; 
 Or give your card we'll do't by writing. 
 He'll not stick to it. Soldiers too 
 Are cowards, just like me or you. 
 What ! not a single word to throw at 
 This snarling dog of a d d Croat ? 
 
 Di. My heavens ! why should I care ? he does not 
 
 hurt me. 
 
 If he is wrong, it is the worst for him. 
 I certainly did nothing : I shall go. 
 
 Sp. Did nothing ! I should think not ; no, 
 Nor ever will, I dare be sworn ! 
 But, O my friend, well-bred, well-born 
 You to behave so in these quarrels 
 Makes me half doubtful of your morals ! 
 
 It were all one, 
 
 You had been some shopkeeper's son, 
 
 Whose childhood ne'er was shown aught better 
 
 Than bills of creditor and debtor.
 
 94 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Di. By heaven, it falls from off me like the rain 
 From the oil-coat. I seem in spirit to see 
 How he and I at some great day shall meet 
 Before some awful judgment-seat of truth; 
 And I could deem that I behold him there 
 Come praying for the pardon I give now, 
 Did I not think these matters too, too small 
 For any record on the leaves of time. 
 O thou great Watcher of this noisy world, 
 What are they in Thy sight ? or what in his 
 Who. finds some end of action in his life? 
 What e'en in his whose sole permitted course 
 Is to pursue his peaceful byway walk, 
 And live his brief life purely in Thy sight, 
 And righte.ously towards his brother-men ? 
 
 Sp. And whether, so you're just and fair, 
 Other folks are so, you don't care ; 
 You who profess more love than others 
 For your poor sinful human brothers. 
 
 Di. For grosser evils their gross remedies 
 The laws afford us ; let us be content ; 
 For finer wounds the law would, if it could, 
 Find medicine too ; it cannot, let us bear ; 
 For sufferance is the badge of all men's tribes. 
 
 Sp. Because we can't do all we would, 
 Does it follow, to do nothing's good ? 
 No way to help the law's rough sense 
 By equities of self-defence ? 
 Well, for yourself it may be nice 
 To serve vulgarity and vice : 
 Must sisters, too, and wives and mothers, 
 Fare like their patient sons and brothers ? 
 
 Di. He that loves sister, mother, more than me - 
 
 Sp. But the inj ustice the gross wrong ! 
 To whom on earth does it belong 
 If not to you, to whom 'twas done, 
 Who saw it plain as any sun, 
 To make the base and foul offender 
 Confess, and satisfaction render ? 
 At least before the termination of it 
 Prove your own lofty reprobation of it. 
 Though gentleness, I know, was born in you, 
 Surely you have a little scorn in you ?
 
 Dl PSYCH US. 95 
 
 Di. Heaven ! to pollute one's fingers to pick up 
 The fallen coin of honour from the dirt 
 Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie ! 
 To take up any offence, where't may be said 
 That temper, vanity I know not what 
 Had led me on ! 
 
 To have so much as e'en half felt of one 
 That ever one was angered for oneself ! 
 Beyond suspicion Caesar's wife should be, 
 Beyond suspicion this bright honour shall. 
 Did he say scorn? I have some scorn, thank God. 
 
 Sp. Certainly. Only if it's so, 
 Let us leave Italy, and go 
 
 Post haste, to attend you're ripe and rank f or't 
 The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort. 
 Joy to the Croat ! Take our lives, 
 Sweet friends, and please respect our wives ; 
 Joy to the Croat ! Some fine day, 
 He'll see the error of his way, 
 No doubt, and will repent and pray. 
 At any rate he'll open his eyes, 
 If not before, at the Last Assize. 
 Not, if I rightly understood you, 
 That even then you'd punish, would you ? 
 Nay, let the hapless soul go free 
 Mere murder, crime, or robbery, 
 In whate'er station, age, or sex, 
 Your sacred spirit scarce can vex : 
 De minimis non cur at lex. 
 To the Peace Congress ! ring the bell ! 
 Horses to Frankfort and to ! 
 
 Di. I am not quite in union with myself 
 On this strange matter. I must needs confess 
 Instinct turns instinct out, and thought 
 Wheels round on thought. To bleed for others' wrongs 
 In vindication of a cause, to draw 
 The sword of the Lord and Gideon oh, that seems 
 The flower and top of life ! But fight because 
 Some poor misconstruing trifler haps to say 
 I lie, when I do not lie, 
 
 Why should I ? Call you this a cause ? I can't. 
 Oh, he is wrong, no doubt ; he misbehaves 
 But is it worth so much as speaking loud ?
 
 96 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And things so merely personal to myself 
 Of all earth's things do least affect myself. 
 
 Sp. Sweet eloquence ! at next May Meeting 
 How it would tell in the repeating ! 
 I recognise, and kiss the rod 
 The methodistic ' voice of God ' ; 
 I catch contrite that angel whine, 
 That snuffle human, yet divine. 
 
 Di. It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon; 
 I never fought at school ; whether it be 
 Some native poorness in my spirit's blood, 
 Or that the holy doctrine of our faith 
 In too exclusive fervency possessed 
 My heart with feelings, with ideas my brain. 
 
 Sp. Yes ; you would argue that it goes 
 Against the Bible, I suppose ; 
 But our revered religion yes, 
 Our common faith seems, I confess, 
 On these points to propose to address 
 The people more than you or me 
 At best the vulgar bourgeoisie. 
 The sacred writers don't keep count, 
 But still the Sermon on the Mount 
 Must have been spoken, by what's stated, 
 To hearers by the thousands rated. 
 I cuff some fellow; mild and meek 
 He should turn round the other cheek. 
 For him it may be right and good ; 
 We are not all of gentle blood 
 Really, or as such understood. 
 
 Di. There are two kindreds upon earth, I know - 
 The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me, 
 If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept, 
 May my last end, and life too, be with these. 
 Yes ; whatsoe'er the reason, want of blood, 
 Lymphatic humours, or my childhood's faith, 
 So is the thing, and be it well or ill, 
 I have no choice. I am a man of peace, 
 And the old Adam of the gentleman 
 Dares seldom in my bosom stir against 
 The mild plebeian Christian seated there. 
 
 Sp. Forgive me, if I name my doubt, 
 Whether you know 'fort ' means ' yet out.'
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 97 
 
 SCENE V. The Lido. 
 
 Sp. What now ? the Lido shall it be ? 
 That none may say we didn't see 
 The ground which Byron used to ride on, 
 And do I don't know what beside on. 
 Ho, barca ! here ! and this light gale 
 Will let us run it with a sail. 
 
 Di. I dreamt a dream : till morning light 
 A bell rang in my head all night, 
 Tinkling and tinkling first, and then 
 Tolling and tinkling, tolling again, 
 So brisk and gay, and then so slow ! 
 O joy and terror ! mirth and woe ! 
 Ting, ting, there is no God ; ting, ting, 
 Dong, there is no God; dong, 
 There is no God ; dong, dong. 
 
 Ting, ting, there is no God ; ting, ting. 
 Come, dance and play, and merrily sing, 
 Staid Englishman, who toil and slave 
 From your first childhood to your grave, 
 And seldom spend and always save 
 And do your duty all your life 
 By your young family and wife; 
 Come, be't not said you ne'er had known 
 What earth can furnish you alone. 
 The Italian, Frenchman, German even, 
 Have given up all thoughts of heaven : 
 And you still linger oh, you fool ! 
 Because of what you learnt at school. 
 You should have gone at least to college, 
 And got a little ampler knowledge. 
 Ah well, and yet dong, dong, dong : 
 Do as you like, as now you do; 
 If work's a cheat, so's pleasure too. 
 And nothing's new and nothing's true ; 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 0, in our nook unknown, unseen, 
 We'll hold our fancy like a screen
 
 98 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Us and the dreadful fact between ; 
 
 And it shall yet be long ay, long 
 
 The quiet notes of our low song 
 
 Shall keep us from that sad dong, dong. 
 
 Hark, hark, hark ! voice of fear, 
 
 It reaches us here, even here ! 
 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara, 
 
 To battle, to battle haste, haste 
 
 To battle, to battle aha, aha ! 
 
 On, on to the conqueror's feast, 
 
 From east to west, and south and north, 
 
 Ye men of valour and of worth, 
 
 Ye mighty men of arms come forth, 
 
 And work your will, for that is just; 
 
 And in your impulse put your trust, 
 
 Beneath your feet the fools are dust. 
 
 Alas, alas ! grief and wrong, 
 
 The good are weak, the wicked strong; 
 
 And my God, how long, how long ! 
 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 Ring, ting ; to bow before the strong, 
 There is a rapture too in this ; 
 Work for thy master, work, thou slave 
 He is not merciful, but brave. 
 Be't joy to serve, who free and proud 
 Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd; 
 Take that, 'tis all thou art allowed, 
 Except the snaky hope that they 
 May sometimes serve who rule to-day. 
 When, by hell-demons, shan't they pay ? 
 O wickedness, shame and grief, 
 And heavy load, and no relief ! 
 God, God ! and which is worst, 
 To be the curser or the curst, 
 The victim or the murderer? Dong. 
 , there is no God; dong. 
 
 King ding, ring ding, tara, tara, 
 
 A \viiy, and hush that preaching fagli ! 
 
 Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 99 
 
 Who offer noblest hearts, to heal \ 
 
 The tenderest hurts honour can feel, 
 Paid magistrates and the police ! 
 
 peddling merchant-justice, go, 
 Exacter rules than yours we know ; 
 Resentment's rule, and that high law 
 Of whoso best the sword can draw. 
 Ah well, and yet doug, dong, dong. 
 Go on, my friends, as now you do; 
 LaAvyers are villains, soldiers too ; 
 And nothing's new and nothing's true. 
 Dong, there is no God ; dong. 
 
 1 had a dream, from eve to light 
 A bell went sounding all the night. 
 
 Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain; 
 I tried to stop it, but in vain. 
 It ran right on, and never broke ; 
 Only when day began to stream 
 Through the white curtains to my bed, 
 And like an angel at my head 
 Light stood and touched me I awoke, 
 And looked, and said, ' It is a dream.' 
 
 Sp. Ah ! not so bad. You've read, I see, 
 Your Beranger, and thought of me. 
 But really you owe some apology 
 For harping thus upon theology. 
 I'm not a judge, I own ; in short, 
 Eeligion may not be my forte. 
 The Church of England I belong to, 
 And think Dissenters not far wrong too; 
 They're vulgar dogs ; but for his creed, 
 
 I hold that no man will be d d. 
 
 But come and listen in your turn, 
 
 And you shall hear and mark and learn. 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 100 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 ' 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 ; 
 
 Youths green and happy in first love, 
 
 So thankful for illusion ; 
 And men caught out in what the world 
 
 Calls guilt, in first confusion ; 
 
 I And almost every one when age, 
 Disease, or sorrows strike him, 
 Inclines to think there is a God, 
 Or something very like Him. 
 
 But eccoci! with our barcJietta, 
 Here at the Sant' Elisabetta. 
 
 Di. Vineyards and maize, that's pleasant for sore eyes. 
 
 Sp. And on the island's other side, 
 The place where Murray's faithful Guide 
 Informs us Byron used to ride.
 
 Dl PSYCH US. 101 
 
 Di. The trellised vines ! enchanting ! Sandhills, ho ! 
 The sea, at last the sea the real broad sea 
 Beautiful ! and a glorious breeze upon it. 
 
 Sp. Look back ; one catches at this station 
 Lagoon and sea in combination. 
 
 Di. On her still lake the city sits, 
 Where bark and boat around her flits, 
 Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking, 
 Of Adriatic billows breaking. 
 I do ; I see and hear them. Come ! to the sea ! 
 Oh, a grand surge ! we'll bathe ; quick, quick ! undress ! 
 Quick, quick ! in, in ! 
 
 We'll take the crested billows by their backs 
 And shake them. Quick ! in, in ! 
 
 And I will taste again the old joy 
 I gloried in so when a boy ; 
 Aha ! come, come great waters, roll ! 
 Accept me, take me, body and soul ! 
 That's done me good. It grieves me, though, 
 I never came here long ago. 
 
 Sp r Pleasant, perhaps ; however, no offence, 
 Animal spirits are not common sense ; 
 They're good enough as an assistance, 
 But in themselves a poor existence. 
 But you, with this one bathe, no doubt, 
 Have solved all questions out and out. 
 
 PART II. 
 SCENE I. The interior Arcade of the Doge's Palace. 
 
 Sp. Thunder and rain ! dear, dear ! 
 But see, a noble shelter here, 
 This grand arcade where our Venetian 
 Has formed of Gothic and of Grecian 
 A combination strange, but striking, 
 And singularly to my liking ! 
 Let moderns reap where ancients sowed, 
 I at least make it my abode. 
 And now let's hear your famous Ode : 
 ' Through the great sinful ' how did it go on ? 
 For principles of Art and so on
 
 102 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I care perhaps about three curses, 
 But hold myself a judge of verses. 
 
 Di. ' My brain was lightened when my tongue had 
 said, " Christ is not risen." ' 
 
 ****** 
 
 Sp. Well, now it's anything but clear 
 What is the tone that's taken here : 
 What is your logic ? what's your theology ? 
 Is it, or is it not, neology ? 
 That's a great fault ; you're this and that, 
 And here and there, and nothing flat ; 
 1 Yet writing's golden word what is it, 
 But the three syllables ' explicit ' ? 
 Say, if you cannot help it, less, 
 But what you do put, put express. 
 I fear that rule won't meet your feeling : 
 You think half showing, half concealing, 
 ,Is God's own method of revealing. 
 
 Di. To please my own poor mind ! to find repose ; 
 To physic the sick soul ; to furnish vent 
 To diseased humours in the moral frame ! 
 
 Sp. A sort of seton, I suppose, 
 A moral bleeding at the nose : 
 H'm ; and the tone too after all, 
 Something of the ironical ? 
 Sarcastic, say ; or were it fitter 
 To style it the religious bitter ? 
 
 Di. Interpret it I cannot, I but wrote it. 
 
 Sp. Perhaps ; but none that read can doubt it, 
 There is a strong Strauss-smell about it. 
 Heavens ! at your years your time to fritter 
 Upon a critical hair-splitter ! 
 Take larger views (and quit your Germans) 
 From the Analogy and sermons ; 
 I fancied you must doubtless know 
 Butler had proved an age ago, 
 That in religious as profane things 
 'T was useless trying to explain things ; 
 Men's business-wits, the only sane things, 
 These and compliance are the main things. 
 God, Revelation, and the rest of it, 
 Bad at the best, we make the best of it. 
 Like a good subject and wise man,
 
 Dl PSYCH US. 103 
 
 Believe whatever things you can. 
 Take your religion as 'twas found you, 
 And say no more of it, confound you ! 
 And now I think the rain has ended ; 
 And the less said, the soonest mended. 
 
 SCENE II. In a Gondola. 
 
 Sp. Per ora. To the Grand Canal. 
 Afterwards e'en as fancy shall. 
 
 DL 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, 
 Forever thus thus glide along ! 
 (How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
 Were life but as the gondola !) 
 
 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 ;
 
 104 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 !) 
 
 So live, nor need to call to mind 
 Our slaving brother here behind ! 
 
 Sp. Pooh ! Nature meant him for no better 
 Than our most humble menial debtor : 
 Who thanks us for his day's employment 
 As we our purse for our enjoyment. 
 
 Di. To make one's fellow-man an instrument 
 
 Sp. Is just the thing that makes him most content. 
 
 Di. Our gaieties, our luxuries, 
 
 Our pleasures and our glee, 
 Mere insolence and wantonness, 
 Alas ! they feel to me. 
 
 How shall I laugh and sing and dance ? 
 
 My very heart recoils, 
 While here to give my mirth a chance 
 
 A hungry brother toils. 
 
 The joy that does not spring from joy 
 
 Which I in others see, 
 How can I venture to employ, 
 
 Or find it joy for me ? 
 
 Sp. Oh come, come, come ! By Him that sent us here, 
 Who's to enjoy at all, pray let us hear ? 
 You won't ; he can't ! Oh, no more fuss ! 
 What's it to him, or he to us ? 
 Sing, sing away, be glad and gay, 
 And don't forget that we shall pay. 
 Di. Yes, it is beautiful ever, let foolish men rail at it 
 
 never. 
 
 Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly. 
 Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that 
 
 can use it. 
 
 Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate only 
 This interfering, enslaving, o'ennastering demon of 
 
 craving,
 
 Dl PSYCH US. 105 
 
 This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to guide us, if 
 Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction. 1 
 
 Sp. (Hexameters, by all that's odious, 
 Beshod with rhyme to run melodious !) 
 
 Di. All as I go on my way I behold them consorting 
 
 and coupling ; 
 Faithful it seemeth, and fond; very fond, very possibly 
 
 faithful ; 
 All as I go on my way with a pleasure sincere and un- 
 
 mingled, 
 
 Life it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly, 
 But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstain- j 
 
 ing; 
 Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that 
 
 we could so. 
 
 Sp. Bravo, bravissimo ! this time though 
 You rather were run short for rhyme though ; 
 Not that on that account your verse 
 Could be much better or much worse. 
 
 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. 
 
 j 
 
 Being common sense, it can't be sin I ^^^ 
 
 To take it as I find it ; 
 The pleasure to take pleasure in ; 
 
 The pain, try not to mind it. 
 
 Di. 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 ;
 
 106 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 But play no tricks upon thy soul, man ; 
 Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can. 
 
 Sp. To these remarks so sage and clerkly, 
 Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley, 
 I trust it won't be deemed a sin 
 If I too answer ' with a grin.' 
 
 These juicy meats, this flashing wine, 
 May be an unreal mere appearance ; 
 
 Only for my inside, in fine, 
 They have a singular coherence. 
 
 Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain ; 
 
 And any empty sick sensation. 
 Bemember, anything like pain 
 
 Is only your imagination. 
 
 Trust me, I've read your German sage 
 To far more purpose e'er than you did ; 
 
 You find it in his wisest page, 
 
 Whom God deludes is well deluded. 
 
 Di. Where are the great, whom thou wouldst wish to 
 
 praise thee ? 
 Where are the pure, whom thou wouldst choose to love 
 
 thee ? 
 
 Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee, 
 Whose high commands would cheer, whose eludings raise 
 
 thee? 
 
 Seek, seeker, in thyself ; submit to find 
 In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind. 
 
 i Written in London, standing in the 1'ark, 
 One evening in July, just before dark.)
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 107 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ;
 
 108 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 (Written in Venice, but for all parts true, 
 'Twas not a crust I gave him, but a sou.) 
 
 A gondola here, and a gondola there, 
 'Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air. 
 To right and to left ; stop, turn, and go yonder, 
 And let us repeat, o'er the tide as we wander, 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 109 
 
 Come, leave your Gothic, worn-out story, 
 
 San Giorgio and the Redentore ; 
 
 I from no building, gay or solemn, 
 
 Can spare the shapely Grecian column. 
 
 'Tis not, these centuries four, for nought 
 
 Our European world of thought 
 
 Hath made familiar to its home 
 
 The classic mind of Greece and Rome ; 
 
 In all new work that would look forth 
 
 To more than antiquarian worth, 
 
 Palladio's pediments and bases, 
 
 Or something such, will find their places : 
 
 Maturer optics don't delight 
 
 In childish dim religious light, 
 
 In evanescent vague effects 
 
 That shirk, not face, one's intellects ; 
 
 They love not fancies just betrayed, 
 
 And artful tricks of light and shade, 
 
 But pure form nakedly displayed, 
 
 And all things absolutely made. 
 
 The Doge's palace though from hence, 
 In spite of doctrinaire pretence, 
 The tide now level with the quay, 
 Is certainly a thing to see. 
 We'll turn to the Rialto soon ; 
 One's told to see it by the moon. 
 
 A gondola here, and a gondola there, 
 'Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air. 
 To right and to left ; stop, turn, and go yonder, 
 And let us reflect, o'er the flood as we wander, 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 DL 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 !)
 
 110 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 By angles sharp of palace walls 
 The clear light and the shadow falls ; 
 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 softly 
 
 Sp. Nay ; 
 
 'Fore heaven, enough of that to-day : 
 I'm deadly weary of your tune, 
 And half-ennuye with the moon ; 
 The shadows lie, the glories fall, 
 And are but moonshine after all. 
 It goes against my conscience really 
 To let myself feel so ideally. 
 Come, for the Piazzetta steer; 
 'Tis nine o'clock or very near. 
 These airy blisses, skyey joys 
 Of vague romantic girls and boys 
 Which melt the heart and the brain soften, 
 When not affected, as too often 
 They are, remind me, I protest, 
 Of nothing better at the best 
 Than Timon's feast to his ancient lovers, 
 Warm water under silver covers ; 
 ' Lap, dogs ! ' I think I hear him say ; 
 And lap who will, so I'm away. ' 
 
 Di. 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
 
 DIPSYCHUS. Ill 
 
 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 tfce landing, onward. Nay, 
 Sweet dream, a little longer stay ! 
 On to the landing ; here. And, ah ! 
 Life is not as the gondola. 
 
 Sp. Tre ore. So. The Parthenone 
 Is it ? you haunt for your limone. 
 Let me induce you to join me, 
 In gramolate persiche. 
 
 SCENE III. The Academy at Venice. 
 
 Di. A modern daub it was, perchance, 
 I know not : but the connoisseur 
 From Titian's hues, I dare be sure, 
 Had never turned one kindly glance. 
 
 Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, draws 
 His sword, impatient long, and speaks 
 Unto a tribe of motley Greeks 
 His fealty to their good cause. 
 
 Not far, assumed to mystic bliss, 
 Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise ! 
 Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyes 
 That melted into tears for this ? 
 
 Yet if we must live, as would seem, 
 These peremptory heats to claim, 
 Ah, not for profit, not for fame, 
 And not for pleasure's giddy dream,
 
 112 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And not for piping empty reeds, 
 And not for colouring idle dust ; 
 If live we positively must, 
 God's name be blest for noble deeds. 
 
 Verses ! well, they are made, so let them go ; 
 No more if I can help. This is one way 
 The procreant heat and fervour of our youth 
 Escapes, in puff, in smoke, and shapeless words 
 Of mere ejaculation, nothing worth, 
 Unless to make maturer years content 
 To slave in base compliance to the world. 
 
 I have scarce spoken yet to this strange follower 
 
 Whom I picked up ye great gods, tell me where ! 
 
 And when ! for I remember such long years, 
 
 And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself : 
 
 He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself ; 
 
 Whate'er I think, he adds his comments to; 
 
 Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I know 
 
 If ever once directly 1 addressed him : 
 
 Let me essay it now; for I have strength. 
 
 Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have, 
 
 Oh, I know all too surely ; not in vain, 
 
 Although unnoticed, has he dogged my ear. 
 
 Come, we'll be definite, explicit, plain ; 
 
 I can resist, I know ; and 'twill be well 
 
 For colloquy to have used this manlier mood, 
 
 Which is to last, ye chances say how long ! 
 
 How shall I call him ? Mephistopheles ? 
 
 Sp. I come, I come. 
 
 Di. So quick, so eager ; ha ! 
 
 Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought, 
 With something of an exultation too, methinks, 
 Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait. 
 I doubt about it. Shall I do 'it ? Oh ! oh ! 
 Shame on me ! come ! Shall I, my follower, 
 Should I conceive (not that at all I do, 
 'Tis curiosity that prompts my speech) 
 ( But should I form, a thing to be supposed, 
 A wish to bargain for your merchandise, 
 Say what were your demands '.' what were your terms '.' 
 What should I do 'f what should I cease to do ?
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 113 
 
 What incense on what altars must I burn ? 
 And what abandon ? what unlearn, or learn ? 
 Religion goes, I take it. 
 
 Sp. Oh, 
 
 You'll go to church of course, you know ; 
 Or at the least will take a pew 
 To send your wife and servants to. 
 Trust me, I make a point of that ; 
 No infidelity, that's flat. 
 
 Di. Religion is not in a pew, say some ; 
 Cucullus, you hold, facit monachum. 
 
 Sp. Why, as to feelings of devotion 
 I interdict all vague emotion ; 
 But if you will, for once and all 
 Compound with ancient Juvenal 
 Orandum est, one perfect prayer 
 For savoir-vivre and savoir-faire. I'v-v * 
 
 Theology don't recommend you, 
 Unless, turned lawyer, Heaven should send you 
 In your profession's way a case 
 Of Baptism and prevenient grace ; 
 But that's not likely. I'm inclined, 
 All circumstances borne in mind, 
 To think (to keep you in due borders) 
 You'd better enter holy orders. 
 
 Di. On that, my friend, you'd better not insist. 
 
 Sp. Well, well, 'tis but a good thing missed. 
 The item's optional, no doubt ; 
 But how to get you bread without ? 
 You'll marry ; I shall find the lady. 
 Make your proposal, and be steady. 
 
 Di. Marry, ill spirit ! and at your sole choice ? 
 
 Sj). De riyueur ! can't give you a voice. 
 What matter ? Oh, trust one who knows you, 
 You'll make an admirable sposo. 
 
 Di. Enough. But action look to that well, mind 
 
 me; 
 
 See that some not unworthy work you find me ; 
 If man I be, then give the man expression. 
 
 Sp. Of course you'll enter a profession ; 
 If not the Church, why then the Law. 
 By Jove, we'll teach you how to draw ! 
 Besides, the best of the concern is
 
 114 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I'm hand and glove with the attorneys. 
 With them and me to help, don't doubt 
 But in due season you'll come out ; 
 Leave Kelly, Cockburn, in the lurch. 
 But yet, do think about the Church. 
 
 Di. 'Tis well, ill spirit, I admire your wit; 
 As for your wisdom, I shall think of it. 
 And now farewell. 
 
 SCENE IV. In St. Mark's. Dipsychus alone. 
 
 The Law ! 'twere honester, if 'twere genteel, 
 
 To say the dung-cart. What ! shall I go about, 
 
 And like the walking shoeblack roam the flags 
 
 To see whose boots are dirtiest ? Oh, the luck 
 
 To stoop and clean a pair ! 
 
 Religion, if indeed it be in vain 
 
 To expect to find in this more modern time 
 
 That which the old world styled, in old-world phrase, 
 
 Walking with God. It seems His newer will 
 
 We should not think of Him at all, but trudge it, 
 
 And of the world He has assigned us make 
 
 What best we can. 
 
 Then love : I scarce can think 
 That these bemaddening discords of the mind 
 To pure melodious sequence could be changed, 
 And all the vext conundrums of our life 
 Solved to all time by this old pastoral 
 Of a new Adam and a second Eve 
 Set in a garden which no serpent seeks. 
 
 And yet I hold heart can beat true to heart : 
 And to hew down the tree which bears this fruit, 
 To do a thing which cuts me off from hope, 
 To falsify the movement of Love's mind, 
 'To seat some alien trifler on the throne 
 A queen may come to claim that were ill done. 
 What ! to the close hand of the clutching Jew 
 Hand up that rich reversion ! and for what ? 
 This would be hard, did I indeed believe 
 'T would ever fall. That love, the large repose 
 Restorative, not to mere outside needs 
 Skin-deep, but throughly to the total man,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 115 
 
 Exists, I will believe, but so, so rare, 
 
 So doubtful, so exceptional, hard to guess ; 
 
 When guessed, so often counterfeit ; in brief, 
 
 A thing not possibly to be conceived 
 
 An item in the reckonings of the wise. 
 
 Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped, 
 'Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity, 
 Irresolution, still had hoped : and this 
 Seems sacrificing hope. Better to wait : 
 The wise men wait ; it is the foolish haste, 
 And ere the scenes are in the slides would play, 
 And while the instruments are tuning, dance. 
 
 I see Napoleon on the heights intent 
 To arrest that one brief unit of loose time 
 Which hands high Victory's thread ; his marshals fret, 
 His soldiers clamour low : the very guns 
 Seem going off of themselves ; the cannon strain 
 Like hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits ; A, 
 
 And lesser chances and inferior hopes W 
 
 \ I Meantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth ; 
 ThlTvery faithful have begun to doubt ; 
 But they molest not the calm eye that seeks 
 'Midst all this huddling silver little worth 
 The one thin piece that comes, pure gold ; he waits. 
 O me, when the great deed e'en now has broke 
 Like a man's hand the horizon's level line, 
 So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds ; 
 Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge, 
 This list and selvage of a glorious time, 
 To despair of the great and sell unto the mean ! 
 thou of little faith, what hast thou done ? 
 Yet if the occasion coming should find us 
 Undexterous, incapable ? In light things 
 Prove thou the arms thou long'st to glorify, 
 Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranks 
 Whence come great Nature's Captains. And high deeds I 
 VHaunt not the fringy edges of the fight,* 
 vBut the pell-mell of men.\ Oh, what and if v 
 E'en now by lingering here I let them slip, 
 Like an unpractised spyer through a glass, ' 
 Still pointing to the blank, too high ! And yet, 
 In dead details to smother vital ends
 
 116 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Which would give life to them ; in the deft trick 
 
 Of 'prentice-handling to forget great art, 
 
 To base mechanical adroitness yield 
 
 The Inspiration and the Hope a slave ! 
 
 Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, though 
 
 Here it may seem a dull unopening bud, 
 
 May yet bloom freely in celestial clime ! 
 
 Were it not better done, then, to keep off 
 
 And see, not share, the strife ; stand out the waltz 
 
 Which fools whirl dizzy in ? Is it possible ? 
 
 Contamination taints the idler first ; 
 
 And without base compliance, e'en that same 
 
 Which buys bold hearts free course, Earth lends not these 
 
 Their pent and miserable standing-room. 
 
 Life loves no lookers-on at his great game, 
 
 And with boy's malice still delights to turn 
 
 The tide of sport upon the sitters-by, 
 
 And set observers scampering with their notes. 
 
 Oh, it is great to do and know not what, 
 
 Nor let it e'er be known. The dashing stream 
 
 Stays not to pick his steps among the rocks, 
 
 Or let his water-breaks be chronicled. 
 
 And though the hunter looks before he leap, 
 
 'Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thought 
 
 That lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail ! 
 
 And farewell hesitation. If I stay, 
 
 I am not innocent ; nor if I go 
 
 E'en should I fall beyond redemption lost. 
 
 Ah, if I had a course like a full stream, 
 If life were as the field of chase ! No, no ; 
 The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by, 
 And will not be forced back. And to live now 
 I must sluice out myself into canals, 
 And lose all force in ducts. The modern Hotspur 
 Shrills not his trumpet of ' To Horse, To Horse ! ' 
 But consults columns in a Railway Guide ; 
 A demigod of figures ; an Achilles 
 Of computation ; 
 
 A verier Mercury, express come down 
 To do the world with swift arithmetic. 
 Well, one could bear with that, were the end ours, 
 One's choice and the correlative of the soul ; 
 To drudge were then sweet service. But indeed
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 117 
 
 The earth moves slowly, if it move at all, LV 
 
 And by the general, not the single force 
 
 Of the linked members of the vast machine. 
 
 In all these crowded rooms of industry, 
 
 No individual soul has loftier leave 
 
 Than fiddling with a piston or a valve. 
 
 Well, one could bear that also : one would drudge 
 
 And do one's petty part, and be content 
 
 In base manipulation, solaced still 
 
 By thinking of the leagued fraternity, 
 
 And of cooperation, and the effect 
 
 Of the great engine. If indeed it work, 
 
 And is not a mere treadmill ! which it may be. 
 
 Who can confirm it is not ? We ask action, 
 
 And dream of arms and conflict; and string up 
 
 All self-devotion's muscles ; and are set 
 
 To fold up papers. To what end ? we know not. 
 
 Other folks do so ; it is always done ; 
 
 And it perhaps is right. And we are paid for it, 
 
 For nothing else we can be. He that eats 
 
 Must serve ; and serve as other servants do : 
 
 And don the lacquey's livery of the house. 
 
 Oh, could I shoot my thought up to the sky, 
 
 A column of pure shape, for all to observe ! 
 
 But I must slave, a meagre coral-worm, 
 
 To build beneath the tide with excrement 
 
 What one day will be island, or be reef, 
 
 And will feed men, or wreck them. Well, well, well. 
 
 Adieu, ye twisted thinkings. I submit : it must be. 
 
 Action is what one must get, it is clear, 
 And one could dream it better than one finds, 
 In its kind personal, in its motive not ; 
 Not selfish as it now is, nor as now 
 Maiming the individual. If we had that, 
 It would cure all indeed. Oh, how would then 
 These pitiful rebellions of the flesh, 
 These caterwaulings of the effeminate heart, 
 These hurts of self-imagined dignity, 
 Pass like the seaweed from about the bows 
 Of a great vessel speeding straight to sea ! 
 Yes, if we could have that ; but I suppose 
 We shall not have it, and therefore I submit !
 
 118 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Sp. (from, within). 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 midday 
 
 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 ! 
 
 SCENE V. TJie Piazza at Night. 
 
 Di. 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 sensat ions I detect, 
 With it too, round an Inner, Mightier orb, 
 Maybe with that too this I dare not sa;y 
 Around, yet more, more central, more supreme,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 119 
 
 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. 
 
 happy hours ! 
 
 compensation ample for long days 
 Of what impatient tongues call wretchedness ! 
 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 
 0' 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. Wliat 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, 
 
 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, remorselike, shot to the inmost seats 
 
 Of moral being ? To do anything, 
 
 Distinct on any one thing to decide,
 
 120 CLOUGWS POEMS. 
 
 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'ermuch 
 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 ? double self ! 
 And I untrue to both ? Oh, there are hours, I 
 When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties, t 
 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 
 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 Avhither. Thence, at once, 
 A^ 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 
 Aliout these footsore flags of a \vcary world, 
 Heaven knows how long it lias not been ; at once,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 121 
 
 Lo ! I am in the spirit on the Lord's day \ 
 With John in 1'atmos. 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 ! 
 
 Sp. 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 
 With thinking one is clever, while the room 
 Rings through Avith 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. 'Tis well ; 
 Who taught you menaces ? Who told you, pray, 
 Because I asked you questions, and made show 
 Of hearing what you answered, therefore 
 
 Sp. 01,
 
 122 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 As if I didn't know ! 
 
 Di. Come, come, my friend, 
 
 I may have wavered, but I have thought better. 
 We'll say no more of it. 
 
 Sp. Oh, I dare say : 
 
 But as you like ; 'tis your own loss ; once more, 
 Beware ! 
 
 Di. (alone). Must it be then ? So quick upon my thought 
 To follow the fulfilment and the deed ? 
 I counted not on this ; I counted ever 
 To hold and turn it over in my hands 
 Much longer, much : I took it up indeed, 
 For speculation rather; to gain thought, 
 New data. Oh, and now to be goaded on 
 By menaces, entangled among tricks ; 
 That I won't suffer. Yet it is the law ; 
 'Tis this makes action always. But for this 
 We ne'er should act at all ; and act we must. 
 Why quarrel with the fashion of a fact 
 Which, one way, must be, one time, why not now ? 
 
 Sp. Submit, submit! 
 For tell me then, in earth's great laws 
 Have you found any saving clause, 
 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 ? 
 
 To move on angels' wings were sweet; 
 But who would therefore scorn his feet? 
 It cannot walk up to the sky ; 
 It therefore will lie down and die. 
 Rich meats it don't obtain at call ; 
 It therefore will not eat at all. 
 Poor babe, and yet a babe of wit ! 
 But common sense, not much of it, 
 Or 'twould submit. 
 Submit, submit! 
 
 As your good father did before you, 
 And as the mother who first bore you.
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 123 
 
 O yes ! a child of heavenly birth ! 
 But yet it was born too on earth. 
 Keep your new birth for that far day 
 When in the grave your bones you lay, 
 All with your kindred and connection, 
 In hopes of happy resurrection. 
 But how meantime to live is fit, 
 Ask common sense; and what says it? 
 Submit, submit! 
 
 SCENE VI. On a Bridge. 
 
 Di. 'Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire, 
 The burning thirst for action utterly ; 
 Gone, like a ship that passes in the night 
 On the high seas : gone, yet will come again : 
 Gone, yet expresses something that exists. 
 Is it a thing ordained, then ? is it a clue 
 For my life's conduct ? is it a law for me 
 That opportunity shall breed distrust, 
 Not passing until that pass ? Chance and resolve, 
 Like two loose comets wandering wide in space, 
 Crossing each other's orbits time on time, 
 Meet never. Void indifference and doubt 
 Let through the present boon, which ne'er turns back 
 To await the after sure-arriving wish. 
 How shall I then explain it to myself, 
 That in blank thought my purpose lives ? 
 The uncharged cannon mocking still the spark 
 When come, which ere come it had loudly claimed. 
 Am I to let it be so still ? For truly 
 The need exists, I know; the wish but sleeps 
 (Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food) ; 
 And to put by these unreturning gifts, 
 Because the feeling is not with me now, 
 Seems folly more than merest babyhood's. 
 But must I then do violence to myself, 
 And push on nature, force desire (that's ill), 
 Because of knowledge ? which is great, but works 
 By rules of large exception ; to tell which 
 ^Nought is more fallible than mere caprice.
 
 124 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 What need for action yet ? I am happy now, 
 I feel no lack what cause is there for haste ? 
 Am I not happy ? is not that enough ? 
 Depart ! 
 
 Sp. yes ! you thought you had escaped, no doubt, 
 This worldly fiend that follows you about, 
 This compound of convention and impiety, 
 This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety. 
 What else were bad enough ? but, let me say, 
 I too have my grandes manures in my way ; 
 Could speak high sentiment as well as you, 
 And out-blank-verse you without much ado ; 
 Have my religion also in my kind, 
 For dreaming unfit, because not designed. 
 What ! you know not that I too can be serious, 
 Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious ; 
 Can speak, not honeyedly, of love and beauty, 
 But sternly of a something much like duty. 
 Oh, do you look surprised ? were never told, 
 Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold. 
 The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses, 
 \But God can act the Devil when He chooses. \ 
 Farewell ! But, verbum sapienti satis 
 I do not make this revelation gratis. 
 Farewell : beware ! 
 
 Di. Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew ; 
 What will they not say ? what not dare to do ? 
 
 Sp. Beware, beware ! 
 
 Di. What, loitering still ? Still, foul spirit, there ? 
 Go hence, I tell thee, go ! I will beware. 
 (Alone.} It must be, then. I feel it in my soul ; 
 The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone, 
 And sharper than the two-edged sword of God. 
 I come into deep waters help, O help! 
 The floods run over me. 
 
 Therefore, farewell ! a long and last farewell, 
 Ye pious sweet simplicities of life, 
 Good hooks, good friends, and holy moods, and all 
 Tli at lent rough life sweet, Sin id ay-seeming rests, 
 Making earth heaven-like. Welcome, wicked world, 
 The hardening heart, the calculating brain 
 Narrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips, 
 The calm-dissembling eyes ; the greedy flesh, 
 The world, the Devil welcome, welcome, welcome !
 
 DI PSYCH US. 125 
 
 Sp. (from within). 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 stores 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 ! 
 
 DL God, God ! The great floods of the soul 
 Flow over me ! I come into deep waters 
 Where no ground is ! 
 
 Sp. Don't be the least afraid ; 
 There's not the slightest reason for alarm ; 
 I only meant by a perhaps rough shake 
 To rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep. 
 Up, then up, and be going : the large world, 
 The thronged life waits us. 
 
 Come, my pretty boy, 
 
 You have been making mows to the blank sky 
 Quite long enough for good. We'll put you up 
 Into the higher form. 'Tis time you learn 
 The Second Reverence, for things around. 
 Up, then, and go amongst them ; don't be timid ; 
 Look at them quietly a bit : by and by 
 Respect will come, and healthy appetite. 
 So let us go. 
 
 How now ! not yet awake ? 
 
 Oh, you will sleep yet, will you ! Oh, you shirk, 
 You try and slink away ! You cannot, eh ? 
 Nay now, what folly's this ? AVhy will you fool yourself ? 
 Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut ?
 
 126 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Treating for facts the self-made hues that flash 
 
 On tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts. 
 
 To use the undistorted light of the sun 
 
 Is not a crime ; to look straight out upon 
 
 The big plain things that stare one in the face 
 
 Does not contaminate ; to see pollutes not 
 
 What one must feel if one won't see, what is, 
 
 And will be too, howe'er we blink, and must 
 
 One way or other make itself observed. 
 
 Free walking's better than being led about ; and 
 
 What will the blind man do, I wonder, if 
 
 Some one should cut the string of his dog ? Just think ! 
 
 What could you do, if I should go away ? 
 
 Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you ? 
 What shall it take to ? literature,' no doubt ? 
 Novels, reviews ? or poems ! if you please ! 
 The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt, 
 The influx of your mouthful of soft air. 
 Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledge 
 You've condescended to receive from me ; 
 That's your best chance. Oh, you despise that ! Oh. 
 Prate then of passions you have known in dreams, 
 Of huge experience gathered by the eye ; 
 Be large of aspiration, pure in hope, 
 Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague ; 
 Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relieved 
 By snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless. 
 Or will you write about philosophy ? 
 For a waste far-off mat/be overlooking 
 The fruitful is close by, live in metaphysic, 
 With transcendental logic fill your stomach, 
 Schematise joy, effigiate meat and drink ; 
 Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume, 
 The Complements! of the inferior Kant, 
 The Critic of Pure Practice, based upon 
 The Antinomies of the Moral Sense : for, look you, 
 We cannot act without assuming x, 
 And at the same time ?/, its contradictory ; 
 Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless. 
 Or you'll perhaps teach youth (I do not question 
 Some downward turn you may find, some evasion 
 Of the broad highway's glaring white ascent) ; 
 Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always,
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 127 
 
 So as to have much time left you for yourself; 
 
 This you can't sacrifice, your leisure's precious. 
 
 Heartily you will not take to anything ; 
 
 Whatever happen, don't I see you still, 
 
 Living no life at all ? Even as now 
 
 An o'ergrown baby, sucking at the dugs 
 
 Of instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old 
 
 enough 
 For spoon-meat surely. 
 
 Will you go on thus 
 Until death end you ? if indeed it does. 
 For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you, 
 You'll hardly have the courage to die outright ; 
 You'll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you, 
 Through everlasting limbos of void time, 
 Twirling and twiddling ineffectively, 
 And indeterminately swaying forever. 
 Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate. 
 
 Well, well, 
 
 I will not persecute you more, my friend. 
 Only do think, as I observed before, 
 What can you do, if I should go away ? 
 
 Di. Is the hour here, then ? Is the minute come 
 The irreprievable instant of stern time ? 
 O for a few, few grains in the running glass, 
 Or for some power to hold them ! for a few 
 Of all that went so waste-fully before ! 
 It must be then, e'en now. 
 
 Sp. (from within). It must, it must. 
 'Tis common sense ! and human wit 
 Can claim no higher name than it. 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 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, 
 
 The hand is on us, and we must, 
 
 We must, we must.
 
 128 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 "Tis common sense ! and human wit 
 Can find no better name than it. 
 Submit, submit ! 
 
 SCENE VII. At Torcello. Dipsychus alone. 
 
 Di. I had a vision ; was it in my sleep ? 
 And if it were, what then ? But sleep or wake, 
 I saw a great light open o'er my head ; 
 And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light, 
 Out of that light proceeding heard a voice 
 Uttering high words, which, whether sleep or wake, 
 In me were fixed, and in me must abide. 
 
 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, 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 tln-c 
 There shall follow still and find thee, 
 Help, sure help.
 
 Dl PSYCH US. 129 
 
 SCENE VIII. In the Piazza. 
 
 Dl. Not for thy service, thou imperious fiend, 
 Not to do thy work, or the like of thine ; 
 Not to please thee, base and fallen spirit ! 
 But One Most High, Most True, whom without thee 
 It seems I cannot. 
 
 the misery 
 
 That one must truck and practise with the world 
 To gain the 'vantage-ground to assail it from ; 
 To set upon the Giant one must first, 
 
 perfidy ! have eat the Giant's bread. 
 If I submit, it is but to gain time 
 
 And arms and stature : 'tis but to lie safe 
 Until the hour strike to arise and slay : 
 'Tis the old story of the adder's brood 
 Feeding and nesting till the fangs be grown. 
 Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair, 
 To accept the service with the wages, do 
 Frankly the devil's work for the devil's pay ? 
 Oh, but another my allegiance holds 
 Inalienably his. How much soe'er 
 
 1 might submit, it must be to rebel. 
 Submit then sullenly, that's no dishonour. 
 Yet I could deem it better too to starve 
 
 And die untraitored. 0, who sent me, though ? 
 
 Sent me, and to do something O hard master ! 
 
 To do a treachery. But indeed 'tis done ; 
 
 I have already taken of the pay 
 
 And curst the payer ; take I must, curse too. 
 
 Alas ! the little strength that I possess 
 
 Derives, I think, of him. So still it is, 
 
 The timid child that clung unto her skirts, 
 
 A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man, 
 
 His father too. There's Scripture too for that ! 
 
 Do we owe fathers nothing mothers nought ? 
 
 Is filial duty folly ? Yet He says, 
 
 ' He that loves father, mother more than me ; ' 
 
 Yea, and ' the man his parents shall desert,' 
 
 The Ordinance says, ' and cleave unto his wife.' 
 
 man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world ;
 
 130 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Adam, accept thy Eve. 
 
 So still it is, 
 
 The tree exhausts the soil ; creepers kill it, 
 Their insects them: the lever -finds its fulcrum 
 On what it then o'erthrows ; the homely spade 
 In labour's hand unscrupulously seeks 
 Its first momentum on the very clod 
 Which next will be upturned. It seems a law. 
 And am not I, though I but ill recall 
 My happier age, a kidnapped child of Heaven, 
 Whom these uncircumcised Philistines 
 Have by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and kept 
 For what more glorious than to make them sport ? 
 Wait, then, wait, my soul ! grow, grow, ye locks, 
 Then perish they, and if need is, I too. 
 
 Sp. (aside). A truly admirable proceeding ! 
 Could there be finer special pleading 
 When scruples would be interceding ? 
 There's no occasion I should stay ; 
 He is working out, his own queer way, 
 The sum I set him ; and this day 
 Will bring it, neither less nor bigger, 
 Exact to my predestined figure. 
 
 SCENE IX. In the Public Garden. 
 
 Di. Twenty-one past twenty-five coming on; 
 One-third of life departed, nothing done. 
 Out of the mammon of unrighteousness 
 That we make friends, the Scripture is express. 
 My Spirit, come, we will agree ; 
 Content, you'll take a moiety. 
 
 Sp. A moiety, ye gods, he, he ! 
 
 Di. Three-quarters then ? griping beast ; 
 Leave me a decimal at least. 
 
 /Sp. Oh, one of ten ! to infect the nine 
 And make the devil a one be mine ! 
 oh, one ! to jib all day, God wot, 
 When all the rest would go full trot ! 
 One very little one, eh ? to doubt with, 
 Just to pause, think, and look about with ? 
 In course ! you counted on no less 
 You thought it likely I'd say yes !
 
 DIPSYCHUS. 131 
 
 Di. Be it then thus since that it must, it seems. 
 Welcome, O world, henceforth ; and farewell dreams ! 
 Yet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor I 
 Can in this matter either sell or buy ; 
 For the fee simple of this trifling lot 
 To you or me, trust me, pertaineth not. 
 I can but render what is of my will, 
 And behind it somewhat remaineth still. 
 Oh, your sole chance was in the childish mind 
 Whose darkness dreamed that vows like this could bind; 
 Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and brought 
 In fact the ruin which had been but thought. 
 Thank Heaven (or you) that's past these many years, 
 And we have knowledge wiser than our fears. 
 So your poor bargain take, my man, 
 And make the best of it you can. 
 
 Sp. With reservations ! oh, how treasonable ! 
 When I had let you off so reasonable. 
 However, I don't fear ; be it so ! 
 Brutus is honourable, I know ; 
 So mindful of the dues of others, 
 So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers, 
 So scrupulous, considerate, kind 
 He wouldn't leave the devil behind 
 If he assured him he had claims 
 For his good company to hell-flames ! 
 No matter, no matter, the bargain's made ; 
 And I for my part will not be afraid. 
 With reservations ! oh, ho, ho ! 
 But time, my friend, has yet to show 
 Which of us two will closest fit 
 The proverb of the Biter Bit. 
 
 Di. Tell me thy name, now it is over. 
 
 Sp. Oh ! 
 
 Why, Mephistopheles, you know 
 At least you've lately called me so : 
 Belial it was some days ago. 
 But take your pick ; I've got a score 
 Never a royal baby more. 
 For a brass plate upon a door 
 What think you of Cosmocrator ? 
 
 Di. TOUS KO(TfJLOKpa.TOpa.<i TOV CLLWVOS TOVTOV. 
 
 And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you.
 
 132 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Sp. Ephesians, ain't it ? near the end 
 You dropt a word to spare your friend. 
 What follows, too, in application 
 Would be absurd exaggeration. 
 
 Di. The Power of this World ! hateful unto God. 
 
 Sp. Cosmarchou's shorter, but sounds odd. 
 One wouldn't like, even if a true devil, 
 To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil. 
 
 Di. Yet in all these things we 'tis Scripture too 
 Are more than conquerors, even over you. 
 
 Sp. Come, come, don't maunder any longer, 
 Time tests the weaker and the stronger ; 
 And we, without procrastination, 
 Must set, you know, to our vocation. 
 O goodness ; won't you find it pleasant 
 To own the positive and present ; 
 To see yourself like people round, 
 And feel your feet upon the ground ! (Exeunt.) 
 
 EPILOGUE TO DIPSYCHUS. 
 
 ' I DON'T very well understand what it's all about,' said my 
 uncle. ' I won't say I didn't drop into a doze while the young 
 man was drivelling through his latter soliloquies. But there 
 was a great deal that was unmeaning, vague, and involved ; and 
 what was most plain, was least decent and least moral.' 
 
 ' Dear sir,' said I, 'says the proverb " Needs must when the 
 devil drives ; " and if the devil is to speak ' 
 
 ' Well,' said my uncle, ' why should he ? Nobody asked him. 
 Not that he didn't say much which, if only it hadn't been for 
 the way he said it, and that it was he who said it, would have 
 been sensible enough.' 
 
 'But, sir,' said I, 'perhaps he wasn't a devil after all. That's 
 the beauty of the poem ; nobody can say. You see, dear sir, the 
 thing which it is attempted to represent is the conflict between 
 the tender conscience and the world. Now, the over-tender con- 
 science will, of course, exaggerate the wickedness of the world ; 
 and the Spirit in my poem may be merely the hypothesis or 
 subjective imagination formed 
 
 ' Oh, for goodness' sake, my dear boy,' interrupted my nncle, 
 ' don't go into the theory of it. If you're wrong in it, it makes 
 bad worse; if you're right, you may be a critic, but you can't 
 be a poet. And then you know very well I don't understand 
 all those new words. But as for that, I quite agree that con-
 
 DTPSYCHUS. 133 
 
 sciences are much too tender in your generation schoolboys' 
 consciences, too ! As my old friend the Canon says of the 
 Westminster students, " They're all so pious." It's all Arnold's 
 doing ; he spoilt the public schools.' 
 
 ' My dear uncle,' said I, ' how can so venerable a sexagenarian 
 utter so juvenile a paradox? How often have I not heard you 
 lament the idleness and listlessness, the boorishness and vulgar 
 tyranny, the brutish manners alike, and minds ' 
 
 1 Ah ! ' said my uncle, ' I may have fallen in occasionally with 
 the talk of the day ; but at seventy one begins to see clearer 
 into the bottom of one's mind. In middle life one says so 
 many things in the way of business. Not that I mean that the 
 old schools were perfect, any more than we old boys that were 
 there. But whatever else they were or did, they certainly were 
 in harmony with the world, and they certainly did not disqualify 
 the country's youth for after-life and the country's service.' 
 
 ' But, my dear sir, this bringing the schools of the country 
 into harmony with public opinion is exactly ' 
 
 ' Don't interrupt me with public opinion, my dear nephew ; 
 you'll quote me a leading article next. " Young men must be 
 young men," as the worthy head of your college said to me 
 touching a case of rustication. "My dear sir," said I, "I only 
 wish to heaven they would be ; but as for my own nephews, 
 they seem to me a sort of hobbadi-hoy cherub, too big to be 
 innocent, and too simple for anything else. They're full of the 
 notion of the world being so wicked and of their taking a 
 higher line, as they call it. I only fear they'll never take any 
 line at all." What is the true purpose of education V Simply 
 to make plain to the young understanding the laws of the life 
 they will have to enter. For example that lying won't do, 
 thieving still less ; that idleness will get punished ; that if they are 
 cowards, the whole world will be against them; that if they will 
 have their own way, they must fight for it. As for the con- 
 science, mamma, I take it such as mammas are nowadays, 
 at any rate has probably set that agoing fast enough already. 
 What a blessing to see her good little child come back a brave 
 young devil-may-care ! ' 
 
 ' Exactly, my dear sir. As if at twelve or fourteen a round- 
 about boy, with his three meals a day inside him, is likely to be 
 over-troubled with scruples ! ' 
 
 ' Put him through a strong course of confirmation and sacra- 
 ments, backed up with sermons and private admonitions, and 
 what is much the same as auricular confession, and really, my 
 dear nephew, I can't answer for it but he mayn't turn out as 
 great a goose as you pardon me were about the age of 
 eighteen or nineteen.' 
 
 ' But to have passed through that, my dear sir ! surely that 
 can be no harm.' 
 
 ' I don't know. Your constitutions don't seem to recover it,
 
 134 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 quite. We did without these foolish measles well enough in 
 my time.' 
 
 ' Westminster had its Cowper, my dear sir; and other schools 
 had theirs also, mute and inglorious, but surely not few.' 
 
 ' Ah, ah ! the beginning of troubles ' 
 
 'You see, my dear sir, you must not refer it to Arnold, at all, 
 at all. Anything that Arnold did in this direction ' 
 
 ' Why, my dear boy, how often have I not heard from you, 
 how he used to attack offences, not as offences the right view 
 against discipline, but as sin, heinous guilt, I don't know 
 what beside! Why didn't he flog them and hold his tongue? 
 Flog them he did, but why preach ? ' 
 
 ' If he did err in this way, sir, which I hardly think, I ascribe 
 it to the spirit of the time. The real cause of the evil you 
 complain of, which to a certain extent I admit, was, I take it, 
 the religious movement of the last century, beginning with 
 Wesleyanism, and culminating at last in Puseyism. This over- 
 excitation of the religious sense, resulting in this irrational, 
 almost animal irritability of consciences, was, in many ways, as 
 foreign to Arnold as it is proper to ' 
 
 ' Well, well, my dear nephew, if you like to make a theory of 
 it, pray write it out for yourself nicely in full; but your poor old 
 uncle does not like theories, and is moreover sadly sleepy.' 
 
 ' Good night, dear uncle, good night. Only let me say you 
 six more verses.' 
 
 * DIPSYCHUS CONTINUED. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 [An interval of thirty years."] 
 SCENE I. In London. Dipsychus in his Study. 
 
 Dipsychus. God ! God ! and must I still go on 
 Doing this work I know not, hell's or thine ; 
 And these rewards receiving sure not thine ; 
 The adulation of a foolish crowd, 
 Half foolish and half greedy ; upright judge 
 Lawyer acute the Mansfield and the Hale 
 In one united to bless modern Courts. 
 God ! O God ! According to the law, 
 With solemn face to solemn sentence n't, 
 Doing the justice that is but half just; 
 Punishing wrong that is not truly wrong ! 
 Administering, alas, God! not Thy law.
 
 DIPSYCHUS CONTINUED. 135 
 
 (Knock at the door.') 
 
 What ? Is the hour already for tl^e Court ? 
 Come in. Now, Lord Chief Justice, to thy work. 
 
 (Enter a Servant.} 
 
 Serv. My lord, a woman begging to be seen. 
 
 Di. A woman begging to be seen ? What's this ? 
 'Tis not the duty of your post, my friend, 
 To give admittance on the busy days 
 Of a hard labourer in this great world 
 To all poor creatures begging to be seen. 
 Something unusual in it ? Bid her wait 
 In the room below, I'll see her as I pass. 
 Is the horse there ? 
 
 Serv. He's coming round, my lord. 
 
 Di. Say I will see her as I pass. (Exit Servant.) 
 
 I have but one way left ; but that one way, 
 On which once entered, there is no return ; 
 And as there's no return, no looking back, 
 Amidst the smoky tumult of this field 
 Whereon, enlisted once, in arms we stand, 
 Nor know, nor e'en remotely can divine 
 The sense, or purport, or the -probable end, 
 One only guide to our blind work we keep, 
 To obey orders and to fight it out. 
 
 Some hapless sad petitioner, no doubt, 
 With the true plaintiveness of real distress, 
 Twisting her misery to a marketable lie, 
 To waste my close-shorn interval of rest. 
 She came upon me in my weaker thoughts, 
 Those weaker thoughts that still indeed recur, 
 But come, my servants, at a word to go. 
 
 (Enter Woman.') 
 
 What is it ? what have you to say to me ? 
 Who are" you ? 
 
 Worn. Once you knew me well enough. 
 
 Di. Oh, you ! I had been told that you were dead. 
 
 Worn. So your creatures said ; 
 
 But I shall live, I think, till you die too.
 
 136 CLOUGirS POEMS. 
 
 Di. What do you want ? Money, subsistence, bread ? 
 
 Worn. I wanted bread, money, all things, 'tis true, 
 But wanted, above all things, to see you. 
 
 Di. This cannot be.^ What has been done is o'er. 
 You have no claim or right against me more ; 
 I have dealt justly with you to the uttermost. 
 
 Worn. I did not come to say you were unjust 
 I came to see you only. 
 
 Di. Hear me now. 
 
 Remember, it was not the marriage vow, 
 Nor promise e'er of chaste fidelity, 
 That joined us thirty years ago in a tie 
 Which I, I think, scarce sought. It was not I 
 That took your innocence ; you spoiled me of mine. 
 And yet, as though the vow had been divine, 
 Was I not faithful ? Were you so to me ? 
 Had you been white in spotless purity, 
 Could I have clung to you more faithfully ? 
 I left you, after wrongs I blush with shame 
 E'en now through all my fifty years to name. 
 I left you ; yet I stinted still my ease, 
 Curtailed my pleasures toil still extra toil, 
 To repay you for what you never gave. 
 Is it not true ? 
 
 Worn. Go on, say all and more. 
 
 Upon this body, as the basis', lies 
 The ladder that has raised you to the skies. 
 
 Di. Is that so much ? am I indeed so high ? 
 Am I not rather 
 
 The slave and servant of the wretched world, 
 Liveried and finely dressed yet all the same 
 A menial and lacquey seeking place 
 For hire, and for hire's sake doing work ? 
 
 Worn. I do not know ; you have wife and child I know, 
 Domestic comfort and a noble name, 
 And people speak in my ears too your praise. 
 man, (.) man ! do you not know in your heart 
 It was for this you came to me 
 It was for this I took you to my breast ? 
 O man, man, man ! 
 
 You come to us with your dalliance in the street, 
 You pay us with your miserable gold, 
 You do not know how in the
 
 DIPSYCHUS CONTINUED. 137 
 
 DL (looks at his watch). You must go now. Justice 
 
 calls me elsewhere ; 
 Justice might keep you here. 
 You may return again ; stay, let me see 
 Six weeks to-morrow you shall see me again ; 
 Now you must go. Do you need money ? here, 
 It is your due : take it, that you may live ; 
 And see me, six weeks from to-morrow, elsewhere. 
 
 Worn. I will not go ; 
 
 You must stay here and hear me, or I shall die ! 
 It were ill for you that I should. 
 
 DL What ! shall the nation wait ? 
 
 Woman, if I have wronged you, it was for good 
 Good has come of it. Lo, I have done some work. 
 Over the blasted and the blackened spot 
 Of our unhappy and unhallowed deed 
 I have raised a mausoleum of such acts 
 As in this world do honour unto me, 
 But in the next to thee. 
 
 Worn. Hear me, I cannot go ! 
 
 Di. It cannot be ; the court, the nation waits. 
 Is not the work, too, yours ? 
 
 Worn. I go, to die this night ! 
 
 DL I cannot help it. Duty lies here. Depart ! 
 
 Worn. Listen ; before I die, one word ! In old times 
 You called me Pleasure my name now is Guilt. 
 
 SCENE II. In Westminster Hall. 
 
 1st Barrister. They say the Lord Chief Justice is unwell ; 
 Did you observe how, after that decision 
 Which all the world admired so, suddenly 
 He became pale and looked in the air and staggered, 
 As if some phantom floated on his eyes ? 
 He is a strange man. 
 
 Bar. 2. He is unwell, there is no doubt of that, 
 But why or how is quite another question. 
 It is odd to find so stern and strong a man 
 Give way before he's sixty. Many a mind, 
 Apparently less vigorous than his, 
 Has kept its full judicial faculty, 
 And sat the woolsack past threescore and ten.
 
 138 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Bar. 3. No business to be done to-day. Have you heard 
 The Chief Justice is lying dangerously ill ? 
 Apoplexy, paralysis, Heaven knows what some seizure. 
 
 Bar. 1. Heavens ! that will be a loss indeed ! 
 
 Bar. 2. A loss 
 
 Which will be some one's gain, however. 
 
 Bar. 1. Not the nation's, 
 
 If this sage Chancellor give it to 
 
 But is he really sure to die, do you think ? 
 
 Bar. 3. A very sudden and very alarming attack. 
 And now you know to the full as much as I, 
 Or, as I fancy, any lawyer here. 
 
 Bar. 2. Do you know anything of his early life ? 
 
 Bar. 1. My father knew him at college : a reading man, 
 The quietest of the quiet, shy and timid. 
 And college honours past, 
 No one believed he ever would do anything. 
 
 Bar. 2. He was a moral sort of prig, I've heard, 
 Till he was twenty-five ; and even then 
 He never entered into life as most men. 
 That is the reason why he fails so soon. 
 It takes high feeding and a well-taught conscience 
 To breed your mighty hero of the law. 
 So much the Averse for him ; so much the better 
 For all expectants now. 
 
 Bar. 3. For , for one. 
 
 Bar. 2. Well, there'll be several changes, as I think. 
 Not that I think the shock of new promotion 
 Will vibrate quite perceptibly down here. 
 There was a story that I once was told, 
 Some woman that they used to tease him with. 
 
 Bar. 1. He grew too stern for teasing before long ; 
 A man with greater power of what I think 
 They call, in some new sense of the word, Repulsion, 
 I think 1 never saw in all my life. 
 
 Bar. 2. A most forbidding man in private life, 
 I've always heard. What's this new news '.' 
 
 Bar. 4. The Lord Chief Justice has resigned. 
 
 Bar. 1, 2, 3. Is it true ? 
 
 Really ? Quite certain ? 
 
 />'"/. 4. I'ublidy announced. 
 
 You're quite behind. INIost. probably ere this 
 The '/'inn-* has got it in u uc\v edition.
 
 DIPSYCHUS CONTINUED. 139 
 
 SCENE III. Dipsyclms in his own house, alone. 
 
 Di. She will come yet, I think, although she said 
 She would go hence and die ; I cannot tell. 
 Should I have made the nation's business wait, 
 That I might listen to an old sad tale 
 Uselessly iterated ? Ah ah me ! 
 I am grown weak indeed ; those old black thoughts 
 No more as servants at my bidding go, 
 But as stern tyrants look me in the face, 
 And mock my reason's inefficient hand 
 That sways to wave them hence. 
 
 Serv. You rung, my lord ? 
 
 Di. Come here, my friend. The woman, 
 
 A beggar-woman, whom six weeks ago, 
 As you remember, you admitted to me, 
 You may admit again if she returns. (Exit /Servant.) 
 
 Will she return ? or did she die ? I searched 
 Newspaper columns through to find a trace 
 Of some poor corpse discovered in the Thames, 
 Weltering in filth or stranded on the shoals. 
 
 ' You called me Pleasure once, I now am Guilt.' 
 
 Is that her voice ? 
 
 ' Once Pleasure, and now Guilt and after this 
 
 Guilt evermore.' I hear her voice again. 
 
 ' Once Guilt, but now ' I know not what it says ; 
 
 Some word in some strange language, that my ears 
 
 Have never heard, yet seem to long to know. 
 
 ' Once Pleasure and now Guilt, and after this ' 
 
 What does she say ? ....
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 DUTY that's to say, complying 
 
 With whate'er's expected here ; 
 On your unknown cousin's dying, 
 
 Straight be ready with the tear ; 
 Upon etiquette relying, 
 Unto usage nought denying, 
 Lend your waist to be embraced, 
 
 Blush not even, never fear ; 
 Claims of kith and kin connection, 
 
 Claims of manners honour still, 
 Heady money of affection 
 
 Pay, whoever drew the bill. 
 With the form conforming duly, 
 Senseless what it meaneth truly, 
 Go to church the world require you, 
 
 To balls the world require you too, 
 And marry papa and mamma desire you, 
 
 And your sisters and schoolfellows do. 
 ' Duty 'tis to take on trust 
 ^What things are good, and right, and just; 
 
 And whether indeed they be or be not, 
 
 Try not, test not, feel not, see not : 
 \ 'Tis walk and dance, sit down and rise 
 
 By leading, opening ne'er your eyes ; 
 Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave, 
 And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave. 
 'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing 
 
 As an obvious deadly sin, 
 141
 
 142 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 All the questing and the guessing 
 Of the soul's own soul within : 
 'Tis the coward acquiescence 
 
 In a destiny's behest, 
 To a shade by terror made, 
 Sacrificing, aye, the essence 
 
 Of all that's truest, noblest, best : 
 'Tis the blind non-recognition 
 
 Or of goodness, truth, or beauty, 
 Save by precept and submission ; 
 
 Moral blank, and moral void, 
 
 Life at very birth destroyed. 
 Atrophy, exinanition ! 
 Duty! 
 Yea, by duty's prime condition 
 
 Pure nonentity of duty ! 
 
 \VLIFE is STRUGGLE. \l 
 
 /To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain, 
 
 / And give oneself a world of pain ; 
 
 . Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot, 
 
 I Imperious, supple God knows what, 
 
 For what's all one to have or not ; 
 
 false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
 
 For 'tis not joy, it is not gain, 
 
 It is not in itself a bliss, 
 
 I Only it is precisely this 
 That keeps us all alive. 
 
 To say we truly feel the pain, 
 
 And quite are sinking with the strain; 
 
 Entirely, simply, undeceived, 
 
 Believe, and say we ne'er believed 
 
 The object, e'en were it achieved, 
 
 A thing we e'er had cared to keep ; 
 
 With heart and soul to hold it cheap, 
 
 And then to go and try it again ; 
 
 false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
 
 0, 'tis not joy, and 'tis not bliss, 
 
 Only it is precisely this 
 
 That keeps us still alive.
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 143 
 
 \V IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. \V 
 
 EACH for himself is still the rule ; 
 We learn it when we go to school 
 The devil take the hindmost, ! 
 
 And when the schoolboys grow to men, 
 In life they learn it o'er again 
 The devil take the hindmost, ! 
 
 For in the church, and at the bar, 
 On 'Change, at court, where'er they are, 
 The devil takes the hindmost, ! 
 
 Husband for husband, wife for wife, 
 Are careful that in married life 
 
 The devil takes the hindmost, ! 
 
 From youth to age, whate'er the game, 
 The unvarying practice is the same 
 The devil takes the hindmost, ! 
 
 And after death, we do not know, 
 But scarce can doubt, where'er we go, 
 The devil takes the hindmost, ! 
 
 Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro, 
 
 The devil take the hindmost, ! 
 
 'N 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
 
 144 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 E 
 
 \THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT. V\ 
 
 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, I 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. 
 
 bst 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 thon 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.
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 145 
 
 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 choras 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. 
 
 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
 
 146 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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. 
 
 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE! 
 
 HOPE evermore and believe, 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 wild sea's fury ing 
 waters
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 147 
 
 (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 will not forego), dare to resist and rebel ; 
 Still, when resisting and raging, in soft undervoice say 
 
 unto him, 
 Tear not, retire -not, man ; hope evermore and believe. 
 
 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 hoard- 
 ing, 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 accom- 
 plished, 
 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 has 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. 
 
 BLESSED AEE THEY THAT HAVE NOT SEEN ! 
 
 HAPPY they whose hearts receive 
 The implanted word with faith ; believe 
 Because their fathers did before,
 
 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Because they learnt, and ask no more. 
 High triumphs of convictions wrought, 
 And won by individual thought; 
 The joy, delusive oft, but keen, 
 Of having with our own eyes seen, 
 What if they have not felt nor known ? 
 An amplitude instead they own, 
 By no self-binding ordinance prest 
 To toil in labour they detest : 
 By no deceiving reasoning tied 
 Or this or that way to decide. 
 
 happy they ! above their head 
 
 The glory of the unseen is spread ; 
 
 Their happy heart is free to range 
 
 Thro' largest tracts of pleasant change ; 
 
 Their intellects encradled lie 
 
 In boundless possibility. 
 
 For impulses of varying kinds 
 
 The Ancient Home a lodging finds : 
 
 Each appetite our nature breeds, 
 
 It meets with viands for its needs. 
 
 happy they ! nor need they fear 
 The wordy strife that rages near : 
 All reason wastes by day, and more, 
 Will instinct in a night restore. 
 O happy, so their state but give 
 A clue by which a man can live ; 
 blest, unless 'tis proved by fact 
 A dream impossible to act. 
 
 COLD COMFORT. 
 
 SAY, will it, when our hairs are grey, 
 And wintry suns half light the day, 
 Which cheering hope and strengthening trust 
 Have left, departed, turned to dust, 
 Say, will it soothe lone years to extract 
 From fitful shows with sense exact
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 149 
 
 Their sad residuum, small, of fact ? 
 Will trembling nerves their solace find 
 In plain conclusions of the mind ? 
 Or errant fancies fond, that still 
 To fretful motions prompt the will, 
 Eepose upon effect and cause, 
 And action of unvarying laws, 
 And human life's familiar doom, 
 And on the all-concluding tomb ? 
 
 Or were it to our kind and race, 
 And our instructive selves, disgrace 
 To wander then once more in you, 
 Green fields, beneath the pleasant blue ; 
 To dream as we were used to dream, 
 And let things be whate'er they seem ? 
 
 feeble shapes of beggars grey 
 
 That, tottering on the public way, 
 
 Die out in doting, dim decay, 
 
 Is it to you when all is past 
 
 Our would-be wisdom turns at last ? 
 
 \\ SEHNSUCHT. \\ 
 
 WHENCE are ye, vague desires. 
 Which carry men along, 
 However proud and strong ; 
 Which, having ruled to-day, 
 To-morrow pass away ? 
 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ? 
 Whence are ye ? 
 
 Which women, yielding to, 
 Find still so good and true ; 
 So true, so good to-day, 
 To-morrow gone away ; 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ? 
 Whence are ye ? 
 
 Prom seats of bliss above, 
 Where angels sing of love ;
 
 150 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 From subtle airs around, 
 Or from the vulgar ground, 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ? 
 Whence are ye ? 
 
 A message from the blest, 
 Or bodily unrest ; 
 A call to heavenly good, 
 A fever in the blood : 
 What are ye, vague desires ? 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which men who know you best 
 Are proof against the least, 
 And rushing on to-day, 
 To-morrow cast away ; 
 What are ye, vague desires ? 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which women, ever new, 
 Still warned, surrender to ; 
 Adored with you to-day, 
 Then cast with you away ; 
 What are ye, vague desires ? 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which unto boyhood's heart 
 The force of man impart, 
 And pass, and leave it cold, 
 And prematurely old ; 
 What are ye, vague desires ? 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Which, tremblingly confest, 
 Pour in the young girl's breast 
 Joy, joy the like is none, 
 And leave her then undone 
 What are ye, vague desires ? 
 What are ye ? 
 
 Ah yet! though man be marred, 
 Ignoble made, and hard ;
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 151 
 
 Though broken women lie 
 In anguish down to die ; 
 Ah yet ! ye vague desires, 
 Ah yet! 
 
 By Him who gave you birth, 
 And blended you with earth, 
 Was some good end designed 
 For man and womankind ; 
 Ah yet ! ye vague desires, 
 Ah yet ! 
 
 The petals of to-day, 
 To-morrow fallen away, 
 Shall something leave instead, 
 To live when they are dead ; 
 When you, ye vague desires, 
 Have vanished ; 
 
 A something to survive, 
 
 Of you though it derive 
 
 Apparent earthly birth, 
 
 But of far other worth 
 
 Than you, ye vague desires, 
 
 Than you. 
 
 HIGH AND LOW. 
 
 THE grasses green of sweet content 
 That spring, no matter high or low, 
 Where'er a living thing can grow, 
 On chilly hills and rocky rent, 
 And by the lowly streamlet's side 
 Oh ! why did e'er I turn from these ? 
 The lordly, tall, umbrageous trees, 
 That stand in high aspiring pride, 
 With massive bulk on high sustain 
 A world of boughs with leaf and fruits, 
 And drive their wide-extending roots 
 Deep down into the subject plain. 
 Oh, what with these had I to do ?
 
 152 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 That germs of things above their kind 
 May live, pent up and close confined 
 In humbler forms, it may be true ; 
 Yet great is that which gives our lot ; 
 High laws and powers our will transcend, 
 And not for this, till time do end, 
 Shall any be what he is not. 
 Each in its place, as each was sent, 
 Just nature ranges side by side ; 
 Alike the oak tree's lofty pride 
 And grasses green of sweet content. 
 
 ALL IS WELL. 
 
 WHATE'EB you dream with doubt possest, 
 Keep, keep it snug within your breast, 
 And lay you down and take your rest ; 
 Forget in sleep the doubt and pain, 
 And when you wake, to work again. 
 The wind it blows, the vessel goes, 
 And where and whither, no one knows. 
 
 'Twill all be well : no need of care ; 
 Though how it. will, and when, and where, 
 We cannot see, and can't declare. 
 In spite of dreams, in spite of thought, 
 'Tis not in vain, and not for nought, 
 The wind it blows, the ship it goes, 
 Though where and whither, no one knows. 
 
 ov&cv 
 
 UPON the water, in the boat, 
 I sit and sketch as down I float : 
 The stream is wide, the view is fair, 
 I sketch it looking backward there. 
 
 The stream is strong, and as I sit 
 And view the picture that we quit, 
 It flows and flows, and bears the boat, 
 And I sit sketching as we float.
 
 POEMS ON LIFE AND DUTY. 153 
 
 Each pointed height, each wavy line, 
 To new and other forms combine ; 
 Proportions vary, colours fade, 
 And all the landscape is remade. 
 
 Depicted neither far nor near, 
 And larger there and smaller here, 
 And varying down from old to new, 
 E'en I can hardly think it true. 
 
 Yet still I look, and still I sit, 
 Adjusting, shaping, altering it; 
 And still the current bears the boat 
 And me, still sketching as I float. 
 
 Still as I sit, with something new 
 The foreground intercepts my view ; 
 Even the distant mountain range 
 From the first moment suffers change. 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 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.
 
 154 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 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, human heart of mine, 
 
 Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH : 
 
 A LONG-VACATION PASTORAL. 
 
 Nunc formosissimus anus 
 Ite mece felix quondam pecws, it e camence. 
 
 I. 
 
 Socii cratera coronant. 
 
 
 
 IT was the afternoon ; and the sports were now at the 
 
 ending. 
 Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and thrown the 
 
 hammer ; 
 
 JUp the perpendicular hill, Sir Hector so called it, 
 Eight stout gillies had run, with speed and agility won- 
 drous ; 
 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. 
 Be it recorded in song who was first, who last, in 
 
 dressing. 
 Hope was first, black-tied, white-waistcoated, simple, His 
 
 Honour ; 
 
 155
 
 156 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 bon- 
 net, and ever 
 
 Called him His Honour : His Honour he therefore was at 
 the cottage ; 
 
 Always His Honour at least, sometimes the Viscount of 
 
 Hay. 
 
 Hope was first, His Honour, and next to His Honour 
 the Tutor. 
 
 Still more plain the Tutor, the grave man, nicknamed 
 Adam, 
 
 White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square-cut waist- 
 coat 
 
 Formal, unchanged, of black cloth, but with sense and 
 feeling beneath it ; 
 
 Skilful in Ethics and Logic, in Pindar and Poets un- 
 rivalled ; 
 
 Shady in Latin, said Lindsay, but topping in Plays and 
 
 Aldrich. 
 
 Somewhat more splendid in dress, in a waistcoat work 
 of a lady, 
 
 Lindsay succeeded; the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving 
 Lindsay, 
 
 Lindsay the ready of speech, the Piper, the Dialectician, 
 
 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 Adafh, but mostly they called him 
 the Piper. 
 
 Lindsay succeeded, the lively, the cheery, cigar-loving 
 
 Lindsay. 
 
 Hewson and Hobbes were down at the matutine bath- 
 ing ; 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,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOL1CH. 157 
 
 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 ad- 
 justed, 
 
 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. 
 And in the fourwheel they drove to the place of the 
 
 clansmen's meeting. 
 
 So in the fourwheel they came ; and Donald the inn- 
 keeper 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 Wor- 
 ship, 
 
 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. 
 
 Hither anon too came the shrewd, ever ciphering Factor,
 
 158 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Hither anon the Attache, the Guardsman mute and stately, 
 Hither from lodge and bothie in all the adjoining shoot- 
 ings 
 
 Members of Parliament many, forgetful of votes and blue- 
 books, 
 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 : 
 V.enison, 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, 
 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, great Recollection ! for words to the task 
 
 were unequal, 
 Spare me, mistress of Song! nor bid me remember 
 
 minutely 
 All that was said and done o'er the well-mixed tempting 
 
 toddy ;
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 159 
 
 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-Thucydidean ; 
 Tell how, as sudden torrent in time of speat 1 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, 
 
 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 gatrulous tale of Sir 
 
 Hector. 
 
 Left to oblivion be it, the memory, faithful as ever, 
 How the Marquis of Ayr, with wonderful gesticulation, 
 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, 
 
 Up to them rose and spoke the grey but gladsome chief- 
 tain : 
 
 1 Flood.
 
 160 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 Hew- 
 
 son 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, 
 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 hum- 
 bug? 
 
 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 Hew- 
 son: 
 
 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.
 
 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 161 
 
 I am therefore perhaps the fittest to answer and thank 
 
 you. 
 
 So I thank you, sir, for myself and for my companions, 
 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 for- 
 gather. 
 
 And, surely, seldom have Scotch and English more thor- 
 oughly mingled; 
 
 Scarcely with warmer hearts, and clearer feeling of man- 
 hood, 
 
 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 encountered 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 Bannock burn 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 con- 
 clusion. 
 I have, however, less claim than others perhaps to this 
 
 honour, 
 
 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 concerned in 
 
 the thanking, 
 
 Were a trifle confused, but mostly sat down without 
 laughing ;
 
 162 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 coming 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 doorway 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, 
 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 matutine 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 mot nt hie bathed, and read, and waited for 
 
 breakfast :
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 163 
 
 Breakfast commencing at nine, lingered lazily on to 
 
 noonday. 
 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. 
 
 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 hearts- 
 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, 
 
 Saved for purposes truly and widely productive 
 
 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 Hewson, resuming ; 
 Laugh if you please at my novel economy ; listen to this, 
 
 though ; 
 As for myself, and apart from economy wholly, believe me,
 
 164 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 field in holidays now getting stupid, 
 One day sauntering 'long and listless,' as Tennyson 
 
 has it, 
 
 Long and listless strolling, ungainly in hobbadiboyhood, 
 Chanced it my eye fell aside on a capless, bonnetless 
 
 maiden, 
 Bending with three-pronged fork in a garden uprooting 
 
 potatoes. 
 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 hear- 
 ing them singing,
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 165 
 
 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), 
 
 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 in- 
 side 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 CTit and gathered, 
 etter a cowslip with root than a prize carnation with- 
 out 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 flecking his 
 flanks, the 
 
 Rein hanging loose to his neck, and head projecting 
 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 
 Serving him, toiling for him, and the world ; some 
 
 tenderest girl, not 
 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,
 
 166 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 himself 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 
 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, \ve should see them delighted, delighted ourselves 
 
 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 gracefulest act, one arm uplifted to stay it, 
 Home from the river or pump moving stately and calm 
 
 to the laundry ; 
 Ay, doing 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.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 167 
 
 Or, high-kilted perhaps, cried Lindsay, at last suc- 
 cessful, 
 
 Lindsay this long time swelling with scorn and pent-up 
 fury, 
 
 Or high-kilted perhaps, as once at Dundee I saw them, 
 
 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 em- 
 barrassed, 
 
 It was from them, I suppose, said Arthur, smiling se- 
 dately, 
 
 Lindsay learnt the tune we all have learnt from Lindsay, 
 
 For oil, he ivas a roguey, the Piper o' Dundee. 
 
 Laughter ensued again ; and the Tutor, recovering 
 slowly, 
 
 Said, Are not these perhaps as doubtful as other attrac- 
 tions ? 
 
 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, contemplative, 
 . corpulent, witty, 
 
 Author forgotten and silent of currentest phrases and 
 fancies, 
 
 Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals 
 playing, 
 
 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.
 
 168 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Beautiful ! cried lie up-leaping, analogy perfect to 
 
 madness ! 
 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 artisti- 
 
 cal handling, 
 
 And the removal of slops to be ornamentally treated. 
 Philip who speaks like a book, (retiring and pausijig 
 
 he added,) 
 Philip, here, who speaks like a folio say'st tliou, 
 
 Piper ? 
 Philip shall write us a book, a Treatise upon The 
 
 Laics 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 
 
 Hitherto hideous close, Modern-Florid, moderu-fine-lady ? 
 No, I will leave it to you, my Philip, niy Pugin of 
 
 women.
 
 THE BOTIIIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 169 
 
 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 attrac- 
 tive, 
 
 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 6galite, French manu- 
 facture, 
 
 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, fl not one woman as good as another ? 
 
 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 enjoy- 
 ment, 
 
 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,
 
 170 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 carnations ; 
 
 Were the carnation wise, in gay parterre by greenhouse, 
 
 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 car- 
 nation ? 
 
 Would not the daisy itself petition its scrupulous neigh- 
 bour? 
 
 Up, grow, bloom, and forget me; be beautiful even : 
 proudness, 
 
 E'en for the sake of myself and other poor daisies like 
 me. 
 
 Education and manners, accompli^hiiijuts and^refin- 
 ments, 
 
 Waltz, peradventure, and polka, the kiMwledge of music 
 and drawing, 
 
 All these things are Nature's, to Nature dear and pre- 
 cious, 
 
 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, bw not disre- 
 garding ; 
 
 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, 
 
 Eying her gold-fastened book and the watcli and chain 
 ut her bosom,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 171 
 
 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 
 
 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 iny 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 J^s^Bread ; four weeks will we 
 read hereafter; 
 
 Three --weeks hence will return and think of classes and 
 classics. f . 
 
 Fare ye well,- meantime, forgotten, unnamed, undreamt 
 of, 
 
 History^ Science, and Poets! lo, deep in dustiest cup- 
 board, 
 
 Thookydid, Oloros' son, Halimoosian, here lieth buried ! 
 
 Slumber in Liddell-and-Scott, musical chaff of old 
 Athens, 
 
 Dishes, and fishes, bird, beast, and sesquipedalian black- 
 guard I 
 
 Sleep, weary ghosts, be at peace and abide in your lexi- 
 con-limbqBfc 
 
 Sleep, as in lava for ages your Herculanean kindred, 
 
 Sleep, for aught that I care, 'the sleep that knows no 
 waking,' 
 
 .ZEschylus, 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
 
 172 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 (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, nicknamed 
 Adam, 
 
 Who are they that go, and when do they promise return- 
 ing? 
 
 And a silence ensued, and the Tutor himself con- 
 tinued, 
 
 Airlie remains, I presume, he continued, and Hobbes 
 
 and Hewson. 
 
 Answer was made him by Philip, the poet, the elo- 
 quent 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,^Rd 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 prescribed 
 us; 
 
 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^imt not in fine 
 weather. 
 
 Three weeks hence, with the rain, to Prudence, Tem- 
 perance, 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, nicknamed 
 Adam,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TODER-NA-VUOL1CH. 173 
 
 Where do you mean to go, and whom do you mean to visit ? 
 And he was answered by Hope, the Viscount, His Hon- 
 our, of Hay. 
 
 Kitcat, a Trinity coach, has a party at Drumnadrochet, 
 
 Up on the side of Loch Ness, in the beautiful valley of 
 Urquhart ; 
 
 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 earli- 
 est 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 scor^iangs-out at Inverary. 
 
 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 hope- 
 less, 
 
 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- 
 callrit. 
 
 m. 
 
 Namque canebat uti 
 
 So in the golden morning they parted and went to the 
 
 westward. 
 And in the cottage with Airlie and Hobbes remained the 
 
 Tutor ; 
 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),
 
 174 -CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 at 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 perspira- 
 tion, 
 On the high peaks, unwitting, the hares and ptarmigan 
 
 starting. 
 And the three weeks past,^ie 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 
 
 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, en- 
 veloped 
 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.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 175 
 
 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 
 
 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 uprising 
 
 Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the 
 stillness, 
 
 Cliff over cliff for its side^with rowan and pendent birch 
 boughs, 
 
 Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and path- 
 way, 
 
 Still more enclosed from below by wood and rocky pro- 
 jection. 
 
 You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection 
 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 spark- 
 lings, 
 
 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 unaccom- 
 plished), 
 
 Leaving the well-known bridge and pathway above to the 
 forest, 
 
 Turning below from the track of the carts over stone and 
 shingle, 
 
 Piercing a wood, and skirting a narrow and natural 
 causeway 
 
 Under the rocky wall that hedges the bed of the streamlet,
 
 176 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 pro- 
 tending ; 
 There in the sparkling champagne, ecstatic, they shrieked 
 
 and shouted. 
 
 ' Hobbes's gutter ' the Piper entitles the spot, profanely, 
 Hope ' the Glory ' would have.af ter 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, 
 
 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, 
 Bounded 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 cigarless, 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, 
 Eying one moment the beauty, the life, ere he flung 
 
 himself in it, 
 Eying through eddying green waters the green-tinted 
 
 floor underneath them,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 177 
 
 Eying 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-com- 
 peller. 
 Yes, they were come ; were restored to the party, its 
 
 grace and its gladness, 
 Yes, were here, as of old; the light-giving orb of the 
 
 household, 
 Arthur, the shapely, the tranquil, the strength-and-con- 
 
 tentment diffusing, 
 In the pure presence of w^iom 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 wel- 
 come 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.
 
 178 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Hope with the uncle, and Hewson Why, Hewson we 
 left in llannoch, 
 
 By 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 re- 
 joinder. 
 
 Can he have come by the mail, and have got to the cot- 
 tage 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 Cul- 
 loden, 
 
 Seen Loch Awe, Loch Tay, Loch Fyne, Loch Ness, Loch 
 Arkaig, 
 
 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 wit- 
 nessed, 
 
 Left not a thing to be done, and had not a copper re- 
 maining. 
 
 For it was told withal, he telling, and he correcting, 
 1 Reap.
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 179 
 
 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 inter- 
 mingle 
 
 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 
 Made the watcher believe they were guests from Achna- 
 
 carry. 
 
 And there was told moreover, he telling, the other cor- 
 recting, 
 
 Often by word, more often by mute significant motion, 
 Much of the Cambridge coach and his pupils at Inverary, 
 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 Drum- 
 
 nadrochet, 
 Mainwaring, Foley, and Fraser, 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. 
 And it was told, the Piper narrating and Arthur cor- 
 recting,
 
 180 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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, dwarf- 
 ing, 
 
 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 conies, 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 unbroken, 
 How to the element offering their bodies, downshooting 
 
 the fall, they 
 
 Mingled themselves with the flood and the force of im- 
 perious water. 
 
 And it was told too, Arthur narrating, the Piper cor- 
 recting, 
 
 How, as one comes to the level, the weight of the down- 
 ward impulse 
 Carries the head under water, delightful, unspeakable ; 
 
 how the 
 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 morning at 
 
 sunrise, 
 Came, in default of the ferryman, out of her bed a brave 
 
 lassie ; 
 
 And as Philip and she together were turning ttie 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 :
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 181 
 
 How at the General's hut, the Inn by the Foyers Fall, 
 
 where 
 Over the loch looks at you the summit of Mealfour- 
 
 vdnie, 
 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 
 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 /S7a?i-something, Slan leat, 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 observed to 
 
 be smitten, 
 Smitten by golden-haired Katie, the youngest and come- 
 
 liest daughter ; 
 Was he not seen, even Arthur observed it, from breakfast 
 
 to bedtime, 
 
 Following her motions with eyes ever brightening, soft- 
 ening 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 
 Go through the rain to fetch peat, through beating rain 
 
 to the peat-stack ?
 
 182 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 pro- 
 posed 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 did not, nor left; do needles leave the loadstone ? 
 Nay, they had turned after starting, and looked through 
 
 the trees at the corner, 
 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 intona- 
 tion, 
 
 1 Reaping.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 183 
 
 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 
 
 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 uprooting 
 
 potatoes ? 
 
 Is not Katie as Eachel, 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 woo- 
 ing, 
 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 !
 
 184 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, ut 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, 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, 
 
 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,
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 185 
 
 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 unknown 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 wander- 
 ing hero ? 
 Here, in Badenoch, here, in Lochaber anon, in Lochiel, 
 
 in 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardna- 
 
 murchan, 
 
 Here I see him and here : I see him ; anon I lose him ! 
 Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain 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. 
 Wherefore, as cloud of Ben-more or hawk over-ranging 
 
 the mountains, 
 Wherefore in Badeuoch drear, in lofty Lochaber, Lochiel, 
 
 and 
 Knoydart, 'Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardna- 
 
 murchan, 
 Wandereth he who should either with Adam be studying 
 
 logic, 
 Or by the lochside of Eannoch 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 coineliest 
 
 daughter, 
 Bent, unregardful of spies, at her feet, spreading clothes 
 
 from her wash-tub? 
 Can it be with him through Badenoch, Morrer, and Ard- 
 
 namurchan ; 
 Can it be Avith him he beareth the golden-haired lassie of 
 
 Raimoch ?
 
 18G CLOUGIPS POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 im- 
 pulsions, 
 
 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 ! 
 Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could ge and 
 
 uphold her ! 
 Surely, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain 
 
 lamenting,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 187 
 
 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 andvileness. 
 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 protec- 
 tion 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 
 Kise, 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
 
 188 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 i 
 
 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 pre- 
 
 cognisant Piper, 
 Who, for the love of gay Janet, and mindful of old 
 
 invitation, 
 Patting 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-swell- 
 ing sluices, 
 So with the music possessing him, swaying him, goeth 
 
 he, look you, 
 Swinging and flinging, and stamping and tramping, and 
 
 grasping and clasping 
 
 Whom but gay Janet ? Him rivalling, Hobbes, brief- 
 est-kilted of heroes, 
 Enters, stoutest, 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,
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 189 
 
 Seems in her maidenly freedom to need small console- 
 
 ment of waistcoats ! 
 Wherefore in Badenoch then, far-away, in Lochaber, 
 
 Lochiel, in 
 Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, or Ardnamur- 
 
 chan, 
 Wanders o'er mountain and moorland, in shieling or 
 
 bothie is sleeping, 
 He who, and why should he not then ? capricious ? 
 
 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 stooks, 1 which she laid by her 
 
 sickle to straighten, 
 How at the dance he had broken through shyness; for 
 
 four days after 
 
 Lived on her eyes, unspeaking what lacked not articu- 
 late speaking; 
 Felt too that she too was feeling what he did. How- 
 
 beit they parted ! 
 
 1 Shocks.
 
 190 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. How- 
 be it 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, 
 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 crea- 
 tures ; 
 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.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 191 
 
 Only, three hoiirs 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 de- 
 sertion ; 
 What she thinks about it, God knows! poor child; may 
 
 she only 
 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 dis- 
 solute 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 un- 
 easily 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; 
 No, but the vision is on me; I now first see how it 
 
 happens,
 
 192 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 There are exceptional beings, one finds them distant 
 
 and rarely, 
 
 Who, endowed with the vision alike and the interpre- 
 tation, 
 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 generations, 
 In a thought or a wish a life, a drama, an epos. 
 There are inheritors, is it ? by mystical generation 
 Heiring the wisdom and ripeness of spirits gone by; 
 
 without labour
 
 THE BOTH1E OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 193 
 
 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, un- 
 faltering, 
 
 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, 
 
 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 with- 
 holding ; 
 
 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 repro- 
 ducing. 
 
 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 mis- 
 doing,
 
 194 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Even to force and misdoing with joy and victorious 
 feeling 
 
 Patient, passive, receptive; for that is the strength of 
 their being, 
 
 Like to the earth taking all things, and all to good con- 
 verting. 
 
 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 conform 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 disregard- 
 ing. 
 
 So was the letter completed: a postscript afterward 
 added, 
 
 Telling the tale that was told by the dancers returning 
 from Kannoch. 
 
 So was the letter completed : but query, whither to send 
 it? 
 
 Not for the will of the wisp, the cloud,. and the hawk of 
 the moorland, 
 
 Ranging afar thro' Lochaber, Lochiel, and Knoydart, and 
 Moydart, 
 
 Have even latest extensions adjusted a postal arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 Query resolved very shortly, when Hope, from his clum- 
 ber descending,
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 195 
 
 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 strange! marvel, marvel of 
 marvels ! 
 
 Airlie, the Waistcoat, with Katie, we left him this morn- 
 ing at Rannoch : 
 
 Airlie with Katie, he said, and Philip with Lady Maria. 
 And amid laughter Adam paced up and down, repeat- 
 ing 
 
 Over and over, unconscious, the phrase which Hope had 
 lent him, 
 
 Dancing at Balloch, you say, in the Castle, with Lady 
 Maria. 
 
 v. 
 
 Putavi 
 
 Stultus ego huic nostrce similem. 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five together 
 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 day- 
 light, 
 
 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 gem- 
 ming, 
 
 Frequent and thick lay at morning the chilly beads of 
 hoar-frost,
 
 196 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Duly in matutine still, and daily, whatever the weather, 
 Bathed in the rain and the frost and the mist with the 
 
 Glory of headers 
 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 displaying, 
 All from the shirt to the slipper the natural man reveal- 
 ing. 
 
 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; themselves 
 
 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, 
 Far up the long, long glen to the loch, and the loch be- 
 yond 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 High- 
 land ; 
 
 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 :it 15: il loch to Adam. 
 I am here, my friend! idle, but learning wisdom.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 197 
 
 Doing penance, yon 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, convic- 
 tions, 
 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, 
 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 en- 
 counter 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, dis- 
 cern not,
 
 198 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Dig in thy deep dark prison, miner! and finding be 
 thankful ; 
 
 Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in perfec- 
 tion, 
 
 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, 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 stye the pearls that should 
 gleam in your foreheads. 
 
 Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proud- 
 ness, 
 
 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 enjoy- 
 ment; 
 
 Not for enjoyment truly; for Beauty and God's great 
 
 glory ! 
 
 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 gain- 
 say 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,
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 199 
 
 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 Ca- 
 thedrals, 
 
 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, 
 
 Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and em- 
 bellish. 
 
 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 shepherd 
 travestie, 
 
 (How are the mighty fallen ! ) with gun, with pipe no 
 longer, 
 
 Teachest the woods to re-echo thy game-killing recanta- 
 tions, 
 
 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,
 
 200 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 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, 
 Bead, and bathed, and roamed, and thought not now of 
 
 Philip, 
 All in the joy of their life, and glory of shooting-jackets. 
 
 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 ;
 
 THE EOT HIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 201 
 
 Cottages here and there outstanding bare on the moun- 
 tain, 
 
 Peat-roofed, windowless, white ; the road underneath 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. 
 
 And of the older twain, the elder was telling the 
 younger, 
 
 How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised pota- 
 toes, 
 
 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, school- 
 master, 
 
 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 conversing. 
 This was the letter that came when Adam was leaving 
 the cottage.
 
 202 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 If you can manage to see me before going off to Dart- 
 moor, 
 
 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 writ- 
 ten: 
 
 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 .1 saw and spoke with David Mackaye, our acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 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 the 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 ? 
 
 Who would have guessed that here would be she whose 
 glance at Rannoch 
 
 Turned me in that mysterious way; yes, angels con- 
 spiring, 
 
 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 cau- 
 tious : 
 
 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 
 
 \\ 'liy I delay my letter is more than I can tell you. 
 1 Public-house in the hamlet.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 203 
 
 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 
 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 onlyto 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 : 
 Yes, it is that which I said, the Good and not the At- 
 tractive ! 
 
 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.
 
 204 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 in- 
 tended, 
 
 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 admt, jitrp-ne*, conznrgite : Vesper Olympo 
 Expectata diu vix tandem lumina tollit. 
 
 FOB she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw 
 not her blushes,
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 205 
 
 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. 
 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 unde- 
 
 serted, 
 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, 
 Eaised 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 Eannoch, 
 Dancing myself too with you, while Katie danced with 
 
 Donald ;
 
 206 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 jxist 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 revela- 
 tion, 
 
 Showed me where I was, and whitherward going; re- 
 called me, 
 Sent me, not to my books, but to wrestlings of thought 
 
 in the mountains. 
 Yes, I have carried your glance within me undimrned, 
 
 unaltered, 
 
 Asa lost boat the compass some passing ship has lent her, 
 Many a weary mile on road, and hill, and moorland : 
 And you suppose that I do not remember, I had not 
 
 observed it ! 
 did the sailor bewildered observe when they told him 
 
 his bearings ? 
 0, did he cast overboard, when they parted, the compass 
 
 they gave him ? 
 And he continued more firmly, although with stronger 
 
 emotion :
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 207 
 
 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 0, could you believe it, 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, 
 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 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 under- 
 stand 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 without 
 
 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 sometimes 
 
 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 arch- 
 way,
 
 208 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Joined into mine with a strange happy sense of com- 
 pleteness. But, dear me, 
 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 re- 
 newing. 
 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. 
 
 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 }
 
 THE BOT1IIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 209 
 
 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 ! 
 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 inind 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
 
 210 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 back- 
 ward, 
 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 dis- 
 order. 
 
 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 ; 
 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. 
 Hut a revulsion passed through the brain and bosom of 
 
 Klspic;
 
 THE BOTH IE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 211 
 
 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 ; 
 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 moun- 
 tains, 
 
 Stirring, collecting, rising, upheaving, forth-outflowing, 
 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 emo- 
 tion,
 
 212 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the hair on 
 
 his forehead : 
 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, 
 Lent by the knowledge of self, and wisely instructed 
 
 feeling, 
 
 When she thought of these, and these contemplated daily, 
 Daily appreciating more, and more exactly appraising, 
 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 sta- 
 tion, 
 
 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 !)
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 213 
 
 It would do neither for him nor for her ; she also was 
 something, 
 
 Not much indeed, it was true, yet not to be lightly extin- 
 guished. 
 
 Should he lie, she said, have a wife beneath him ? her- 
 self 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 
 
 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 seeming cer- 
 tain 
 
 Might so soon be reversed ; in her quest and obscure ex- 
 ploring 
 
 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 needfully 
 speaking, 
 
 Quietly, indirectly, in general terms, of Philip, 
 
 Gravely, but indirectly, not as incognisant wholly, 
 
 But as suspending until she should seek it, direct inti- 
 mation ; 
 
 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, 
 
 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 ;
 
 214 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 Elpsie 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 ; 
 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. 
 
 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,
 
 nor HIE OF TOBEH-NA-VUOLICH. 215 
 
 Worse, I fear, as lie knows me an idle and vagabond 
 
 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 re- 
 
 viving. 
 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, 
 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
 
 216 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Scornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and 
 
 trembling, 
 
 Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing 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. 
 let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will 
 
 support us, 
 
 Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat under- 
 neath 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 ? 
 
 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 beforehand : 
 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, we 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 sweet- 
 heart, 
 
 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 read them 
 
 to you.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 217 
 
 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. 
 
 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 withoiit 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. 
 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
 
 218 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 
 
 David. 
 
 Not unwarned the father, nor had been unperceiving : 
 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, 
 
 And the natural tune of his heart without misgiving 
 Went to the noble words of that grand song of the Low- 
 lands, 
 
 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.
 
 THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 219 
 
 IX. 
 
 Arva, beata Petamus arva I 
 
 So on the morrow's morrow, with Term-time dread re- 
 turning, 
 
 Philip returned to his books, and read, and remained at 
 Oxford, 
 
 All the Christinas and Easter remained and read at Ox- 
 ford. 
 
 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 con- 
 jecture, 
 
 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 conjectiire 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, beggar, behold, I will 
 feed you. 
 
 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
 
 220 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 ? 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 ? 
 
 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 begin- 
 ning, 
 
 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, impetuous 
 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 be- 
 gins 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 dark- 
 ness, 
 
 Here in the mele'e of men, Ionian and Dorian on both 
 sides,
 
 THE EOT HIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 221 
 
 Signal and password known ; which is friend and which 
 
 is foe man ? 
 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, notwithstanding my 
 
 Elspie, 
 O that the armies indeed were arrayed! 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, 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 con- 
 clusion, 
 
 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, 
 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 addressed 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-sur- 
 face 
 
 Eddies, coils, and whirls ; by dangerous Corry vreckan : 
 So in my soul of souls, through its cells and secret recesses,
 
 222 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 sig- 
 nal, 
 
 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 
 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 sweetness 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 
 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 !
 
 THE BOTH1E OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 223 
 
 Philip returned to his books, but returned to his High- 
 lands 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 Gleiimorisoii ; 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 treatment; 
 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 land- 
 lords, 
 Hailing, 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,
 
 224 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 
 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, Muse, or ^Etna, or even Ben-nevis ?) 
 
 Be it recounted in song, Muse of the Epos and Idyll, 
 
 Who gave what at the wedding, the gifts and fair gratu- 
 
 lations. 
 
 Adam, the grave careful Adarn, 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, Muse, sent withal by the cor- 
 pulent hero ? 
 
 This is the letter of Hobbes, the kilted and corpulent hero. 
 So the last speech and confession is made, O my elo- 
 quent speaker! 
 
 So the good time is coming, or come is it ? my Chartist ! 
 
 So the cathedral is finished at last, O my Pugin of women ; 
 
 Finished, and now, is it true V to be taken out whole to 
 New Zealand! 
 
 Well, go forth to thy field, to thy barley, with Euth, 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 bedstead ! 
 
 Yea, to the full golden fifty renewed be ! and fair memo- 
 randa 
 
 Happily fill the fly-leaves duly left in the Family Bible.
 
 THE BOTUIK OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 225 
 
 Live, and when Hobbes is forgotten, niayst thou, au un- 
 
 roasted 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 post- 
 script ; 
 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, 
 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 ;
 
 226 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 So, many days shall thy Rachel have joy, and survive her 
 
 sister ; 
 Yea, and her children Which things are an allego f ry, 
 
 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.
 
 IDYLLIC SKETCHES. 
 
 ITE DOMUM SATURN, VENIT HESPEBUS. 
 
 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 ? 
 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), 
 227
 
 228 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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?
 
 IDYLLIC SKETCHES. 229 
 
 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, &c. 
 
 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, &c. 
 
 * 
 
 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, &c. 
 
 odours of new-budding rose, 
 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.
 
 230 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 NATURA NATURANS. 1 
 
 BESIDE me, in the car, she sat, 
 
 She spake not, no, nor looked to me : 
 From her to me, from me to her, 
 
 What passed so subtly, stealthily ? 
 As rose to rose that by it blows 
 
 Its interchanged aroma flings ; 
 Or wake to sound of one sweet note 
 
 The virtues of disparted strings. 
 
 Beside me, nought but this ! but this, 
 
 That influent as within me dwelt 
 Her life, mine too within her breast, 
 
 Her brain, her every limb she felt : 
 " We sat ; while o'er and in us, more 
 
 And more, a power unknown prevailed, 
 Inhaling, and inhaled, and still 
 
 'Twas one, inhaling or inhaled. 
 
 Beside me, nought but this ; and passed ; 
 
 I passed ; and know not to this day 
 If gold or jet her girlish hair, 
 
 If black, or brown, or lucid-grey 
 Her eye's young glance : the fickle chance 
 
 That joined us, yet may join again ; 
 But I no face again could greet 
 
 As hers, whose life was in me then. 
 
 As unsuspecting mere a maid 
 
 As, fresh in maidhood's bloomiest bloom, 
 In casual second-class did e'er 
 
 By casual youth her seat assume ; 
 
 1 This poem is reprinted from the volume called Ambarvalia.
 
 IDYLLIC SKETCHES. 231 
 
 Or vestal, say, of saintliest clay, 
 
 For once by balmiest airs betrayed 
 Unto emotions too, too sweet 
 
 To be unlingeringly gainsaid : 
 
 Unowning then, confusing soon 
 
 With dreamier dreams that o'er the glass 
 Of shyly ripening woman-sense 
 
 Reflected, scarce reflected, pass, 
 A wife maybe, a mother she 
 
 In Hymen's shrine recalls not now, 
 She first in hour, ah, not profane, 
 
 With me to Hymen learnt to bow. 
 
 Ah no ! Yet owned we, fused in one, 
 
 The Power which e'en in stones and earths 
 By blind elections felt, in forms 
 
 Organic breeds to myriad births ; 
 By lichen small on granite wall 
 
 Approved, its faintest feeblest stir 
 Slow-spreading, strengthening long, at last 
 
 Vibrated full in me and her. 
 
 In me and her sensation strange ! 
 
 The lily grew to pendent head, 
 To vernal airs the mossy bank 
 
 Its sheeny primrose spangles spread, 
 In roof o'er roof of shade sun-proof 
 
 Did cedar strong itself outclimb, 
 And altitude of aloe proud 
 
 Aspire in floreal crown sublime ; 
 
 Flashed flickering forth fantastic flies, 
 
 Big bees their burly bodies swung, 
 Hooks roused with civic din the elms, 
 
 And lark its wild reveillez rung ; 
 In Libyan dell the light gazelle, 
 
 The leopard lithe in Indian glade, 
 And dolphin, brightening tropic seas, 
 
 In us were living, leapt and played : 
 
 Their shells did slow Crustacea build, 
 Their gilded skins did snakes renew.
 
 232 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 While mightier spines for loftier kind 
 Their types in amplest limbs outgrew ; 
 
 Yea, close comprest in human breast, 
 What moss, and tree, and livelier thing, 
 
 What Earth, Sun, Star of force possest, 
 Lay budding, burgeoning forth for Spring. 
 
 Such sweet preluding sense of old 
 
 Led on in Eden's sinless place 
 The hour when bodies human first 
 
 Combined the primal prime embrace, 
 Such genial heat the blissful seat 
 
 In man and woman owned unblamed, 
 When, naked both, its garden paths 
 
 They walked unconscious, unashamed : 
 
 Ere, clouded yet in mistiest dawn, 
 
 Above the horizon dusk and dun, 
 One mountain crest with light had tipped 
 
 That orb that is the Spirit's Sun ; 
 Ere dreamed young flowers in vernal showers 
 
 Of fruit to rise the flower above, 
 Or ever yet to young Desire 
 
 Was told the mystic name of Love.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 
 
 Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, 
 And taste with a distempered appetite ! 
 
 SHAKSFEAUE. 
 
 II doutait de tout, meme de Vamour. 
 
 FRENCH NOVEL. 
 
 Solvitur ambulando. 
 
 SOLUTIO SOPHISM A TUM. 
 
 Flevit amores 
 Non elaboratum adpedem. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 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, 
 
 WJiere every breath even now changes to ether divine. 
 Come, let us go; though ivithal a voice whisper, ' The 
 
 world that we live in, 
 
 WJiithersoever 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. 
 
 233
 
 234 CLOUGirS POEMS. 
 
 I. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 DEAR EUSTATIO, I write that you may write me an answer, 
 Or at the least to put us again en rapport with each other. 
 Borne disappoints me much, St. Peter's, perhaps, in 
 
 especial ; 
 Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please 
 
 me: 
 This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is 
 
 horrid. 
 Greece must be better, surely ; and yet I am feeling so 
 
 spiteful, 
 That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and 
 
 Mount Sinai, 
 
 Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also. 
 Rome disappoints me much; I hardly as yet under- 
 stand, 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 one is, or thinks that others suppose one ; 
 Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English. 
 Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you 
 
 knew him, 
 Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of 
 
 Trevellyn. 
 
 II. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 ROME disappoints me still ; but I shrink and adapt my- 
 self to it.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 235 
 
 r- 
 
 Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppres- 
 sion 
 
 Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me 
 
 Peel like a tree (shall I say ?) buried under a ruin of 
 brickwork. 
 
 Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte 
 Testaceo, 
 
 Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine- 
 pots. 
 
 Ye gods ! what do I want with this rubbish of ages 
 departed, 
 
 Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has 
 failed in ? 
 
 What do I find in the Forum ? An archway and two or 
 three pillars. 
 
 Well, but St. Peter's ? Alas, Bernini has filled it with 
 sculpture ! 
 
 No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great 
 Coliseum. 
 
 Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive 
 amusement, 
 
 This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea? 
 
 Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant : 
 
 ' Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee ! ' their 
 Emperor vaunted ; 
 
 ' Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee ! ' the 
 Tourist may answer. 
 
 III. GEORGINA TBEVELLTN TO LOUISA 
 
 AT last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address 
 
 you. 
 
 Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes, 
 Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and 
 
 Susan : 
 Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with 
 
 St. Peter's, 
 And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di 
 
 Spagna. 
 Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you 
 
 about it ; 
 
 Not very gay, however; the English are mostly at Naples ; 
 There are the A.'s, we hear, and most of the W. party.
 
 236 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 
 George, however, is come ; did I tell you about his 
 
 mustachios ? 
 Dear, I must really stop, for the carriage, they tell me, is 
 
 waiting ; 
 Mary will finish ; and Susan is writing, they say, to 
 
 Sophia. 
 
 Adieu, dearest Louise, evermore your faithful Georgina. 
 Who can a Mr. Claude be whom George has taken to be 
 
 with? 
 Very stupid, I think, but George says so very clever. 
 
 IV. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 No, the Christian faith, as at any rate I understood it, 
 With its humiliations and exaltations combining, 
 Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements, 
 Aspirations from something most shameful here upon 
 
 earth and 
 In our poor selves to something most perfect above in the 
 
 heavens, 
 
 No, the Christian faith, as I, at least, understood it, 
 Is not here, Rome, in any of these thy churches ; 
 Is not here, but in Freiburg, or Rheims, or Westminster 
 
 Abbey. 
 
 What in thy Dome I find, in all thy recenter efforts, 
 Is a something, I think, more rational far, more earthly, 
 Actual, less ideal, devout not in scorn and refusal, 
 But in a positive, calm, Stoic-Epicurean acceptance. 
 This I begin to detect in St. Peter's and some of the 
 
 churches, 
 
 Mostly in all that I see of the sixteenth-century masters ; 
 Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws, 
 Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of child- 
 hood, 
 
 Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing need- 
 ful, 
 
 By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard. 
 
 Curious work, meantime, re-entering society : how we 
 
 Walk a livelong day, great Heaven, and watch our 
 
 shadows ! 
 
 What our shadows seem, forsooth, we will ourselves be. 
 Do I look like that ? you think me that : then I am that.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 237 
 
 V. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 LUTHER, they say, was unwise ; like a half-taught Ger- 
 man, he could not 
 
 See that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of 
 remembrance ; 
 
 Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses; 
 
 Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, 
 the Poets, 
 
 Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clear- 
 ing away the 
 
 Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas 
 Aquinas : 
 
 He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wit- 
 tenberg lungs, and 
 
 Bring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon 
 Europe : 
 
 Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it 
 fell; the 
 
 Waters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and 
 fifty ; 
 
 Are they abating at last ? the doves that are sent to ex- 
 plore are 
 
 Wearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of 
 promise, 
 
 Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost 
 vessel, 
 
 Fain to re-enter the roof which covers the clean and the 
 unclean, 
 
 Luther, they say, was unwise ; he didn't see how things 
 were going ; 
 
 Luther was foolish, but, great God! what call you 
 Ignatius ? 
 
 my tolerant soul, be still ! but you talk of barbarians, 
 
 Alaric, Attila, Genseric ; why, they came, they killed, 
 they 
 
 Ravaged, and went on their way ; but these vile, tyran- 
 nous Spaniards, 
 
 These are here still, how long, ye heavens, in the 
 country of Dante ? 
 
 These, that fanaticised Europe, which now can forget 
 them, release not
 
 238 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 This, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see 
 them, 
 
 Here, with emasculate pupils and girncrack churches of 
 Gesu, 
 
 Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and pos- 
 tures, 
 
 Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions, 
 
 Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, de- 
 basing, 
 
 Michael Angelo's Dome, that had hung the Pantheon in 
 heaven, 
 
 Raphael's Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo ! 
 
 VI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 WHICH of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall 
 marry 
 
 Is not a thing to be known; for our friend is one of 
 those natures 
 
 Which have their perfect delight in the general tender- 
 domestic ; 
 
 So that he trifles with Mary's shawl, ties Susan's bonnet, 
 
 Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with 
 Georgina, 
 
 Who is, however, too silly in my apprehension for Vernon. 
 
 I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little ; 
 
 Not that I like them much or care a bajocco for Vernon, 
 
 But I am slow at Italian, have not many English ac- 
 quaintance, 
 
 And I am asked, in short, and am not good at excuses. 
 
 Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not wholly 
 
 Pure of the taint of the shop ; will at table d'hote and 
 restaurant 
 
 Have their shilling's worth, their penny's pennyworth 
 even: 
 
 Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth ! 
 
 Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to know, 
 well connected ; 
 
 Doubtless somewhere in some neighbourhood have, and 
 are careful to keep, some 
 
 Threadbare-genteel relations, who in their turn are en- 
 chanted 
 
 Grandly among county people to introduce at assemblies
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 239 
 
 To the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent 
 
 fortunes. 
 Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth ! 
 
 VII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 AH, what a shame, indeed, to abuse these most worthy 
 
 people ! 
 Ah, what a sin to have sneered at their innocent rustic 
 
 pretensions ! 
 
 Is it not laudable really, this reverent worship of station ? 
 Is it not fitting that wealth should tender this homage to 
 
 culture ? 
 
 Is it not touching to witness these efforts, if little availing, 
 Painfully made, to perform the old ritual service of 
 
 manners ? 
 Shall not devotion atone for the absence of knowledge ? 
 
 and fervour 
 
 Palliate, cover, the fault of a superstitious observance ? 
 Dear, dear, what do I say ? but, alas ! just now, like lago, 
 I can be nothing at all, if it is not critical wholly ; 
 So in fantastic height, in coxcomb exultation, 
 Here in the garden I walk, can freely concede to the 
 
 Maker 
 That the works of His hand are all very good : His 
 
 creatures, 
 Beast of the field and fowl, He brings them before me ; 
 
 I name them ; 
 That which I name them, they are, the bird, the beast, 
 
 and the cattle. 
 
 But for Adam, alas, poor critical coxcomb Adam ! 
 But for Adam there is not found an help-meet for him. 
 
 VIII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 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 ;
 
 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 
 
 IX. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 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 sweet- 
 ness, 
 Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies strange 
 
 overwhelming, 
 All the long-silent strings of an awkward, meaningless 
 
 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, 
 
 1 Hie avidus stetit 
 Vulcanus, hie inatrona Juno, et 
 
 .\ HIM] u;i in humeris nositurus arcum ; 
 Qui rore nuro Castalijc lavit 
 Crincs soliitus. i|iii I.yi'i;i' tenet 
 Dumeta nataleiiNjiie silvam, 
 Delias et Patareus Apollo.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 241 
 
 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, 
 No sort of proper provision is made for that most 
 
 patriotic, 
 Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor 
 
 uncle. 
 
 X. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 YE, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte 
 Cavallo 
 
 Stand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your motion- 
 less movement, 
 
 Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil regard- 
 ant faces, 
 
 Stand as instinct with life in the might of immutable 
 manhood, 
 
 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 cham- 
 bers, 
 
 Juno and Ceres, Minerva, Apollo, the Muses and Bac- 
 chus, 
 
 Ye unto whom far and near come posting the Christian 
 pilgrims, 
 
 Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic Christian 
 Pontiff, 
 
 Are ye also baptized ? are ye of the kingdom of Heaven ?
 
 242 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Utter, some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient 
 
 and Modern ! 
 Am I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel of 
 
 Sixtus ? 
 
 XI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 THESE are the facts. The uncle, the elder .brother, the 
 squire (a 
 
 Little embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family 
 place in 
 
 Cornwall, of course; 'Papa is in business/ Mary in- 
 forms me ; 
 
 He's a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The 
 mother 
 
 Is shall I call it fine? herself she would tell you 
 refined, and 
 
 Greatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and 
 maladroit manners ; 
 
 Somewhat affecteth the blue; would talk to me often 
 of poets; 
 
 Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold ; but also appreci- 
 ates Wordsworth ; 
 
 Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion 
 diverges ; 
 
 Questions me much about Oxford ; and yet, in her lofti- 
 est flights still 
 
 Grates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile 
 accent. 
 
 Is it contemptible, Eustace I'm perfectly ready to 
 think so, 
 
 Is it, the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people ? 
 
 I am ashamed my own self; and yet true it is, if dis- 
 graceful, 
 
 That for the first time in life I am living and moving 
 with freedom. 
 
 I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my 
 uncle, 
 
 I, who have always failed, I, trust me, can suit the 
 Trevellyns ; 
 
 I, believe me, great conquest, am liked by the country 
 bankers. 
 
 And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 243 
 
 So it proceeds ; Laissez faire, laissez aller, such is the 
 watchword. 
 
 Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hun- 
 dreds as pleasant, 
 
 Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with 
 polish 
 
 Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary 
 Trevellyn. 
 
 Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition, 
 
 Juxtaposition, in short ; and what is juxtaposition ? 
 
 XII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 BUT I am in for it now, laissez faire, of a truth, laissez 
 
 aller. 
 
 Yes, I am going, I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it, 
 Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts 
 
 of relations, 
 Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, 
 
 I know one thing, 
 
 Will, and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken, 
 Broken with painful remorses, with shrinkings of soul, 
 
 and relentings, 
 
 Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish re- 
 newals. 
 But I have made the step, have quitted the ship of 
 
 Ulysses ; 
 Quitted the sea and the shore, passed into the magical 
 
 island ; 
 
 Yet on my lips is the moly, medicinal, offered of Her- 
 mes. 
 I have come into the precinct, the labyrinth closes 
 
 around me, 
 Path into path rounding slyly; I pace slowly on, and 
 
 the fancy, 
 Struggling awhile to sustain the long sequences weary, 
 
 bewildered, 
 Fain must collapse in despair; I yield, I am lost, and 
 
 know nothing; 
 Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue ; I shall 
 
 use it. 
 Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the 
 
 fissure; I sink, yet
 
 244 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Inly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above 
 
 me; 
 Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to 
 
 shelf, or 
 Floor of cavern untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, 
 
 I know I 
 Yet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about 
 
 me, 
 Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest 
 
 in ; and though the 
 Rope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag 
 
 unto crag re- 
 Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths, ere the 
 
 end I 
 Yet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I 
 
 quit, shall 
 Feel underneath me again the great massy strengths 
 
 of abstraction, 
 Look yet abroad from the height o'er the sea whose salt 
 
 wave I have tasted. 
 
 XIII. GEORGINA TREVELLYN TO LOUISA . 
 
 DEAREST LOUISA, Inquire, if you please, about Mr. 
 
 Claude . 
 
 He has been once at B., and remembers meeting the H.'s. 
 Harriet L., perhaps, may be able to tell you about him. 
 It is an awkward youth, but still with very good man- 
 ners ; 
 Not without prospects, we hear ; and, George says, highly 
 
 connected. 
 Georgy declares it absurd, but Mamma is alarmed, and 
 
 insists he has 
 
 Taken up strange opinions, and may be turning a Papist. 
 Certainly once he spoke of a daily service he went to. 
 ' Where ? ' we asked, and he laughed and answered, ' At 
 
 the Pantheon.' 
 This was a temple, you know, and now is a Catholic 
 
 church ; and 
 Though it is said that Mazzini has sold it for Protestant 
 
 service, 
 
 Yet I suppose this change can hardly as yet be effected. 
 Adieu again, evermore, my dearest, your loving Georgiua.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 245 
 
 P.S. BY MARY TREVELLYN. 
 
 I AM to tell you, you say, what I think of our last new 
 
 acquaintance. 
 Well, then, I think that George has a very fair right to 
 
 be jealous. 
 I do not like him much, though I do not dislike being 
 
 with him. 
 
 He is what people call, I suppose, a superior man, and 
 Certainly seems so to me; but I think he is terribly 
 
 selfish. 
 
 Alba, thoujindesl me still, and, Alba, thoujindest me ever, 
 
 Noiv from the Capitol steps, now over Titus' s Arch, 
 Here from the large grassy spaces that spread from the Lat- 
 eral portal, 
 
 Towering o'er aqueduct lines lost in perspective between, 
 Or from a Vatican window, or bridge, or the high Coliseum, 
 
 Clear by the garlanded line cut of the Flavian ring. 
 Beautiful can I not call thee, and yet thou hast power to 
 
 o'ermaster, 
 Power of mere beauty ; in dreams, Alba, thou hauntest 
 
 me still. 
 Is it religion ? I ask me ; or is it a vain superstition ? 
 
 Slavery abject and gross ? service, too feeble, of truth ? 
 Is it an idol I bow to, or is it a god that I worship f 
 
 Do I sink back on the old, or do I soar from the mean ? 
 So through the city I wander and question, unsatisfied 
 
 ever, 
 Reverent so I accept, doubtful because I revere. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Is it illusion ? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages, 
 
 Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide? 
 Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, 
 
 comprehend not, 
 
 Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide ? 
 Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and 
 
 single, 
 Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,
 
 246 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the 
 
 ruin, 
 
 E'en in the people itself ? is it illusion or not f 
 Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine, 
 Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to 
 
 stare ? 
 
 Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger, 
 Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms 
 to the gate ? 
 
 I. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. ' 
 
 WHAT do the people say, and what does the government 
 
 do ? you 
 Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your 
 
 hopes; and 
 
 I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it. 
 I, who nor meddle nor make in politics, I who sincerely 
 Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot, 
 Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a 
 New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of 
 
 heaven 
 Right on the Place de la Concorde, I, nevertheless, let 
 
 me say it, 
 Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the 
 
 gates shed 
 
 One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic ; 
 What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the 
 
 Bourbon, 
 
 Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion ? 
 France, it is foully done ! and you, poor foolish England, 
 You, who a twelvemonth ago said nation* must choose for 
 
 themselves, you 
 Could not, of course, interfere, you, now, when a nation 
 
 has chosen 
 
 Pardon this folly ! The Times will, of course, have an- 
 nounced the occasion, 
 Told you the news of to-day ; and although it was slightly 
 
 in error 
 When it proclaimed as a 'fact the Apollo was sold to a 
 
 Yankee, 
 You may believe when it tells you the French are at 
 
 Civita Vecchia.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 247 
 
 II. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 Ihdce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall, 
 
 to 
 Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the 
 
 Cause; yet 
 
 Still, individual culture is also something, and no man 
 Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is 
 
 called on, 
 Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world 
 
 that 
 Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide 
 
 here; 
 Else why send him at all ? Nature wants him still, it is 
 
 likely ; 
 On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves ; it is 
 
 certain 
 Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in 
 
 general 
 
 Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation ; 
 Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are 
 
 decisive ; 
 Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, 
 
 and I shall. 
 
 So we cling to our rocks like limpets ; Ocean may bluster, 
 Over and under and round us ; we open our shells to im- 
 bibe our 
 Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the 
 
 purpose 
 Nature intended, a wise one, of course, and a noble, we 
 
 doubt not. 
 Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to 
 
 die; but, 
 On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I 
 
 shan't. 
 
 III. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 WILL they fight ? They say so. And will the French ? 
 
 I can hardly, 
 Hardly think so ; and yet He is come, they say, to 
 
 Palo, 
 He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa
 
 248 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter 
 of Roma, 
 
 She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn, The 
 Daughter of Tiber, 
 
 She hath shaken her head and built barricades against 
 thee! 
 
 Will they fight ? I believe it. Alas ! 'tis ephemeral folly, 
 
 Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pic- 
 tures, 
 
 Statues, and antique gems ! Indeed : and yet indeed too, 
 
 Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream, tell it not in 
 St. James's, 
 
 Whisper it not in thy courts, Christ Church ! yet did 
 I, waking, 
 
 Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes h&ros, 
 la 
 
 Terre en produit de nouveaux contra vous tous prts d, se 
 battre ; 
 
 Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental, 
 
 Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse under- 
 neath me. 
 
 IV. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier 
 
 Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison 
 Serny 
 
 (Where the family English are all to assemble for safety), 
 
 Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female ? 
 
 Really, who knows ? One has bowed and talked, till, little 
 by little, 
 
 All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit. 
 
 Oh, one conformed, of course ; but one doesn't die for good 
 manners, 
 
 Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention. 
 
 No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades 
 there ; 
 
 Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger, 
 
 Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's freedom, 
 
 Sooner far by the side of the d d and dirty plebeians. 
 
 Ah, for a child in the street 1 could strike ; for the full- 
 blown lady 
 
 Somehow, Eustace, alas ! I have not felt the vocation.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE 249 
 
 Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my 
 protection, 
 
 Vernoii in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Geor- 
 gina, 
 
 And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, 
 and 
 
 Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or of- 
 fended. 
 
 Oh, and of course, you will say, ' When the time comes, 
 you will be ready.' 
 
 Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so? 
 
 What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall 
 feel? 
 
 Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious in- 
 stinct ? 
 
 Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful percep- 
 tion ? 
 
 Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and 
 insight, 
 
 For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtu- 
 ous action? 
 
 Must we, walking our earth, discern a little, and hoping 
 
 Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned 
 us, 
 
 Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the 
 present, 
 
 Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour, 
 
 To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim ? 
 
 And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining, 
 
 Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own 
 Correspondent ? 
 
 V. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 YES, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as 
 
 usual, 
 
 Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caff e Nuovo ; 
 Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the 
 
 weather, 
 Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of 
 
 Murray, 
 
 And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles; 
 Cajfi-latte ! I call to the waiter, and Non c' & latte,
 
 250 CLOU G IPS POEMS. 
 
 This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a 
 
 battle. 
 
 So I sit : and truly they seem to think any one else more 
 Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless 
 
 nero 
 
 Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons, 
 Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, com- 
 ing in, and 
 Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee 
 
 withdrawing 
 Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a 
 
 musket 
 
 Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, more- 
 over, than tisual, 
 
 Much and silenter far ; and so I begin to imagine 
 Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Gaffe is 
 
 empty, 
 
 Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso 
 Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti. 
 Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of 
 
 English, 
 Germans, Americans, French, the Frenchmen, too, are 
 
 protected, 
 
 So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower ; 
 So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's, 
 Smoke, from the camion, white, but that is at intervals 
 
 only, 
 Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the 
 
 Cavalleggieri ; 
 
 And we believe we discern some lines of men descending 
 Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet 
 
 gleaming. 
 Every ten minutes, however, in this there is no 
 
 misconception, 
 Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's 
 
 dome, and 
 After a space the report of a real big gun, not the 
 
 Frenchman's ! 
 That must be doing some work. And so we watch and 
 
 conjecture. 
 Shortly, an Englishman conies, who says he has been 
 
 to St. Peter's, 
 Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us ;
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 251 
 
 So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be 
 
 tiresome. 
 All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the 
 
 inside, 
 It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our 
 
 houses. 
 Half -past one, or two. The report of small arms 
 
 frequent, 
 
 Sharp and savage indeed ; that cannot all be for nothing : 
 So we watch and wonder ; but guessing is tiresome, very. 
 Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossip- 
 ing idly, 
 Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the 
 
 knots of 
 National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the 
 
 windows, 
 English, American, Danish, and, after offering to 
 
 help an 
 
 Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny, 
 After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling 
 Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters, 
 Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter. 
 But by this there are signs of stragglers returning ; and 
 
 voices 
 Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners 
 
 taken ; 
 And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the 
 
 morning. 
 This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle. 
 
 VI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 VICTORY ! VICTORY ! Yes ! ah, yes, thou republican 
 
 Zion, 
 Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by 
 
 together ; 
 Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were 
 
 astonished, and so forth. 
 
 Victory ! Victory ! Victory ! Ah, but it is, believe me, 
 Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr 
 Than to indite any paean of any victory. Death may 
 Sometimes be noble ; but life, at the best, will appear an 
 
 illusion.
 
 252 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 While the great pain is upon us, it is great ; when it is 
 
 over, 
 Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to 
 
 heaven, 
 Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the 
 
 altar, 
 Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill 
 
 odour. 
 So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that 
 
 swelled with 
 
 Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises, 
 Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col- 
 Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and 
 
 papers 
 Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. 
 
 Well, but 
 I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen 
 
 were beaten. 
 
 VII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, 
 
 among others ! 
 
 Yes, I suppose I have ; although I can hardly be certain, 
 And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.. 
 But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw 
 Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw 
 
 something. 
 I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as 
 
 usual, 
 Under my arm, I remember ; had crossed the St. Angelo 
 
 bridge; and 
 Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, 
 
 when 
 
 Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious 
 Of a sensation of movement opposing me, tendency this 
 
 way 
 (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave 
 
 of the tide is 
 
 Coming and not yet come, a sort of noise and retention) ; 
 So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers 
 Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that 
 
 corner.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 253 
 
 Looking up, I see windows filled with heads ; the Piazza, 
 Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters, 
 Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups ; and 
 
 now the 
 Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last 
 
 barricade, is 
 Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. 
 
 What is it ? 
 Ha ! bare swords in the air, held up ? There seem to be 
 
 voices 
 Pleading and hands putting back ; official, perhaps ; but 
 
 the swords are 
 Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; 
 
 they are smiting, 
 Hewing, chopping At what? In the air once more 
 
 upstretched ? And 
 Is it blood that's on them ? Yes, certainly blood ! Of 
 
 whom, then ? 
 Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation ? 
 
 While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing 
 
 their caps on the points of 
 
 Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a 
 Mercantile-seeming bystander, 'What is it?' and he, 
 
 looking always 
 That way, makes me answer, ' A Priest, who was trying 
 
 to fly to 
 
 The Neapolitan army,' and thus explains the proceeding. 
 You didn't see the dead man ? No ; I began to be 
 
 doubtful ; 
 I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't 
 
 happen, 
 
 But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub, 
 Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with 
 
 dust, and 
 Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, 
 
 and 
 Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs 
 
 of a body. 
 
 You are the first, do you know, to whom I have men- 
 tioned the matter. 
 Whom should I tell it to else ? these girls ? the 
 
 Heavens forbid it ! 
 Quidnuncs at Monaldini's ? Idlers upon the Pincian ?
 
 254 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon 
 
 when 
 
 Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army 
 First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris 
 
 Septembers, 
 Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two. 
 
 On that evening 
 Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were 
 
 slaughtered. 
 Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel ; 
 
 others 
 Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently 
 
 stated, 
 
 Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna : 
 History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to deter- 
 mine! 
 But I am thankful to say the government seems to have 
 
 strength to 
 Put it down ; it has vanished, at least ; the place is most 
 
 peaceful. 
 Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the 
 
 clock, I 
 
 Found no sort of disorder ; I crossed by the Island-bridges, 
 So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards 
 Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great 
 
 Coliseum, 
 Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit. 
 
 VIII. GEORGINA TREVELLYN TO LOUISA- 
 
 ONLY think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have 
 
 witnessed ! 
 
 ******* 
 George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white 
 
 cloak, on 
 Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind 
 
 him: 
 This is a man, you know, who came from America with 
 
 him, 
 
 Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting, 
 Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I 
 
 imagine ; 
 This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 255 
 
 Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills 
 them : 
 
 Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian. 
 
 Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude being selfish; 
 
 He was most useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of 
 April. 
 
 Do not write here any more ; we are starting directly for 
 Florence : 
 
 We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses ; 
 
 All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dread- 
 ful Mazzini. 
 
 P.S. 
 
 Mary has seen thus far. I am really so angry, 
 Louisa, 
 
 Quite out of patience, my dearest ! What can the man 
 be intending ? 
 
 I am quite tired ; and Mary, who might bring him to in 
 a moment, 
 
 Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dis- 
 miss him. 
 
 IX. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 IT is most curious to see what a power a few calm words 
 (in 
 
 Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the 
 people. 
 
 Order is perfect, and peace ; the city is utterly tranquil ; 
 
 And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalaui 
 crowd, that 
 
 Flows like a quiet stream through street and market- 
 place, entering 
 
 Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria and cqflfe, 
 
 Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava, 
 
 Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion. 
 Ah, 'tis an excellent race, and even in old degradation, 
 
 Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating, 
 
 E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people. 
 
 Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption ! 
 but clearly 
 
 That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all 
 journals,
 
 256 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the elo- 
 quent writer ! 
 
 Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble 
 Mazzini ! 
 
 X. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 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 fingers desert not 
 
 the keys ; 'tis 
 Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables 
 
 sounded, 
 Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious 
 
 meaning. 
 I am in love, you say : I do not think so, exactly. 
 
 XI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 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.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 257 
 
 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 something 
 
 factitious, 
 
 Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process ; 
 We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions 
 
 of duty. 
 
 XII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 AH, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, 
 
 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 ? 
 
 XTII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 WHEREFORE and how I am certain, I hardly can tell ; but 
 it is so. 
 
 She doesn't like me, Eustace ; I think she never will like 
 me. 
 
 Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not 
 her ways ? 
 
 Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar 
 wholly ? 
 
 'Tis not her fault ; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misap- 
 prehend them :
 
 258 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 'Tis not her fault ; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever to 
 
 know me. 
 Hopeless it seems, yet I cannot, though hopeless, 
 
 determine to leave it : 
 She goes therefore I go ; she moves, I move, not to 
 
 lose her. 
 
 XIV. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 OH, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of 
 
 wooing ; 
 'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they 
 
 tell you, 
 Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement 
 
 hero ; 
 She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul ; and 
 
 for knowledge, 
 Knowledge, ye Gods ! when did they appreciate 
 
 knowledge ? 
 Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not 
 
 desire it. 
 Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about 
 
 me ! 
 
 (Care about me, indeed ! and do I really expect it ?) 
 But my manner offends ; my ways are wholly repugnant ; 
 Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her ; 
 Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite 
 
 presence, 
 Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs 
 
 her from me. 
 Not that I care very much ! any way I escape from the 
 
 boy's own 
 
 Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy. 
 Not that I mind very much ! Why should I ? I am not 
 
 in love, and 
 
 Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit, 
 Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like 
 
 it; 
 
 It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures, 
 Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly; 
 We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle, 
 Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in 
 
 general,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 259 
 
 Manage to hold on our way without, like others around 
 us, 
 
 Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us. 
 
 Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it. 
 
 All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, 
 is, 
 
 Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see 
 her? 
 
 XV. GEORGINA TREVELLYN TO LOUISA 
 
 To-morrow we're starting for Florence, 
 
 Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican 
 
 terrors ; 
 
 Mr. C. and Papa to escort us ; we by vettura 
 Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leg- 
 horn. 
 
 Then Ah, what shall I say, my dearest ? I tremble 
 
 in thinking ! 
 You will imagine my feelings, the blending of hope 
 
 and of sorrow. 
 How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my 
 
 Sisters ? 
 
 Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming ; but, trust me 
 Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving 
 Georgina. 
 
 P.S. BY MARY TREVELLYN. 
 
 ' Do I like Mr. Claude any better ? ' 
 
 I am to tell you, and, 'Pray, is it Susan or I that 
 attract him ? ' 
 
 This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask 
 him. 
 
 All I can say for myself is, alas ! that he rather repels 
 me. 
 
 There ! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive. 
 
 So be content, dear Louisa ; for one satisfactory marriage 
 
 Surely will do in one year for the family you would es- 
 tablish ; 
 
 Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.
 
 260 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 P.S. BY GEORGINA TREVELLYN. 
 
 MR. CLAUDE, you must know, is behaving a little bit 
 better ; 
 
 He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too shilly- 
 shally, 
 
 So unlike George ! Yet I hope that the matter is going 
 on fairly. 
 
 I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say some- 
 thing. 
 
 Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people to- 
 gether ! 
 
 Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer, 
 E'en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old, 
 
 Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to 
 
 be hidden, 
 Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to for- 
 
 Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall 
 
 follow, 
 
 He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go ! 
 Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find 
 
 thee ! 
 
 She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from 
 thee ! 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's and yet to the solemn Ro- 
 
 tonda, 
 
 Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls, 
 Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world 
 
 seems above us, 
 
 Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme; 
 Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner 
 
 around us; 
 
 Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber re- 
 main ; 
 Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in re- 
 
 KI stance. 
 Alt, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 261 
 
 Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak trees 
 
 immingle, 
 
 Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind, 
 Where, under mulberry branches, the diligent rivulet 
 
 sparkles, 
 Or amid cotton and maize peasants their waterworks 
 
 ply, 
 
 Where, over fig tree and orange in tier upon tier still re- 
 peated, 
 
 Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky, 
 Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of 
 
 the city, 
 Under the vine-trellis laid, my beloved, with thee ! 
 
 I. MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER, On the Way to 
 
 Florence. 
 
 WHY doesn't Mr. Claude come with us ? you ask. We 
 don't know, 
 
 You should know better than we. He talked of the Vati- 
 can marbles ; 
 
 But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual rea- 
 son, 
 
 He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and 
 escort us. 
 
 Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so 
 
 Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the 
 party, - 
 
 Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended : 
 
 I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to 
 be so. 
 
 Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly 
 
 Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. 
 But, oh, my 
 
 Pen will not write any more ; let us say nothing further 
 about it. 
 ******* 
 
 Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive ; 
 
 So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the ex- 
 pression 
 
 Quite as your pupil should ; yet he does most truly repel 
 me.
 
 262 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Was it to you I made use of the word ? or who was it 
 told you ? 
 
 Yes, repulsive ; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas 
 
 That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and 
 easy; 
 
 I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being. 
 
 When does he make advances? He thinks that women 
 should woo him ; 
 
 Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and dis- 
 gusted. 
 
 She that should love him must look for small love in re- 
 turn, like the ivy 
 
 On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard 
 support, and 
 
 E'en to get that must go searching all round with her 
 humble embraces. 
 
 ii. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Rome. 
 
 TELL me, my friend, do you think that the grain would 
 sprout in the furrow, 
 
 Did it not truly accept as its summum and ultimum bonum 
 
 That mere common and may -be indifferent soil it is set in ? 
 
 Would it have force to develop and open its young coty- 
 ledons, 
 
 Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with 
 another ? 
 
 Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural 
 functions 
 
 Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of 
 
 existence ? 
 
 While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to 
 Civita Vecchia, 
 
 Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba, 
 
 Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel, 
 
 Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious 
 billows, 
 
 ' This is Nature,' I said : ' we are born as it were from 
 her waters ; 
 
 Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring 
 uncared for, 
 
 Casting one single regard of a painful victorious know- 
 ledge,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 263 
 
 Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are 
 
 swallowed.' 
 This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop 
 
 of the steamer ; 
 
 And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne, 
 Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in 
 
 marble. 
 
 It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer. 
 Let us not talk of growth ; we are still in our Aqueous 
 
 Ages. 
 
 III. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 FAREWELL, Politics, utterly ! What can I do ? I cannot 
 Fight, you know ; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And 
 
 although I 
 
 Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your Eng- 
 lish papers, 
 What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, 
 
 mend matters ? 
 
 Cursing and scolding repel the assailants ? No, it is idle ; 
 No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it. 
 Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And 
 
 what's the 
 
 Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic ? 
 Why not fight ? In the first place, I haven't so much 
 
 as a musket ; 
 In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use 
 
 it; 
 
 In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient marbles ; 
 In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country ; 
 In the fifth I forget, but four good reasons are ample. 
 Meantime, pray let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight in 
 
 devotion. 
 
 So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs ! 
 Sanguis martyrum semen Ecdesive; though it would seem 
 
 this 
 Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come 
 
 kind : 
 Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, 
 
 elsewhere ! 
 Ah, good Heaven, but I would , I were out far away from 
 
 the pother !
 
 264 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 IV. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 NOT, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration, 
 Are there two several trees in the place we are set to 
 
 abide in ; 
 But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the 
 
 Garden, 
 Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering 
 
 ever, 
 Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of 
 
 Knowledge, 
 Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful 
 
 blossom. 
 Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream 
 
 Hellespontine, 
 
 Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaiis 
 Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia, 
 Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the pros- 
 pect attaining, 
 
 Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city, 
 Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to 
 
 encounter. 
 Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless 
 
 faces, 
 
 Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions, 
 Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we 
 
 discern not, 
 Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the 
 
 crested billow, 
 Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that 
 
 the tide shall return to, 
 
 Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination ! 
 Let us not talk of growth ; we are still in our Aqueous 
 
 Ages. 
 
 V. MARY TRKVELLYN TO MISS ROPER, from Florence. 
 
 DEARKST Miss ROPER, Alas! we are all at Florence 
 
 quite safe, and 
 
 You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing ! 
 We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did 
 
 from the troubles.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 265 
 
 Now you are really besieged ; they tell us it soon will be 
 over; 
 
 Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city. 
 
 Do you see Mr. Claude ? I thought he might do some- 
 thing for you. 
 
 I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be 
 useful. 
 
 What is he doing ? I wonder ; still studying Vatican 
 marbles ? 
 
 Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is 
 better. 
 
 VI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 JUXTAPOSITION, in fine ; and what is juxtaposition? 
 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 illu- 
 sion! 
 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 mar- 
 riage 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 ?
 
 266 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger exist- 
 ence, 
 Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed 
 
 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 ? 
 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 Ab- 
 stract, 
 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 1 then for myself shall behold, and not another,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 267 
 
 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 ? 
 
 VII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 JUXTAPOSITION is great, but, you tell me, affinity 
 
 greater. 
 Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and 
 
 lesser, 
 
 Stronger and weaker ; and each, by the favour of juxtapo- 
 sition, 
 Potent, efficient, in force, for a time ; but none, let me 
 
 tell you, 
 Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the 
 
 will, ah, 
 
 None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and per- 
 fect. 
 Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the 
 
 princess, 
 
 Homo sum, niliil humani a me alienum puto, 
 Vir sum, nihilfceminei, and e'en to the uttermost circle, 
 All that is Nature's is I, and I all things that are Na- 
 
 . ture's. 
 
 Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition, 
 That I can be and become anything that I meet with or 
 
 look at : 
 I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff 
 
 panniers ; 
 I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the 
 
 window, 
 
 On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard, 
 Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing 
 
 about me ; 
 Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful 
 
 assurance, 
 E'en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees 
 
 of the forest
 
 268 CLOUGirS POEMS. 
 
 Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, 
 
 greets rne; 
 And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, 
 
 and perversions, 
 Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive 
 
 silence, 
 Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid 
 
 embraces. 
 
 VIII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 AND as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and 
 
 coupling ; 
 Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably 
 
 faithful, 
 All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and 
 
 umningled. 
 Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to 
 
 look at ; 
 As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is 
 
 changing, 
 
 As a chamber filled-iu with harmonious, exquisite pictures, 
 Even so beautiful Earth ; and could we eliminate only 
 This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of 
 
 craving, 
 Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction. 
 
 IX. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 MILD monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters : 
 So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, a 
 Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can 
 
 honour. 
 But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming 
 
 and shouting, 
 Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the 
 
 falsehood, 
 
 And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings 
 Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction 
 
 that reign o'er 
 Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters: 
 
 Terrible word, Obligation ! You should not, Eustace, 
 
 you should not,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 269 
 
 No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, 
 
 I repel it ! 
 
 Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly 
 Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and 
 
 dishonour, 
 
 Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signa- 
 ture ! Ah, no ! 
 
 I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me. 
 No, my friend if you wish to be told, it was this above 
 
 all things, 
 This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held 
 
 me to nothing. 
 No, I could talk as I pleased ; come close ; fasten ties, as 
 
 I fancied ; 
 Bind and engage myself deep ; and lo, on the following 
 
 morning 
 It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for 
 
 nothing. 
 Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a 
 
 semi-performance 
 At the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of 
 
 evasion, 
 When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, 
 
 engagements, 
 
 Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew noth- 
 ing of it, 
 Stood unexpecting, unconscious. She spoke not of 
 
 obligations, 
 Knew not of debt ah, no, I believe you, for excellent 
 
 reasons. 
 
 X. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 HANG this thinking, at last ! what good is it ? oh, and 
 
 what evil ! 
 Oh, what mischief and pain ! like a clock in a sick man's 
 
 chamber, 
 Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of 
 
 slumber pursuing. 
 What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men ? 
 
 Have compassion ; 
 Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal 
 
 knowledge ;
 
 270 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, 
 my brothers, 
 
 Tranquilly, happily lie, and eat grass, like Nebuchad- 
 nezzar ! 
 
 XI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 TIBUR 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 Bandusian 
 
 fountain, 
 Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Hor- 
 
 clCG 
 
 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 be- 
 side me ; 1 
 
 Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, Teverone, 
 Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous 
 
 waters, 
 
 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 cre- 
 ations, 
 
 Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Hor- 
 ace : 
 
 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 Gen- 
 naro, 
 
 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-gar- 
 dens, 
 
 1 domus Albuneffi resonantis, 
 
 Et prseceps Anio, et, Tilmrni Incus, et uda 
 Mobilibus pomaria rivis.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 271 
 
 Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves 
 
 Rome of the Romans, 
 But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapoury 
 
 mountains, 
 Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision arid 
 
 fancy, 
 But 011 Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by 
 
 me, 
 Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist. 
 
 XII. MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER. 
 
 DEAR Miss ROPER, It seems, George Vernon, before 
 we left Rome, said 
 
 Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his atten- 
 tions. 
 
 Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from 
 Georgina. 
 
 It is so disagreeable and so annoying to think of ! 
 
 If it could only be known, though we may never meet 
 him again, that 
 
 It was all George's doing, and we were entirely uncon- 
 scious, 
 
 It would extremely relieve Your ever affectionate Mary. 
 
 P.S. (1) 
 
 Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I 
 wanted. 
 
 So you have seen him, indeed, and guessed, how 
 dreadfully clever ! 
 
 What did he really say ? and what was your answer ex- 
 actly ? 
 
 Charming ! but wait for a moment, I haven't read 
 through the letter. 
 
 P.S. (2) 
 
 Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about 
 
 it. 
 
 If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so. 
 Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I 
 
 could manage. 
 
 It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for. 
 Do as you please ; you know I trust implicitly to you.
 
 272 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter. 
 
 Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a 
 secret 
 
 That I should like very well to show him myself I for- 
 get it. 
 
 P.S. (3) 
 
 I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Ah, my dear Miss Koper, you surely, surely can manage 
 Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter. 
 It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactly 
 As if it had not occurred : and I do not think he would 
 
 like it. 
 I must remember to add that as soon as the wedding is 
 
 over 
 
 We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan ; 
 There to meet friends of Papa's, I am told, at the Croce 
 
 di Malta ; 
 Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England. 
 
 XIII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 YES, on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the city, 
 So it appears ; though then I was quite uncertain about 
 
 it. 
 
 So, however, it was. And now to explain the proceeding. 
 I was to go, as I told you, I think, with the people to 
 
 Florence. 
 
 Only the day before, the foolish family Vernon 
 Made some uneasy remarks, as we walked to our lodging 
 
 together, 
 
 As to intentions forsooth, and so forth. I was astounded, 
 Horrified quite ; and obtaining just then, as it happened, 
 
 an offer 
 
 (No common favour) of seeing the great Ludovisi collection, 
 Why, I made this a pretence, and wrote that they must 
 
 excuse me. 
 How could I go ? Great Heavens ! to conduct a permitted 
 
 flirtation 
 
 Under those vulgar eyes, the observed of such observers ! 
 Well, but I now, by a series of fine diplomatic inquiries, 
 Kind from a sort of relation, a good and sensible woman,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 273 
 
 Who is remaining at Rome with a brother too ill for 
 
 removal, 
 That it was wholly unsanctioned, unknown, not, I think, 
 
 by Georgina: 
 She, however, ere this, and that is the best of the 
 
 story, 
 She and the Vernon, thank Heaven, are wedded and 
 
 gone honeymooning. 
 So on Montorio's height for a last farewell of the 
 
 city. 
 Tibur I have not seen, nor the lakes that of old I had 
 
 dreamt of; 
 
 Tibur I shall not see, nor Anio's waters, nor deep en- 
 Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace ; 
 Tibur I shall not see; but something better I shall 
 
 see. 
 Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the 
 
 horses ; 
 Twice I have tried and failed : this time it shall not be a 
 
 failure. 
 
 TJterefore farewell, ye hills, and ye, ye envineyarded 
 
 ruins ! 
 
 TJierefore farewell, ye walls, palaces, pillars, and domes ! 
 TJierefore farewell, far seen, ye peaks of the mythic 
 
 Albano, 
 
 Seen from Montorio's height, Tibur and ^Esula's Mils ! 
 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 umbrageous and 
 
 old, 
 E'en in those fair open fields that incurve to thy beautiful 
 
 hollow, 
 
 Nemi, embedded 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 !
 
 274 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Eastward, or Northward, or West? I wander and ask as 
 
 I wander; 
 Weary, yet eager and sure, Where shall I come to my 
 
 love ? 
 Whitherward hasten to seek her? Ye daughters of Italy, 
 
 tell me, 
 
 Graceful and tender and dark, is she consorting with you ? 
 Thou that out-climbest the torrent, that tendest thy goats to 
 
 the summit, 
 Call to me, child of the Alp, has she been seen on the 
 
 heights ? 
 
 Italy, farewell Ibid thee ! for whither she leads me, I follow. 
 Farewell the vineyard ! for I, where I but guess her, must 
 
 go; 
 
 Weariness welcome, and labour, wherever it be, if at last it 
 Bring me in mountain or plain into the sight of m my love. 
 
 i. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Florence. 
 
 GONE from Florence ; indeed ! and that is truly provok- 
 ing ; 
 
 Gone to Milan, it seems ; then I go also to Milan. 
 
 Five days now departed ; but they can travel but slowly ; 
 
 I quicker far ; and I know, as it happens, the house they 
 will go to. 
 
 Why, what else should I do ? Stay here and look at the 
 pictures, 
 
 Statues, and churches ? Alack, I am sick of the statues 
 and pictures ! 
 
 No, to Bologna, Parma, Piacenza, Lodi, and Milan, 
 
 Off go we to-night, and the Venus go to the Devil! 
 
 ii. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Belloggio. 
 
 GONE to Como, they said; and I have posted to Como. 
 There was a letter left ; but the cameriere had lost it. 
 Could it have been for me? They came, however, to 
 
 Como, 
 And from Como went by the boat, perhaps to the 
 
 Splugen,
 
 A MO URS DE VO YA GE. 275 
 
 Or to the Stelvio, say, and the Tyrol; also it might be 
 By Porlezza across to Lugano, and so to the Simplon 
 Possibly, or the St. Gothard, or possibly, too, to Baveno, 
 Orta, Turin, and elsewhere. Indeed, I am greatly 
 bewildered. 
 
 in. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Bellaggio. 
 
 I HAVE been up the Splilgen, and on the Stelvio also : 
 Neither of these can I find they have followed ; in no one 
 
 inn, and 
 This would be odd, have they written their names. I 
 
 have been to Porlezza ; 
 There they have not been seen, and therefore not at 
 
 Lugano. 
 What shall I do ? Go on through the Tyrol, Switzerland, 
 
 Deutschland, 
 
 Seeking, an inverse Saul, a kingdom to find only asses ? 
 There is a tide, at least, in the love affairs of mortals, 
 Which, when taken at flood, leads on to the happiest 
 
 fortune, 
 Leads to the marriage-morn and the orange-flowers and 
 
 the altar, 
 And the long lawful line of crowned joys to crowned joys 
 
 succeeding. 
 Ah, it has ebbed with me ! Ye gods, and when it was 
 
 flowing, 
 Pitiful fool that I was, to stand fiddle-faddling in that 
 
 way! 
 
 iv. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Bellaggio. 
 
 I HAVE returned and found their names in the book at 
 Como. 
 
 Certain it is I was right, and yet I am also in error. 
 
 Added in feminine hand, I read, By the boat to Bellag- 
 gio. 
 
 So to Bellaggio again, with the wods of her writing to 
 aid me. 
 
 Yet at Bellaggio I find no trace, no sort of remembrance. 
 
 So I am here, and wait, and know every hour will remove 
 them.
 
 276 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 v. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Belloggio. 
 
 I HAVE but one chance left, and that is going to 
 
 Florence. 
 But it is cruel to turn. The mountains seeni to demand 
 
 me, 
 Peak and valley from far to beckon and motion me 
 
 onward. 
 Somewhere amid their folds she passes whom fain I 
 
 would follow ; 
 Somewhere among those heights she haply calls me to 
 
 seek her. 
 Ah, could I hear her call ! could I catch the glimpse of 
 
 her raiment ! 
 Turn, however, I must, though it seem I turn to desert 
 
 her; 
 
 For the sense of the thing is simply to hurry to Florence, 
 Where the certainty yet may be learnt, I suppose, from 
 
 the Ropers ! 
 
 VI. MARY TREVELLYN, from Lucerne, TO MISS ROPER, 
 
 at Florence. 
 
 DEAR Miss ROPER, By this you are safely away, we 
 are hoping, 
 
 Many a league from Rome ; ere long we trust we shall 
 see you. 
 
 How have you travelled ? I wonder ; was Mr. Claude 
 your companion ? 
 
 As for ourselves, we went from Como straight to Lugano ; 
 
 So by the Mount St. Gothard ; we meant to go by Por- 
 lezza, 
 
 Taking the steamer, and stopping, as you had advised, at 
 Bellaggio, 
 
 Two or three days or more; but this was suddenly al- 
 tered, 
 
 After we left the hot^, on the very way to the steamer. 
 
 So we have seen, I fear, not one of the lakes in perfec- 
 tion. 
 
 Well, he is not come, and now, I suppose, he will not 
 come.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 277 
 
 What will you think, meantime ? and yet I must really 
 
 confess it ; 
 What will you say ? I wrote him a note. We left in a 
 
 hurry, 
 
 Went from Milan to Como, three days before we expected. 
 But I thought, if he came all the way to Milan, he really 
 Ought not to be disappointed: and so I wrote three 
 
 lines to 
 Say I had heard he was coming, desirous of joining our 
 
 party ; 
 
 If so, then I said, we had started for Como, and meant to 
 Cross the St. Gothard, and stay, we believed, at Lucerne, 
 
 for the summer. 
 Was it wrong ? and why, if it was, has it failed to bring 
 
 him? 
 Did he not think it worth while to come to Milan ? He 
 
 knew (you 
 
 Told him) the house we should go to. Or may it, per- 
 haps, have miscarried ? 
 Anyway, now I repent, and am heartily vexed that I 
 
 wrote it. 
 
 TJiere is a home on the shores of the Alpine sea, that upsweliing 
 
 High up the mountain-sides spreads in the hollows be- 
 tween ; 
 
 Wilderness, mountain, and snoivfrom the land of the olive 
 conceal it; 
 
 Under Pilatus's hill low by its river it lies : 
 Italy, utter the word, and the olive and vine will allure not, 
 
 Wilderness, forest, and snow will not the passcw/e impede; 
 Italy, unto thy cities receding, the clue to recover, 
 
 Hither, recovered the clue, shall not the traveller haste ? 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno, 
 Under Fiesole's heights, thither are we to return? 
 
 There is a city that fringes the curve of the inflowing waters, 
 Under the perilous hill fringes the beautiful bay, 
 
 Parthenope, do they call thee? the Siren, Neapolis, seated 
 Under Vesevus's hill, are we receding to thee?
 
 278 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Sicily, Greece, will invite, and the Orient; or are we to 
 
 turn to 
 England, which may after all be for its children the best? 
 
 i. MABY TREVELLYIST, at Lucerne, TO MISS ROPER, at 
 Florence. 
 
 So you are really free, and living in quiet at Florence ; 
 That is delightful news ; you travelled slowly and safely ; 
 Mr. Claude got you out ; took rooms at Florence before 
 
 you-, 
 Wrote from Milan to say so; had left directly for 
 
 Milan, 
 Hoping to find us soon ; if lie could, lie would, you are 
 
 certain. 
 Dear Miss Roper, your letter has made me exceedingly 
 
 happy. 
 You are quite sure, you say, he asked you about our 
 
 intentions ; 
 You had not heard as yet of Lucerne, but told him of 
 
 Como. 
 Well, perhaps he will come ; however, I will not expect 
 
 it. 
 Though you say you are sure, if he can, he will, you are 
 
 certain. 
 my dear, many thanks from your ever affectionate 
 
 Mary. 
 
 II. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 Florence. 
 
 ACTION will furnish belief, but will that belief be the 
 
 true one ? 
 This is the point, you know. However, it doesn't much 
 
 matter. 
 
 What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action, 
 So as to make it entail, not a chance belief, but the true 
 
 one. 
 Out of the question, you say ; if a thing isn't wrong we may 
 
 do it. 
 Ah ! but this wrong, you see but I do not know that it 
 
 matters. 
 Eustace, the Ropers are gone, and no one can tell me 
 
 about them.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 279 
 
 Pisa. 
 
 Pisa, they say they think, and so I follow to Pisa, 
 Hither and thither inquiring. I weary of making in- 
 quiries. 
 
 I am ashamed, I declare, of asking people about it. 
 Who are your friends ? You said you had friends who 
 would certainly know them. 
 
 Florence. 
 
 But it is idle, moping, and thinking, and trying to fix 
 her 
 
 Image more and more in, to write the whole perfect in- 
 scription 
 
 Over and over again upon every page of remembrance. 
 I have settled to stay at Florence to wait for your 
 answer. 
 
 Who are your friends ? Write quickly and tell me. I 
 wait for your answer. 
 
 III. MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER, at LuCCd BotllS. 
 
 You are at Lucca Baths, you tell me, to stay for the sum- 
 mer ; 
 
 Florence was quite too hot ; you can't move further at 
 present. 
 
 Will you not come, do you think, before the summer is 
 
 over ? 
 Mr. C. got you out with very considerable trouble ; 
 
 And he was useful and kind, and seemed so happy to 
 serve you. 
 
 Didn't stay with you long, but talked very openly to you ; 
 
 Made you almost his confessor, without appearing to 
 know it, 
 
 What about? and you say you didn't need his confes- 
 sions. 
 
 my dear Miss Roper, I dare not trust what you tell 
 
 me! 
 
 Will he come, do you think ? I am really so sorry for 
 him. 
 
 They. didn't give him my letter at Milan, I feel pretty 
 certain. 
 
 You had told him Bellaggio. We didn't go to Bellaggio ; 
 
 So he would miss our track, and perhaps never come to 
 Lugano,
 
 280 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Where we were written in full, To Lucerne across the St. 
 
 Gothard. 
 But he could write to you ; you would tell him where 
 
 you were going. 
 
 IV. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 LET me, then, bear to forget her. I will not cling to her 
 
 falsely : ^ 
 Nothing factitious or forced shall impair the old happy 
 
 relation. 
 
 I will let myself go, forget, not try to remember ; 
 I will walk on my way, accept the chances that meet me, 
 Freely encounter the world, imbibe these alien airs, and 
 Never ask if new feelings and thoughts are of her or 
 
 of others. 
 Is she not changing herself? the old image would only 
 
 delude me. 
 I will be bold, too, and change, if it must be. Yet if 
 
 in all things, 
 
 Yet if I do but aspire evermore to the Absolute only, 
 I shall be doing, I think, somehow, what she will be 
 
 doing; 
 I shall be thine, my child, some way, though I know 
 
 not in what way, 
 Let me submit to forget her; I must; I already forget 
 
 her. 
 
 V. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 UTTERLY vain is, alas ! this attempt at the Absolute, 
 wholly ! 
 
 I, who believed not in her, because I would fain believe 
 nothing, 
 
 Have to believe as I may, with a wilful, unmeaning ac- 
 ceptance. 
 
 T, who refused to enfasten the roots of my floating existence 
 
 In the rich earth, cling now to the hard, naked rock that 
 is left me, 
 
 Ah! she was worthy, Eustace, and that, indeed, is my 
 comfort, 
 
 Worthy a nobler heart than a fool such as I could have 
 given her.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 281 
 
 YES, it relieves me to write, though I do not send, and 
 the chance that 
 
 Takes may destroy my fragments. But as men pray, 
 without asking 
 
 Whether One really exist to hear or do anything for 
 them, 
 
 Simply impelled by the need of the moment to turn to a 
 Being 
 
 In a conception of whom there is freedom from all limi- 
 tation, 
 
 So in your image I turn to an ens rationis of friendship, 
 
 Even so write in your name I know not to whom nor in 
 what wise. 
 
 THEKE was a time, methought it was but lately departed, 
 
 When, if a thing was denied me, I felt I was bound to 
 attempt it : 
 
 Choice alone should take, and choice alone should sur- 
 render. 
 
 There was a time, indeed, when I had not retired thus 
 early, 
 
 Languidly thus, from pursuit of a purpose I once had 
 adopted, 
 
 But it is over, all that ! I have slunk from the perilous 
 field in 
 
 Whose wild struggle of forces the prizes of life are con- 
 tested. 
 
 It is over, all that ! I am a coward, and know it. 
 
 Courage in me could be only factitious, unnatural, useless. 
 
 COMFORT has come to me here in the dreary streets of 
 the city, 
 
 Comfort how do you think ? with a barrel-organ to 
 bring it. 
 
 Moping along the streets, and cursing my day as I wan- 
 dered, 
 
 All of a sudden my ear met the sound of an English 
 psalm-tune, 
 
 Comfort me it did, till indeed I was very near crying. 
 
 Ah, there is some great truth, partial, very likely, but 
 needful,
 
 282 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Lodged, I am strangely sure, in the tones of the English 
 
 psalm-tune : 
 
 Comfort it was at least ; and I must take without question 
 Comfort, however it come, in the dreary streets of the city. 
 
 WHAT with trusting myself, and seeking support from 
 within me, 
 
 Almost I could believe I had gained a religious assurance, 
 
 Formed in rny own poor soul a great moral basis to rest on. 
 
 Ah, but indeed I see, I feel it factitious entirely ; 
 
 I refuse, reject, and put it utterly from me ; 
 
 I will look straight out, see things, not try to evade them ; 
 
 Fact shall be fact for me, and the Truth the Truth as ever, 
 
 Flexible, changeable, vague, and multiform, and doubt- 
 ful. 
 
 Off, and depart to the void, thou subtle, fanatical tempter ! 
 
 I SHALL behold thee again (is it so ?) at a new visita- 
 tion, 
 
 ill genius thou ! I shall at my life's dissolution 
 (When the pulses are weak, and the feeble light of the 
 
 reason 
 
 Flickers, an unfed flame retiring slow from the socket), 
 Low on a sick-bed laid, hear one, as it were, at the door- 
 way, 
 
 And, looking up, see thee standing by, looking emptily 
 at me; 
 
 1 shall entreat thee then, though now I dare to refuse 
 
 thee, 
 
 Pale and pitiful now, but terrible then to the dying. 
 Well, I will see thee again, and while I can, will repel 
 
 thee. 
 
 VI. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 EOME is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medici taken, 
 Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has lost il Moro ; 
 Rome is fallen ; and fallen, or falling, heroical Venice. 
 I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single small chit of a girl, 
 sit
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 283 
 
 Moping and mourning here, for her, and myself much 
 
 smaller. 
 
 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 pin- 
 ions of angels 
 
 Unto a far-off home, where the weary rest from their 
 labour, 
 
 And the deep wounds are healed, and the bitter and burn- 
 ing moisture 
 
 Wiped from the generous eyes ? or do they linger, un- 
 happy, 
 
 Pining, and haunting the grave of their by-gone hope and 
 
 endeavour ? 
 
 All declamation, alas ! though I talk, I care not for 
 Rome nor 
 
 Italy; feebly and faintly, and but with the lips, can la- 
 ment the 
 
 Wreck of the Lombard youth, and the victory of the op- 
 pressor. 
 
 Whither depart the brave ? God knows ; I certainly 
 do not. 
 
 VII. MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER. 
 
 HE has not come as yet ; and now I must not expect it. 
 
 You have written, you say, to friends at Florence, to see 
 him, 
 
 If he perhaps should return ; but that is surely un- 
 likely. 
 
 Has he not written to you ? he did not know your di- 
 rection. 
 
 Oh, how strange never once to have told him where you 
 were going ! 
 
 Yet if he only wrote to Florence, that would have reached 
 you. 
 
 If what you say he said was true, why has he not done 
 so? 
 
 Is he gone back to Rome, do you think, to his Vatican 
 marbles ? 
 
 my dear Miss Roper, forgive me ! do not be angry !
 
 284 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 You have written to Florence ; your friends would cer- 
 tainly find him. 
 
 Might you not write to him ? but yet it is so little likely ! 
 
 I shall expect nothing more. Ever yours, your affection- 
 ate Mary. 
 
 VIII. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 I CANNOT stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter. 
 
 Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had 
 cherished 
 
 (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Flor- 
 ence the first time) 
 
 Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than 
 ever, 
 
 Chicken-hearted, past thought. The caffes and waiters 
 distress me. 
 
 All is unkind, and, alas ! I am ready for any one's kind- 
 ness. 
 
 Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection, 
 
 If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all 
 kindness, 
 
 It is the need of it, it is this sad, self-defeating depen- 
 dence. 
 
 Why is this, Eustace ? Myself, were I stronger, I think 
 I could tell you. 
 
 But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of 
 depression, 
 
 Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose. 
 
 All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to 
 do something. 
 
 Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all 
 locks 
 
 Is not / will, but / must. I must, I must, and I do it. 
 
 AFTER all, do I know that I really cared so about her? 
 Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image ; 
 For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter's 
 Or the Pantheon faqade, or Michel Angelo's figures, 
 Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the 
 Forum,
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 285 
 
 But that face, those eyes, ah, no, never anything like 
 
 them ; 
 
 Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline, 
 And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to. 
 After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it ; 
 I have had pain, it is true : I have wept, and so have the 
 
 actors. 
 
 AT the last moment I have your letter, for which I was 
 waiting ; 
 
 I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries. 
 
 Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will 
 vex me. 
 
 Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not 
 be certain ; 
 
 All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was 
 nothing to be changed. 
 
 It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it; 
 
 I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are 
 against us ; 
 
 For it is certain enough I met with the people you men- 
 tion; 
 
 They were at Florence the day I returned there, and 
 spoke to me even; 
 
 Stayed a week, saw me often ; departed, and whither I 
 know not. 
 
 Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence 
 partly. 
 
 What is ordained is right, and all that happens is 
 ordered. 
 
 Ah, no, that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion. 
 
 I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the 
 chances. 
 
 Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear inter- 
 fering. 
 
 IX. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE. 
 
 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,
 
 286 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 x. CLAUDE TO EUSTACE, from Rome. 
 
 ROME will not suit me, Eustace ; the priests and* soldiers 
 
 possess it ; 
 Priests and soldiers : and, ah ! which is the worst, the 
 
 priest or the soldier ? 
 Politics, farewell, however ! For what could I do ? 
 
 with inquiring, 
 Talking, collating the journals, go fever my brain about 
 
 things o'er 
 Which I can have no control. No, happen whatever may 
 
 happen, 
 Time, I suppose, will subsist ; the earth will revolve on 
 
 its axis ; 
 People will travel ; the stranger will wander as now in 
 
 the city ; 
 Borne will be here, and the Pope the custode of Vatican 
 
 marbles. 
 
 I have no heart, however, for any marble or fresco ; 
 I have essayed it in vain ; 'tis in vain as yet to essay 
 
 it: 
 But I may haply resume some day my studies in this 
 
 kind ; 
 Not as the Scripture says, is, I think, the fact. Ere our 
 
 death-day, 
 Faith, I think, does pass, and Love; but Knowledge 
 
 abideth. 
 Let us seek Knowledge ; the rest may come and go as 
 
 it happens. 
 
 Knowledge is hard to seek, and harder yet to adhere to. 
 Knowledge is painful often ; and yet when we know we 
 
 are happy. 
 Seek it, and leave mere Faith and Love to come with the 
 
 chances. 
 
 As for Hope, to-morrow I hope to be starting for Naples. 
 Rome will not do, I see, for many very good reasons. 
 Eastward, then, I suppose, with the coming of winter, 
 
 to Egypt.
 
 AMOURS DE VOYAGE. 287 
 
 XI. MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER. 
 
 You have heard nothing ; of course I know you can have 
 
 heard nothing. 
 Ah, well, more than once I have broken my purpose, and 
 
 sometimes, 
 Only too often, have looked for the little lake steamer to 
 
 bring him. 
 
 But it is only fancy, I do not really expect it. 
 Oh, and you see I know so exactly how he would take it : 
 Finding the chances prevail against meeting again, he 
 
 would banish 
 Forthwith every thought of the poor little possible hope, 
 
 which 
 I myself could not help, perhaps, thinking only too much 
 
 of; 
 
 He would resign himself, and go. I see it exactly. 
 So I also submit, although in a different manner. 
 Can you not really come ? We go very shortly to 
 
 England. 
 
 So go forth to the world, to the good report and the evil I 
 Go, little book I thy tale, is it not evil and good ? 
 
 Go, and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer. 
 Go, and if curious friends ask of thy rearing and age, 
 
 Say, ' I am Jlitting about many years from brain unto brain 
 
 of 
 
 Feeble and restless youths born to inglorious days : 
 But' sojinish the ivord, ' I was writ in a Roman chamber, 
 When from Janiculan heights thundered the cannon of 
 France.'
 
 SEVEN SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT 
 OF DEATH. 1 
 
 THAT children in their loveliness should die 
 
 Before the dawning beauty, which we know 
 
 Cannot remain, has yet begun to go; 
 
 That when a certain period has passed by, 
 
 People of genius and of faculty, 
 
 Leaving behind them some result to show, 
 
 Having performed some function, should forego 
 
 The task which younger hands can better ply, 
 
 Appears entirely natural. But that one 
 
 Whose perfectness did not at all consist 
 
 In things towards forming which time can have done 
 
 Anything, whose sole office was to exist, 
 
 Should suddenly dissolve and cease to be 
 
 Is the extreme of all perplexity. 
 
 ii. 
 
 THAT there are better things within the womb 
 Of Nature than to our unworthy view 
 She grants for a possession, may be true : 
 The cycle of the birthplace and the tomb 
 
 1 These sonnets have been brought together from very imperfect 
 manuscripts. It is not to be supposed that their author would have 
 given them to the public in their present state ; but they are in parts 
 so characteristic of his thought and style, that they will not be without 
 interest to the readers of his poems. 
 
 289
 
 290 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Fulfils at least the order and the doom 
 
 Of earth, that has not ordinance to do 
 
 More than to withdraw and to renew, 
 
 To show one moment and the next resume : 
 
 The law that we return from whence we came, 
 
 May for the flowers, beasts, and most men remain; 
 
 If for ourselves, we ask not nor coinplajn : 
 
 But for a being that demands the name 
 
 We highest deem a Person and a Soul 
 
 It troubles us that this should be the whole. 
 
 in. 
 
 To see the rich autumnal tint depart, 
 And view the fading of the roseate glow 
 That veils some Alpine altitude of snow, 
 To hear of some great masterpiece of art 
 Lost or destroyed, may to the adult heart, 
 Impatient of the transitory show 
 Of lovelinesses that but come and go, 
 A positive strange thankfulness impart. 
 When human pure perfections disappear, 
 Not at the first, but at some later day, 
 The buoyancy of such reaction may 
 With strong assurance conquer blank dismay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 BUT whether in the uncoloured light of truth, 
 This inward strong assurance be, indeed, 
 More than the self-willed arbitrary creed, 
 Manhood's inheritor to the dream of youth ; 
 Whether to shut out fact because forsooth 
 To live were insupportable unfreed, 
 Be not or be the service of untruth : 
 Whether this vital confidence be more 
 Than his who, upon death's immediate brink, 
 Knowing, perforce determines to ignore ; 
 < >r than the bird's, that when the hunter's near, 
 Burying her eyesight, can forget her fear; 
 Who about this shall tell us what to think ?
 
 SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 291 
 
 v. 
 
 IF it is thou whose casual hand withdraws 
 What it at first as casually did make, 
 Say what amount of ages it will take 
 With tardy rare concurrences of laws, 
 And subtle multiplicities of cause, 
 The thing they once had made us to remake ; 
 May hopes dead slumbering dare to reawake, 
 E'en after utmost interval of pause, 
 What revolutions must have passed, before 
 The great celestial cycles shall restore 
 The starry sign whose present hour is gone ; 
 What worse than dubious chances interpose, 
 With cloud and sunny gleams to recompose 
 The skyey picture we had gazed upon. 
 
 VI. 
 
 BUT if as not by that the soul desired 
 
 Swayed in the judgment, wisest men have thought, 
 
 And furnishing the evidence it sought, 
 
 Man's heart hath ever fervently required, 
 
 And story, for that reason deemed inspired, 
 
 To every clime, in every age, hath taught; 
 
 If in this human complex there be aught 
 
 Not lost in death, as not in birth acquired, 
 
 O then, though cold the lips that did convey 
 
 Rich freights of meaning, dead each living sphere 
 
 Where thought abode, and fancy loved to play, 
 
 Thou yet, we think, somewhere somehow still art, 
 
 And satisfied with that the patient heart 
 
 The where and how doth not desire to hear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 SHALL I decide it by a random shot ? 
 
 Our happy hopes, so happy and so good, 
 
 Are not mere idle motions of the blood ; 
 
 And when they seem most baseless, most are not. 
 
 A seed there must have been upon the spot
 
 292 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Where the flowers grow, without it ne'er they could : 
 
 The confidence of growth least understood 
 
 Of some deep intuition was begot. 
 
 What if despair and hope alike be true ? 
 
 The heart, 'tis manifest, is free to do 
 
 Whichever Nature and itself suggest, 
 
 And always 'tis a fact that we are here, 
 
 And with being here, doth palsy-giving fear 
 
 (Whoe'er can ask or hope) accord the best ?
 
 MARI MAGNO; OR, TALES ON BOARD. 1 
 
 A YOUTH was I. An elder friend with me, 
 'Twas in September o'er the autumnal sea 
 We went ; the wide Atlantic ocean o'er 
 Two amongst many the strong steamer bore. 
 
 Delight it was to feel that wondrous force 
 That held us steady to our proposed course, 
 The burning resolute victorious will 
 'Gainst winds and waves that strive unwavering still. 
 Delight it was with each returning day 
 To learn the ship had won upon her way 
 Her sum of miles, delight were mornings grey 
 And gorgeous eves, nor was it less delight, 
 On each more temperate and favouring night, 
 Friend with familiar or with new-found friend, 
 To pace the deck, and o'er the bulwarks bend, 
 And the night watches in long converse spend ; 
 While still new subjects and new thoughts arise 
 Amidst the silence of the seas and skies. 
 
 Amongst the mingled multitude a few, 
 Some three or four, towards us early drew; 
 We proved each other with a day or two ; 
 Night after night some three or four we walked 
 And talked, and talked, and infinitely talked. 
 
 Of the New England ancient blood was one ; 
 His youthful spurs in letters he had won, 
 Unspoilt by that, to Europe late had come, 
 Hope long deferred, and went unspoilt by Europe 
 home. 
 
 1 These Tales were written only a few months before the writer's 
 death, during his journeys in Greece, Italy, and the Pyrenees, and had 
 not been revised by him. 
 
 293
 
 294 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 What racy tales of Yankeeland he had ! 
 Up-country girl, up-country farmer lad ; 
 The regnant clergy of the time of old 
 In wig and gown ; tales not to be retold 
 By me. I could but spoil were I to tell : 
 Himself must do it who can do it well. 
 
 An English clergyman came spick and span 
 In black and white a large well-favoured man, 
 "Fifty years old, as near as one could guess. 
 He looked the dignitary more or less. 
 A rural dean, I said, he was, at least, 
 Canon perhaps ; at many a good man's feast 
 A guest had been, amongst the choicest there. 
 Manly his voice and manly was his air : 
 At the first sight you felt he had not known 
 The things pertaining to his cloth alone. 
 Chairman of Quarter Sessions had he been ? 
 Serious and calm, 'twas plain he much had seen, 
 Had miscellaneous large experience had 
 Of human acts, good, half and half, and bad. 
 Serious and calm, yet lurked, I know not why, 
 At times, a softness in his voice and eye. 
 Some shade of ill a prosperous life had crossed ; 
 Married no doubt : a wife or child had lost ? 
 He never told us why he passed the sea. 
 
 My guardian friend was now, at thirty-three, 
 A rising lawyer ever, at the best, 
 Slow rises worth in lawyer's gown compressed; 
 Succeeding now, yet just, and only just, 
 His new success he never seemed to trust. 
 By nature he to gentlest thoughts inclined, 
 To most severe had disciplined his mind ; 
 He held it duty to be half unkind. 
 Bitter, they said, who but the exterior knew ; 
 In friendship never was a friend so true : 
 The unwelcome fact he did not shrink to tell, 
 The good, if fact, he recognised as well. 
 Stout to maintain, if not the first to see ; 
 In conversation who so great as he ? 
 Leading but seldom, always sure to guide, 
 To false or silly, if 'twas borne aside, 
 His quick correction silent he expressed, 
 And stopped you short, and forced you to your best.
 
 MARI MAGNO. 295 
 
 Often, I think, he suffered from some pain 
 Of mind, that on the body worked again ; 
 One felt it in his sort of half-disdain, 
 Impatient not, but acrid in his speech ; 
 The world with him her lesson failed to teach 
 To take things easily and let them go. 
 
 He, for what special fitness I scarce know, 
 For which good quality, or if for all, 
 With less of reservation and recall 
 And speedier favour than I e'er had seen, 
 Took, as we called him, to the rural dean. 
 As grew the gourd, as grew the stalk of bean, 
 So swift it seemed, betwixt these differing two 
 A stately trunk of confidence up-grew. 
 
 Of marriage long one night they held discourse ; 
 Regarding it in different ways, of course. 
 Marriage is discipline, the wise had said, 
 A needful human discipline to wed ; 
 Novels of course depict it final bliss, 
 Say, had it ever really once been this ? 
 
 Our Yankee friend (whom, ere the night was done, 
 We called New England or the Pilgrim Son), 
 A little tired made bold to interfere ; 
 ' Appeal,' he said, ' to me ; my sentence hear. 
 You'll reason on till night and reason fail ; 
 My judgment is you each shall tell a tale ; 
 And as 011 marriage you cannot agree, 
 Of love and marriage let the stories be.' 
 Sentence delivered, as the younger man, 
 My lawyer friend was called on and began. 
 ' Infandum jubes ! 'tis of long ago, 
 If tell I must, I tell the tale I know : 
 Yet the first person using for the freak, 
 Don't rashly judge that of myself I speak.' 
 So to his tale ; if of himself or not 
 I never learnt, we thought so on the spot. 
 Lightly he told it as a thing of old, 
 And lightly I repeat it as he told.
 
 296 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 THE LAWYEK'S FIRST TALE. 
 Primitice, or Third Cousins. 
 
 ' DEAREST of boys, please come to-day, 
 Papa and mama have bid me say, 
 They hope you'll dine with us at three ; 
 They will be out till then, you see, 
 But you will start at once, you know, 
 And come, as fast as you can go. 
 Next week they hope you'll come and stay 
 Some time before you go away. 
 Dear boy, how pleasant it will be ! 
 Ever your dearest Emily ! ' 
 
 Twelve years of age was I, and she 
 Fourteen, when thus she wrote to me, 
 A schoolboy, with an uncle spending 
 My holidays, then nearly ending. 
 My uncle lived the mountain o'er, 
 A rector, and a bachelor ; 
 The vicarage was by the sea, 
 That was the home of Emily : 
 The windows to the front looked down 
 Across a single-streeted town, 
 Far as to where Worms-head was seen, 
 Dim with ten watery miles between ; 
 The Carnedd mountains on the right 
 With stony masses filled the sight ; 
 To left the open sea ; the bay 
 In a blue plain before you lay. 
 
 A garden, full of fruit, extends, 
 Stone-walled, above the house, and ends 
 With a locked door, that by a porch 
 Admits to churchyard and to church ; 
 Farm-buildings nearer on one side, 
 And glebe, and then the country wide. 
 
 I and my cousin Emily 
 Were cousins in the third degree ; 
 My mother near of kin was reckoned 
 To hers, who was my mother's second :
 
 MARI MAGNO. 297 
 
 My cousinship I held from her. 
 Such an amount of girls there were, 
 At first one really was perplexed : 
 'Twas Patty first, and Lydia next, 
 And Emily the third, and then, 
 Philippa, Phoebe, Mary Gwen. 
 Six were they, you perceive, in all ; 
 And portraits fading on the wall, 
 Grandmothers, heroines of old, 
 And aunts of aunts, with scrolls that told 
 Their names and dates, were there to show 
 Why these had all been christened so. 
 
 The crowd of blooming daughters fair, 
 Scarce let you see the mother there, 
 And by her husband, large and tall, 
 She looked a little shrunk and small ; 
 Although my mother used to tell 
 That once she was a county belle : 
 Busied she seemed, and half-distress'd 
 For him and them to do the best. 
 
 The vicar was of bulk and thews, 
 Six feet he stood within his shoes, 
 And every inch of all a man ; 
 Ecclesiast on the ancient plan, 
 Unforced by any party rule 
 His native character to school ; 
 In ancient learning not unread, 
 But had few doctrines in his head ; 
 Dissenters truly he abhorr'd, 
 They never had his gracious word. 
 He ne'er was bitter or unkind, 
 But positively spoke his mind. 
 Their piety he could not bear, 
 A sneaking snivelling set they were : 
 Their tricks and meanness fired his blood; 
 Up for his Church he stoutly stood. 
 No worldly aim had he in life 
 To set him with himself at strife ; 
 A spade a spade he freely named, 
 And of his joke was not ashamed, 
 Made it and laughed at it, be sure, 
 With young and old, and rich and poor. 
 His sermons frequently he took
 
 298 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Out of some standard reverend book ; 
 They seemed a little strange, indeed, 
 But were not likely to mislead. 
 Others he gave that were his own, 
 The difference could be quickly known. 
 
 Though sorry not to have a boy, 
 His daughters were his perfect joy ; 
 He plagued them, oft drew tears from each, 
 Was bold and hasty in his speech ; 
 All through the house you heard him call, 
 He had his vocatives for all : 
 Patty Patina, Pat became, 
 Lydia took Languish with her name, 
 Philippa was the Gentle Queen, 
 And Phcebe, Madam Proserpine ; 
 The pseudonyms for Mary Gwen 
 Varied with every week again ; 
 But Emily, of all the set, 
 Emilia called, was most the pet. 
 
 Soon as her messenger had come, 
 I started from my uncle's home, 
 On an old pony scrambling down 
 Over the mountain to the town. 
 My cousins met me at the door, 
 And some behind, and some before, 
 Kissed me all round and kissed again, 
 The happy custom there and then, 
 From. Patty down to Mary Gwen. 
 
 Three hours we had, and spent in play 
 About the garden and the hay ; 
 We sat upon the half-built stack ; 
 And when 'twas time for hurrying back, 
 Slyly away the others hied, 
 And took the ladder from the side ; 
 Emily there, alone with me, 
 Was left in close captivity ; 
 But down the stack at last I slid, 
 And found the ladder they had hid. 
 
 I left at six; again I went 
 Soon after and a fortnight spent : 
 Drawing, by Patty I was taught, 
 But could not be to music brought, ; 
 I showed them how to play at chess,
 
 MARI MAGNO. 299 
 
 I argued with the governess ; 
 
 I called them stupid ; why, to me 
 
 'Twas evident as A 13 C ; 
 
 Were not the reasons such and such ? 
 
 Helston, my schoolfellow, but much 
 My senior, in a yacht came o'er, 
 His uncle with him, from the shore 
 Under Worms-head : to take a sail 
 He pressed them, but could not prevail , 
 Mama was timid, durst not go, 
 Papa was rather gruff with no. 
 Helston no sooner was afloat, 
 We made a party in a boat, 
 And rowed to Sea-Mew Island out, 
 And landed there and roved about : 
 And I and Emily out of reach, 
 Strayed from the rest along the beach. 
 Turning to look into a cave 
 She stood, when suddenly a wave 
 Ran up; I caught her by the frock, 
 And pulled her out and o'er a rock, 
 So doing, stumbled, rolled, and fell. 
 She knelt down; I remember well, 
 Bid me where I was hurt to tell, 
 And kissed me three times as I lay ; 
 But I jumped up and limped away. 
 The next was my departing day. 
 
 Patty arranged it all with me 
 To send next year to Emily 
 A valentine. I wrote and sent ; 
 For the fourteenth it duly went. 
 On the fourteenth what should there be 
 But one from Emily to me ; 
 The postmark left it plain to see. 
 Mine, though they praised it at the time, 
 Was but a formal piece of rhyme. 
 She sent me one that she had bought; 
 'Twas stupid of her, as I thought : 
 Why not have written one ? She wrote, 
 However, soon, this little note. 
 
 1 Dearest of boys, of course 'twas you ; 
 You printed, but your hand I knew, 
 And verses too, how did you learn ?
 
 300 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I can't send any in return. 
 
 Papa declares they are not bad 
 
 That's praise from him and I'm so glad 
 
 Because you know no one can be 
 
 I'd rather have to write to me. 
 
 1 Our governess is going away, 
 We're so distressed she cannot stay: 
 Mama had made it quite a rule 
 We none of us should go to school. 
 But what to do they do not know, 
 Papa protests it must be so. 
 Lydia and I may have to go ; 
 Patty will try to teach the rest, 
 Mama agrees it will be best. 
 Dear boy, good-by, I am, you see, 
 Ever your dearest Emily. 
 We want to know, so write and tell, 
 If you'd a valentine as well.' 
 
 ii. 
 
 FIVE tardy years were fully spent 
 
 Ere next my cousins' way I went ; 
 
 With Christmas then I came to see 
 
 My uncle in his rectory : 
 
 But they the town had left; no more 
 
 Were in the vicarage of yore. 
 
 When time his sixtieth year had brought, 
 
 An easier cure the vicar sought : 
 
 A country parsonage was made 
 
 Sufficient, amply, with the aid 
 
 Of mortar here and there, and bricks, 
 
 For him and wife and children six. 
 
 Though neighbours now, there scarce was light 
 
 To see them and return ere night. 
 
 Emily wrote : how glad they were 
 To hear of my arrival there ; 
 Mama had bid her say that all 
 The house was crowded for the ball 
 Till Tuesday, but if I would come, 
 She thought that they could find me room ; 
 The week with them I then should spend, 
 But really must the ball attend ;
 
 MART MAGNO. 3Ul 
 
 ' Dear cousin, you have been away 
 For such an age, pray don't delay, 
 But come and do not lose a day.' 
 
 A schoolboy still, but now, indeed, 
 About to college to proceed, 
 Dancing was, let it be confess'd, 
 To me no pleasure at the best : 
 Of girls and of their lovely looks 
 I thought not, busy with my books. 
 Still, though a little ill-content, 
 Upon the Monday morn I went : 
 My cousins, each and all, I found 
 Wondrously grown ! They kissed me round, 
 And so affectionate and good 
 They were, it could not be withstood, 
 Emily, I was so surprised, 
 At first I hardly recognised ; 
 Her face so formed and rounded now, 
 Such knowledge in her eyes and brow ; 
 For all I read and thought I knew, 
 She could divine me through and through. 
 Where had she been, and what had done, 
 I asked, such victory to have won ? 
 She had not studied, had not read, 
 Seemed to have little in her head, 
 Yet of herself the right and true, 
 As of her own experience knew. 
 Straight from her eyes her judgments flew, 
 Like absolute decrees they ran, 
 From mine, on such a different plan. 
 
 A simple county country ball 
 It was to be, not grand at all ; 
 And cousins four with me would dance, 
 And keep me well in countenance. 
 And there were people there to be 
 Who knew of old my family, 
 Friends of my friends I heard and knew, 
 And tried ; but no, it would not do. 
 Somehow it seemed a sort of thing 
 To which my strength I could not bring; 
 The music scarcely touched my ears, 
 The figures fluttered me with fears. 
 I talked; but had not aught to say,
 
 302 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Danced, my instructions to obey ; 
 E'en when with beautiful good-will 
 Emilia through the long quadrille 
 Conducted me, alas the day, 
 Ten times I wished myself away. 
 
 But she, invested with a dower 
 Of conscious, scarce-exerted power, 
 Emilia, so, I know not why, 
 They called her now, not Emily, 
 Amid the living, heaving throng, 
 Sedately, somewhat, moved along, 
 Serenely, somewhat, in the dance 
 Mingled, divining at a glance, 
 And reading every countenance; 
 Not stately she, nor grand nor tall, 
 Yet looked as if controlling all 
 The fluctuations of the ball ; 
 Her subjects ready at her call, 
 All others, she a queen, her throne 
 Preparing, and her title known, 
 Though not yet taken as her own. 
 O wonderful ! I still can see, 
 And twice she came and danced with me. 
 
 She asked me of my school, and what 
 Those prizes were that I had got, 
 And what we learnt, and ' oh,' she said, 
 ' How much to carry in one's head,' 
 And I must be upon my guard, 
 And really must not work too hard : 
 Who were my friends ? and did I go 
 Ever to balls ? I told her no : 
 She said, ' I really like them so ; 
 But then I am a girl ; and dear, 
 You like your friends at school, I fear 
 Better than anybody here.' 
 How long had she left school, I asked. 
 Two years, she told me, and I tasked 
 My faltering speech to learn about 
 Her life, but could not bring it out : 
 This while the dancers round us flew. 
 
 Helston, whom formerly I knew, 
 My schoolfellow, was at the ball, 
 A man full-statured, fair and tall,
 
 MARI MAG NO. 303 
 
 Helston of Helston now they said, 
 Heir to his uncle, who was dead ; 
 In the army, too : he danced with three 
 Of the four sisters. Emily 
 Refused him once, to dance with me. 
 
 How long it seemed ! and yet at one 
 We left, before 'twas nearly done : 
 How thankful I ! the journey through 
 I talked to them with spirits new ; 
 And the brief sleep of closing night 
 Brought a sensation of delight, 
 Which, when I woke, was exquisite. 
 The music moving in my brain 
 I felt ; in the gay crowd again 
 Half felt, half saw the girlish bands, 
 On their Avhite skirts their white-gloved hands, 
 Advance, retreat, and yet advance, 
 And mingle in the mingling dance. 
 The impulse had arrived at last, 
 When the opportunity was past. 
 
 Breakfast my soft sensations first 
 With livelier passages dispersed. 
 
 Reposing in his country home, 
 Which half luxurious had become, 
 Gay was their father, loudly flung 
 His guests and blushing girls among, 
 His jokes ; and she, their mother, too, 
 Less anxious seemed, with less to do, 
 Her daughters aiding. As the day 
 Advanced, the others went away, 
 But I must absolutely stay, 
 The girls cried out ; I stayed and let 
 Myself be once more half their pet, 
 Although a little on the fret. 
 
 How ill our boyhood understands 
 Incipient manhood's strong demands ! 
 Boys have such troubles of their own, 
 As none, they fancy, e'er have known, 
 Such as to speak of, or to tell, 
 They hold, were unendurable : 
 Religious, social, of all kinds, 
 That tear and agitate their minds. 
 A thousand thoughts within me stirred,
 
 304 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Of which I could not speak a word ; 
 Strange efforts after something new, 
 Which I was wretched not to do ; 
 Passions, ambitions lay and lurked, 
 Wants, counter-wants, obscurely worked 
 Without their names, and unexplained. 
 And where had Emily obtained 
 Assurance, and had ascertained ? 
 How strange, how far behind was I, 
 And how it came, I asked, and why ? 
 How was it, and how could it be, 
 And what was all that worked in me ? 
 
 They used to scold me when I read, 
 And bade me talk to them instead ; 
 When I absconded to my room, 
 To fetch me out they used to come ; 
 Oft by myself I went to walk, 
 But, by degrees, was got to talk. 
 
 The year had cheerfully begun, 
 With more than winter's wonted sun, 
 Mountains, in the green garden ways, 
 Gleamed through the laurel and the bays. 
 I well remember letting out 
 One day, as there I looked about, 
 While they of girls discoursing sat, 
 This one how sweet, how lovely that, 
 That I could greater pleasure take 
 In looking on Llynidwil lake 
 Than on the fairest female face : 
 They could not understand : a place ! 
 Incomprehensible it seemed ; 
 Philippa looked as if she dreamed, 
 Patty and Lydia loud exclaimed, 
 And I already was ashamed, 
 When Emily asked, half apart, 
 If to the lake I'd given my heart ; 
 And did the lake, she wished to learn, 
 My tender sentiment return. 
 For music, too, I would not care, 
 Which was an infinite despair : 
 When Lydia took her seat to play, 
 I read a book, or walked away. 
 
 I was not quite composed, I own,
 
 MART MAGNO. 305 
 
 Except when with the girls alone ; 
 
 Looked to their father still with fear 
 
 Of how to him I must appear ; 
 
 And was entirely put to shame, 
 
 When once some rough he-cousins came. 
 
 Yet Emily from all distress 
 
 Could reinstate me, more or less ; 
 
 How pleasant by her side to walk, 
 
 How beautiful to let her talk, 
 
 How charming ; yet, by slow degrees, 
 
 I got impatient, ill at ease ; 
 
 Half glad, half wretched, when at last 
 
 The visit ended, and 'twas past. 
 
 in. 
 
 NEXT year I went and spent a week, 
 And certainly had learnt to speak ; 
 My chains I forcibly had broke, 
 And now too much indeed I spoke. 
 
 A mother sick and seldom seen 
 A grief for many months had been, 
 Their father too was feebler, years 
 Were heavy, and there had been fears 
 Some months ago ; and he was vexed 
 With party heats and all perplexed 
 With an upheaving modern change 
 To him and his old wisdom strange. 
 The daughters all were there, not one 
 Had yet to other duties run, 
 Their father, people used to say, 
 Frightened the wooers all away ; 
 As vines around an ancient stem, 
 They clung and clustered upon him, 
 Him loved and tended ; above all, 
 Emilia, ever at his call. 
 But I was intellectual ; 
 
 I talked in high superior tone 
 Of things the girls had never known, 
 Far wiser to have let alone ; 
 Things which the father knew in short 
 By country clerical report; 
 I talked of much I thought I knew,
 
 306 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Used all my college wit anew, 
 A little on my fancy drew ; 
 Religion, politics, me ! 
 No subject great enough could be. 
 In vain, more weak in spirit grown, 
 At times he tried to put me down. 
 I own it was the want, in part, 
 Of any discipline of heart. 
 It was, now hard at work again, 
 The busy argufying brain 
 Of the prize schoolboy ; but, indeed, 
 Much more, if right the thing I read, 
 It was the instinctive wish to try 
 And, above all things, not be shy. 
 Alas ! it did not do at all ; 
 111 went the visit, ill the ball ; 
 Each hour I felt myself grow worse. 
 With every effort more perverse. 
 I tried to change ; too hard, indeed, 
 I tried, and never could succeed. 
 Out of sheer spite an extra day 
 I stayed ; but when I went away, 
 Alas, the farewells were not warm, 
 The kissing was the merest form ; 
 Emilia was distraite and sad, 
 And everything was bad as bad. 
 
 had some happy chance fall'n out, 
 
 To turn the thing just round about, 
 
 In time at least to give anew 
 
 The old affectionate adieu ! 
 
 A little thing, a word, a jest, 
 
 A laugh, had set us all at rest ; 
 
 But nothing came. I went away, 
 
 And could have really cried that day, 
 
 So vexed, for I had meant so well, 
 
 Yet everything so ill befell, 
 
 And why and how I could not tell. 
 
 Our wounds in youth soon close and heal, 
 Or seem to close ; young people feel, 
 And suffer greatly, I believe, 
 But then they can't profess to grieve:
 
 MARl MAGNO. 307 
 
 Their pleasures occupy them more, 
 
 And they have so much time before. 
 
 At twenty life appeared to me 
 
 A sort of vague infinity ; 
 
 And though of changes still I heard, 
 
 Real changes had not yet occurred : 
 
 And all things were, or would be, well, 
 
 And nothing irremediable. 
 
 The youth for his degree that reads 
 
 Beyond it nothing knows or needs 
 
 Nor till 'tis over wakes to see 
 
 The busy world's reality. 
 
 One visit brief I made again 
 In autumn next but one, and then 
 All better found. With Mary Gwen 
 I talked, a schoolgirl just about 
 To leave this winter and come out, 
 Patty and Lydia were away, 
 And a strange sort of distance lay 
 Betwixt me and Emilia. 
 She sought me less, and I was shy. 
 And yet this time I think that I 
 More subtly felt, more saw, more knew 
 The beauty into which she grew ; 
 More understood the meanings now 
 Of the still eyes and rounded brow, 
 And could, perhaps, have told you how 
 The intellect that crowns our race 
 To more than beauty in her face 
 Was changed. But I confuse from hence 
 The later and the earlier sense. 
 
 IV. 
 
 HAVE you the Giesbach seen ? a fall 
 In Switzerland you say, that's all ; 
 That, and an inn, from which proceeds 
 A path that to the Faulhorn leads, 
 From whence you see the world of snows. 
 Few see how perfect in repose, 
 White green, the lake lies deeply set, 
 Where, slowly purifying yet,
 
 308 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 The icy river-floods retain 
 A something of the glacier stain. 
 Steep cliffs arise the waters o'er, 
 The Giesbach leads you to a shore, 
 And to one still sequestered bay 
 I found elsewhere a scrambling way. 
 Above, the loftier heights ascend, 
 And level platforms here extend 
 The mountains and the cliffs between, 
 With firs and grassy spaces green, 
 And little dips and knolls to show 
 In part or whole the lake below ; 
 And all exactly at the height 
 To make the pictiires exquisite. 
 Most exquisite they seemed to me, 
 When, a year after my degree, 
 Passing upon my journey home 
 From Greece, and Sicily, and Koine, 
 I stayed at that minute hotel 
 Six days, or eight, I cannot tell. 
 Twelve months had led me fairly through 
 The old world surviving in the new. 
 From Eome with joy I passed to Greece, 
 To Athens and the Peloponnese ; 
 Sahited with supreme delight 
 The Parthenon-surmounted height ; 
 In huts at Delphi made abode, 
 And in Arcadian valleys rode ; 
 Counted the towns that lie like slain 
 Upon the wide Boeotian plain ; 
 With wonder in the spacious gloom 
 Stood of the Mycenaean tomb ; 
 From the Acrocorinth watched the day 
 Light the eastern and the western bay. 
 Constantinople then had seen, 
 Where, by her cypresses, the queen 
 Of the East sees now through portals wide 
 The steady streaming Scythian tide ; 
 And after, from Scamander's mouth, 
 Went up to Troy, and to the South, 
 To Lycia, Caria, pressed, at whiles 
 Outvoyaging to Egean. isles. 
 To see the things which, sick with doubt
 
 MART MAGNO. 309 
 
 And comment, one had learnt about, 
 
 Was like clear morning after night, 
 
 Or raising of the blind to sight. 
 
 Aware it might .be first and last, 
 
 I did it eagerly and fast, 
 
 And took unsparingly my fill. 
 
 The impetus of travel still 
 
 Urged me, but laden, half oppress'd, 
 
 Here lighting on a place of rest, 
 
 I yielded, asked not if 'twere best. 
 
 Pleasant it was, reposing here, 
 
 To sum the experience of the year, 
 
 And let the accumulated gain 
 
 Assort itself upon the brain. 
 
 Travel's a miniature life. 
 
 Travel is evermore a strife, 
 
 Where he must run who would obtain. 
 
 'Tis a perpetual loss and gain ; 
 
 For sloth and error dear we pay, 
 
 By luck and effort win our way, 
 
 And both have need of every day. 
 
 Each day has got its sight to see, 
 
 Each day must put to profit be ; 
 
 Pleasant, when seen are all the sights, 
 
 To let them think themselves to rights. 
 
 I on the Giesbach turf reclined, 
 
 Half watched this process in my mind ; 
 
 Watch the stream purifying slow, 
 
 In me and in the lake below ; 
 
 And then began to think of home, 
 
 And possibilities to come. 
 
 Brienz, on our Brienzer See 
 
 From Interlaken every day 
 
 A steamer seeks, and at our pier 
 
 Lets out a crowd to see things here ; 
 
 Up a steep path they pant and strive; 
 
 When to the level they arrive, 
 
 Dispersing, hither, thither, run, 
 
 For all must rapidly be done, 
 
 And seek, with questioning and din, 
 
 Some the cascade, and some the inn, 
 
 The waterfall, for if you look,
 
 310 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 You find it printed in the book 
 That man or woman, so inclined, 
 May pass the very fall behind ; 
 So many feet there intervene 
 The rock and flying jet between; 
 The inn, 'tis also in the plan 
 (For tourist is a hungry man), 
 And a small salle repeats by rote, 
 A daily task of table d'hdte, 
 Where broth and meat, and country wine 
 Assure the strangers that they dine ; 
 Do it they must while they have power, 
 For in three-quarters of an hour 
 Back comes the steamer from Brienz, 
 And with one clear departure hence 
 The quietude is more intense. 
 
 It was my custom at the top 
 To stand and see them clambering up, 
 Then take advantage of the start, 
 And pass into the woods apart. 
 
 It happened, and I know not why, 
 I once returned too speedily ; 
 And, seeing women still and men, 
 Was swerving to the woods again, 
 But for a moment stopped to seize 
 A glance at some one near the trees ; 
 A figure full, but full of grace, 
 Its movement beautified the place. 
 It turns, advances, comes my way ; 
 What do I see, what do I say ? 
 Yet, to a statelier beauty grown, 
 It is, it can be, she alone ! 
 mountains round ! O heaven above ! 
 It is Emilia, whom I love ; 
 ' Emilia, whom I love,' the word 
 Rose to my lips, as yet unheard, 
 When she, whose colour flushed to red, 
 In a soft voice, ' My husband,' said ; 
 And Helston came up with his hand, 
 And both of them took mine ; but stand 
 And talk they could not, they must go; 
 The steamer rang her bell below; 
 How curious that I did not know!
 
 MART MAGNO. 311 
 
 They were to go and stay at Thun, 
 Could I come there and see them soon ? 
 Arid shortly were returning home, 
 And when would I to Helston come ? 
 Thus down we went, I put them in ; 
 Off went the steamer with a din, 
 And on the pier I stood and eyed 
 The bridegroom, seated by the bride 
 Emilia closing to his side. 
 
 v. 
 
 SHE wrote from Helston ; begged I'd come 
 
 And see her in her husband's home. 
 
 I went, and bound by double vow, 
 
 Not only wife, but mother now, 
 
 I found her, lovely as of old, 
 
 0, rather, lovelier manifold. 
 
 Her wifely sweet reserve unbroke, 
 
 Still frankly, tenderly, she spoke ; 
 
 Asked me about myself, would hear 
 
 What I proposed to do this year ; 
 
 At college why was I detained, 
 
 Was it the fellowship I'd gained ? 
 
 I told her that I was not tied 
 Henceforward further to reside, 
 Yet very likely might stay on, 
 And lapse into a college don ; 
 My fellowship itself would give 
 A competence on which to live, 
 And if I waited, who could tell, 
 I might be tutor too, as well. 
 O, but, she said, I must not stay, 
 College and school were only play ; 
 I might be sick, perhaps, of praise, 
 But must not therefore waste my days! 
 Fellows grow indolent, and then 
 They may not do as other men, 
 And for your happiness in life, 
 Sometime you'll wish to have a wife. 
 
 Languidly by her chair I sat, 
 But my eyes rather flashed at that.
 
 312 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I said, ' Emilia, people change, 
 But yet, I own, I find it strange 
 To hear this common talk from you : 
 You speak, and some believe it true, 
 Just as if any wife would do; 
 Whoe'er one takes, 'tis much the same, 
 And love and so forth, but a name.' 
 She coloured. < What can I have said 
 Or what could put it in your head ? 
 Indeed, I had not in my mind 
 The faintest notion of the kind.' 
 
 I told her that I did not know 
 Her tone appeared to mean it so. 
 ' Emilia, when I've heard,' I said, 
 1 How people match themselves and wed, 
 I've sometimes wished that both were dead.' 
 
 She turned a little pale. I woke 
 Some thought ; what thought ? but soft she spoke 
 ' I'm sure that what you meant was good, 
 But, really, you misunderstood. 
 From point to point so quick you fly, 
 And are so vehement, and I, 
 As you remember, long ago, 
 Am stupid, certainly am slow. 
 And yet some things I seem to know ; 
 I know it will be just a crime, 
 If you should waste your powers and time. 
 There is so much, T think, that you, 
 And no one equally, can do.' 
 'It does not matter much,' said I. 
 ' The things I thought of are gone by ; 
 I'm quite content to wait to die.' 
 
 A sort of beauteous anger spread 
 Over her face. ' me ! ' she said, 
 'That you should sit and trifle so, 
 And you so utterly don't know 
 How greatly you have yet to grow, 
 How wide your objects have to expand, 
 How much is yet an unknown land ! 
 You're twenty-three, I'm twenty-five, 
 And I am so much more alive.'
 
 MARI MAGNO. 313 
 
 My eyes I shaded with my hand, 
 And almost lost my self-command. 
 I muttered something : ' Yes, I see ; 
 Two years have severed you from me. 
 0, Emily, was it ever told,' 
 I asked, ' that souls are young and old ? ' 
 
 But she, continuing, ' All the day 
 Were I to speak, I could but say 
 The one same thing the one same way. 
 Sometimes, indeed, I think, you know,' 
 And her tone suddenly was low, 
 ' That in a day we yet shall see, 
 You of my sisters and of me, 
 And of the'things that used to be, 
 Will think, as you look back again, 
 With something not unlike disdain ; 
 So you your rightful place obtain, 
 That will to me be joy, not pain.' 
 Her voice still lower, lower fell, 
 I heard, just heard, each syllable. 
 ' But,' in the tone she used before, 
 ' Don't stay at college any more ! 
 For others it perhaps may do, 
 I'm sure it will be bad for you.' 
 
 She softened me. The following day 
 We parted. As I went away 
 Her infant on her bosom lay, 
 And, as a mother might her boy, 
 I think she would with loving joy 
 Have kissed me ; but I turned to go, 
 'Twas better not to have it so. 
 
 Next year achieved me some amends, 
 And once we met and met as friends. 
 Friends, yet apart ; I had not much 
 Valued her judgment, though to touch 
 Her words had power ; yet strangely still, 
 It had been cogent on my will. 
 As she had counselled, I had done, 
 And a new effort was begun. 
 Forth to the war of life I went, 
 Courageous, and not ill content.
 
 314 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 ' Yours is the fault I opened thus again 
 
 A youthful, ancient, sentimental vein,' 
 
 He said, ' and like Munchausen's horn o'erflow 
 
 With liquefying tunes of long ago. 
 
 My wiser friend, who knows for what we live, 
 
 And what shall seek, will his correction give.' 
 
 We all made thanks. ' My tale were quickly told,' 
 The other said, ' but the turned heavens behold ; 
 The night two watches of the night is old, 
 The sinking stars their suasions urge for sleep. 
 My story for to-morrow night will keep.' 
 
 The evening after, when the day was stilled, 
 His promise thus the clergyman fulfilled. 
 
 THE CLERGYMAN'S FIRST TALE. 
 
 Love is fellow-service. 
 
 A YOUTH and maid upon a summer night 
 
 Upon the lawn, while yet the skies were light, 
 
 Edmund and Emma, let their names be these, 
 
 Among the shrubs within the circling trees, 
 
 Joined in a game with boys and girls at play : 
 
 For games perhaps too old a little they ; 
 
 In April she her eighteenth year begun, 
 
 And twenty he, and near to twenty-one. 
 
 A game it was of running and of noise; 
 
 He as a boy with other girls and boys 
 
 (Her sisters and her brothers), took the fun; 
 
 And when her turn, she marked not, came to run, 
 
 ' Emma/ he called, then knew that he was wrong, 
 
 Knew that her name to him did not belong. 
 
 Her look and manner proved his feeling true, 
 
 A child no more, her womanhood she knew ; 
 
 Half was the colour mounted on her face, 
 
 Her tardy movement had an adult grace. 
 
 Vcxcil with himself, and shamed, he felt the more 
 
 A kind of joy he ne'er had felt before. 
 
 Something there was that from this date began; 
 
 'Twas beautiful with her to be a man.
 
 MARI MAGNO. 315 
 
 Two years elapsed, and he who went and came, 
 Changing in much, in this appeared the same ; 
 The feeling if it did not greatly grow, 
 Endured and was not wholly hid below. 
 
 He now, o'ertasked at school, a serious boy, 
 A sort of after-boyhood to enjoy 
 Appeared in vigour and in spirit high 
 And manly grown, but kept the boy's soft eye : 
 And full of blood, and strong and lithe of limb, 
 To him 'twas pleasure now to ride, to swim ; 
 The peaks, the glens, the torrents tempted him. 
 Restless he seemed, long distances would walk, 
 And lively was, and vehement in talk. 
 A wandering life his life had lately been, 
 Books he had read, the world had little seen. 
 One former frailty haunted him, a touch 
 Of something introspective overmuch. 
 With all his eager motions still there went 
 A self-correcting and ascetic bent, 
 That from the obvious good still led astray, 
 And set him travelling on the longest way ; 
 Seen in these scattered notes their date that claim 
 When first his feeling conscious sought a name. 
 
 'Beside the wishing gate which so they name, 
 'Mid northern hills to me this fancy came, 
 A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed : 
 Would I could wish my wishes all to rest, 
 And know to wish the wish that were the best ! 
 for some winnowing wind, to the empty air 
 This chaff of easy sympathies to bear 
 Far off, and leave me of myself aware ! 
 While thus this over health deludes me still, 
 So willing that I know not what I will ; 
 for some friend, or more than friend, austere, 
 To make me know myself, and make me fear ! 
 for some touch, too noble to be kind, 
 To awake to life the mind within the mind ! ' 
 
 '0 charms, seductions and divine delights ! 
 All through the radiant yellow summer nights, 
 Dreams, hardly dreams, that yield or e'er they're done, 
 To the bright fact, my day, my risen sun ! 
 promise and fulfilment, both in one ! 
 bliss, already bliss, which nought has shared,
 
 316 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Whose glory no fruition has impaired, 
 
 And, emblem of my state, thou coming day, 
 
 With all thy hours unspent to pass away ! 
 
 Why do I wait ? What more propose to know ? 
 
 Where the sweet mandate bids me, let me go ; 
 
 My conscience in my impulse let me find, 
 
 Justification in the moving mind, 
 
 Law in the strong desire ; or yet behind, 
 
 Say, is there aught the spell that has not heard, 
 
 A something that refuses to be stirred ? ' 
 
 ' In other regions has my being heard 
 Of a strange language the diviner word ? 
 Has some forgotten life the exemplar shown ? 
 Elsewhere such high communion have I known, 
 As dooms me here, in this, to live alone ? 
 Then love, that shouldest blind me, let me, love, 
 Nothing behold beyond thee or above ; 
 Ye impulses, that should be strong and wild, 
 Beguile me, if I am to be beguiled ! ' 
 
 ' Or are there modes of love, and different kinds, 
 Proportioned to the sizes of our minds ? 
 There are who say thus, I held there was one, 
 One love, one deity, one central sun ; 
 As he resistless brings the expanding day, 
 So love should come on his victorious way. 
 If light at all, can light indeed be there, 
 Yet only permeate half the ambient air ? 
 Can the high noon be regnant in the sky, 
 Yet half the land in light, and half in darkness lie ? 
 Can love, if love, be occupant in part, 
 Hold, as it were, some chambers in the heart; 
 Tenant at will of so much of the soul, 
 Not lord and mighty master of the whole ? 
 There are who say, and say that it is well ; 
 Opinion all, of knowledge none can tell.' 
 
 ' Montaigne, I know in a realm high above 
 Places the seat of friendship over love ; 
 'Tis not in love that we should think to find 
 The lofty fellowship of mind with mind; 
 Love's not a joy where soul and soul unite, 
 Rather a wondrous animal delight ; 
 And as in spring, for one consummate hour 
 The world of vegetation turns to flower,
 
 MARI MAGNO. 317 
 
 The birds with liveliest plumage trim their wing, 
 And all the woodland listens as they sing ; 
 When spring is o'er and summer days are sped, 
 The songs are silent, and the blossoms dead : 
 E'en so of man and woman is the bliss. 
 0, but I will not tamely yield to this ! 
 I think it only shows us in the end, 
 Montaigne was happy in a noble friend, 
 Had not the fortune of a noble wife ; 
 He lived, I think, a poor ignoble life. 
 And wrote of petty pleasures, petty pain ; 
 I do not greatly think about Montaigne.' 
 
 ' How charming to be with her ! yet indeed, 
 After a while I find a blank succeed ; 
 After a while she little has to say, 
 I'm silent too, although I wish to stay ; 
 What would it be all day, day after day ? 
 Ah ! but I ask, I do not doubt, too much ; 
 I think of love as if it should be such 
 As to fulfil and occupy in whole 
 The nought-else-seeking, nought-essaying soul. 
 Therefore it is my mind with doubts I urge ; 
 Hence are these fears and shiverings on the verge ; 
 By books, not nature, thus have we been schooled, 
 By poetry and novels been befooled ; 
 Wiser tradition says, the affections' claim 
 Will be supplied, the rest will be the same. 
 I think too much of love, 'tis true : I know 
 It is not all, was ne'er intended so ; 
 Yet such a change, so entire, I feel, 'twould be, 
 So potent, so omnipotent with me ; 
 My former self I never should recall, 
 Indeed I think it must be all in all.' 
 
 1 1 thought that Love was winged ; without a sound, 
 His purple pinions bore him o'er the ground, 
 Wafted without an effort here or there, 
 He came and we too trod as if in air : 
 But panting, toiling, clambering up the hill, 
 Am I to assist him ? I, put forth my will 
 To upbear his lagging footsteps, lame and slow, 
 And help him on and tell him where to go, 
 And ease him of his quiver and his bow ? ' 
 
 ' Erotion ! I saw it in a book ;
 
 318 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Why did I notice it, why did I look ? 
 Yea, is it so, ye powers that see above ? 
 I do not love, I want, I try to love ! 
 This is not love, but lack of love instead ! 
 Merciless thought ! I would I had been dead, 
 Or e'er the phrase had come into my head.' 
 
 She also wrote : and here may find a place, 
 Of her and of her thoughts some slender trace. 
 
 1 He is not vain ; if proud, he quells his pride, 
 And somehow really likes to be defied ; 
 Rejoices if you humble him : indeed 
 Gives way at once, and leaves you to succeed.' 
 
 ' Easy it were with such a mind to play, 
 And foolish not to do so, some would say ; 
 One almost smiles to look and see the way : 
 But come what will, I will not play a part, 
 Indeed I dare not condescend to art.' 
 
 ' Easy 'twere not, perhaps, with him to live ; 
 He looks for more than any one can give : 
 So dulled at times and disappointed ; still 
 Expecting what depends not of my will : 
 My inspiration comes not at my call, 
 Seek me as I am, if seek you do at all.' 
 
 ' Like him I do, and think of him I must ; 
 But more I dare not and I cannot trust. 
 This more he brings say, is it more or less 
 Than that no fruitage ever came to bless, 
 The old wild flower of love-in-idleness ? ' 
 
 ' Me when he leaves and others when he sees, 
 What is my fate who am not there to please ? 
 Me he has left ; already may have seen 
 One who for me forgotten here has been ; 
 And he, the while is balancing between. 
 If the heart spoke, the heart I knew were bound 
 What if it utter an uncertain sound ? ' 
 
 'So quick to vary, so rejoiced to change, 
 From this to that his feelings surely range ; 
 His fancies wander, and his thoughts as well ; 
 And if the heart be constant, who can tell ? 
 Far off to fly, to abandon me, and go, 
 He seems returning then before I know : 
 With every accident he seems to move, 
 Is now below me and is now above,
 
 MARI MAG NO. 319 
 
 Now far aside, 0, does he really love ? ' 
 
 ' Absence were hard ; yet let the trial be ; 
 His nature's aim and purpose he would free, 
 And in the world his course of action see. 
 O should he lose, not learn ; pervert his scope ; 
 
 should I lose ! and yet to win I hope. 
 
 1 win not now ; his way if now I went, 
 Brief joy I gave, for years of discontent.' 
 
 ' Gone, is it true ? but oft he went before, 
 And came again before a month was o'er. 
 Gone though I could not venture upon art, 
 It was perhaps a foolish pride in part ; 
 He had such ready fancies in his head, 
 And really was so easy to be led ; 
 One might have failed ; and yet I feel 'twas pride, 
 And can't but half repent I never tried. 
 Gone, is it true ? but he again will come, 
 Wandering he loves, and loves returning home.' 
 
 Gone, it was true ; nor came so soon again ; 
 Came, after travelling, pleasure half, half pain, 
 Came, but a half of Europe first o'erran ; 
 Arrived, his father found a ruined man. 
 Rich they had been, and rich was Emma too. 
 Heiress of wealth she knew not, Edmund knew. 
 
 Earewell to her ! In a new home obscure, 
 Food for his helpless parents to secure, 
 From early morning to advancing dark, 
 He toiled and laboured as a merchant's clerk. 
 Three years his heavy load he bore, nor quailed, 
 Then all his health, though scarce his spirit, failed ; 
 Friends interposed, insisted it must be, 
 Enforced their help, and sent him to the sea. 
 
 Wandering about with little here to do, 
 His old thoughts mingling dimly with his new, 
 Wandering one morn, he met upon the shore, 
 Her whom he quitted five long years before. 
 
 Alas ! why quitted ? Say that charms are nought, 
 Nor grace, nor beauty, worth one serious thought ; 
 Was there no mystic virtue in the sense 
 That joined your boyish girlish innocence? 
 Is constancy a thing to throw away, 
 And loving faithfulness a chance of every day ? 
 Alas ! why quitted ? is she changed ? but now
 
 320 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 The weight of intellect is in her brow ; 
 Changed, or but truer seen, one sees in her 
 Something to wake the soul, the interior sense to stir. 
 
 Alone they met, from alien eyes away, 
 The high shore hid them in a tiny bay. 
 Alone was he, was she ; in sweet surprise 
 They met, before they knew it, in, their eyes. 
 In his a wondering admiration glowed, 
 In hers, a world of tenderness o'erflowed ; 
 In a brief moment all was known and seen, 
 That of slow years the wearying work had been : 
 Morn's early odorous breath perchance in sooth, 
 Awoke the old natural feeling of their youth : 
 The sea, perchance, and solitude had charms, 
 They met I know not in each other's arms. 
 
 Why linger now why waste the sands of life ? 
 A few sweet weeks, and they were man and wife. 
 
 To his old frailty do not be severe, 
 His latest theory with patience hear : 
 
 * I sought not, truly would to seek disdain, 
 A kind, soft pillow for a wearying pain, 
 Fatigues and cares to lighten, to relieve ; 
 But love is fellow-service, I believe.' 
 
 ' No, truly no, it was not to obtain, 
 Though that alone were happiness, were gain, 
 A tender breast to fall upon and weep, 
 A heart, the secrets of my heart to keep ; 
 To share my hopes, and in my griefs to grieve ; 
 Yet love is fellow-service, I believe.' 
 
 ' Yet in the eye of life's all-seeing sun 
 We shall behold a something we have done, 
 Shall of the work together we have wrought, 
 Beyond our aspiration and our thought, 
 Some not unworthy issue yet receive ; 
 For love is fellow-service, I believe.' 
 
 The tale, we said, instructive was, but short ; 
 Could he not give another of the sort ? 
 He feared his second might his first repeat, 
 ' And Aristotle teaches, change is sweet ; 
 But come, our younger friend in this dim night
 
 MARI MAGNO. 321 
 
 Under his bushel must not hide his light.' 
 I said I'd had but little time to live, 
 Experience none or confidence could give. 
 ' But I can tell to-morrow, if you please, 
 My last year's journey towards the Pyrenees.' 
 To-morrow came, and evening, when it closed, 
 The penalty of speech on me imposed. 
 
 MY TALE. 
 
 A la Banquette, or a Modern Pilgrimage. 
 
 I STAYED at La Quenille, ten miles or more 
 From the old-Roman sources of Mont Dore; 
 Travellers to Tulle this way are forced to go, 
 An old high-road from Lyons to Bordeaux, 
 From Tulle to Brives the swift Correze descends, 
 At Brives you've railway, and your trouble ends ; 
 A little bourg La Quenille ; from the height 
 The mountains of Auvergne are all in sight ; 
 Green pastoral heights that once in lava flowed, 
 Of primal fire the product and abode; 
 And all the plateaux and the lines that trace 
 Where in deep dells the waters find their place ; 
 Far to the south above the lofty plain, 
 The Plomb du Cantal lifts his towering train. 
 
 A little after one, with little fail, 
 Down drove the diligence that bears the mail ; 
 The courier therefore called, in whose banquette 
 A place I got, and thankful was to get ; 
 The new postillion climbed his seat, allez, 
 Off broke the four cart-horses on their way. 
 Westward we roll, o'er heathy backs of hills, 
 Crossing the future rivers in the rills; 
 Bare table-lands are these, and sparsely sown, 
 Turning their waters south to the Dordogne. 
 
 Close-packed we were, and little at our ease, 
 The conducteur impatient with the squeeze j 
 Not tall he seemed, but bulky round about, 
 His cap and jacket made him look more stout ; 
 In grande temie he rode of conducteur;
 
 322 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Black eyes he had, black his moustaches were, 
 Shaven his chin, his hair and whiskers cropt ; 
 A ready man ; at Ussel when we stopt, 
 For me and for himself, bread, meat, and wine, 
 He got, the courier did not wait to dine ; 
 To appease our hunger, and allay our drouth, 
 We ate and took the bottle at the mouth; 
 One draught I had, the rest entire had he, 
 For wine his body had capacity. 
 
 A peasant in his country blouse was there, 
 He told me of the conseil and the maire. 
 Their maire, he said, could neither write nor read, 
 And yet could keep the registers, indeed ; 
 The conseil had resigned I know not what. 
 Good actions here are easily forgot : 
 He in the quarante-huit had something done, 
 Were things but fair, some notice should have won. 
 
 Another youth there was, a soldier he, 
 A soldier ceasing with to-day to be ; 
 Three years had served, for three had bought release : 
 From war returning to the arts of peace, 
 . To Tulle he went, as his department's town, 
 To-morrow morn to pay his money down. 
 
 In Italy, his second year begun, 
 This youth had served, when Italy was won. 
 He told of Montebello, and the fight, 
 That ended fiercely with the close of night. 
 There was he wounded, fell, and thought to die, 
 Two Austrian cones had passed into his thigh ; 
 One traversed it, the other, left behind, 
 In hospital the doctor had to find : 
 At eight of night he fell, and sadly lay 
 Till three of morning of the following day, 
 When peasants came and put him on a wain, 
 And drove him to Voghera in his pain; 
 To Alessandria thence the railway bore, 
 In Alessandria then two months and more 
 He lay in hospital ; to lop the limb 
 The Italian doctor who attended him 
 Was much disposed, but high above the knee ; 
 For life an utter cripple he would be. 
 Then came the typhoid fever, and the lack 
 Of food. And sick and hungering, on his back,
 
 MARI MAG NO. 323 
 
 With French, Italians, Austrians as he lay, 
 
 Arrived the tidings of Magenta's day, 
 
 And Milan entered in the burning June, 
 
 And Solferino's issue following soon. 
 
 Alas, the glorious wars ! and shortly he 
 
 To Genoa for the advantage of the sea, 
 
 And to Savona, suffering still, was sent 
 
 And joined his now returning regiment. 
 
 Good were the Austrian soldiers, but the feel 
 
 They did not well encounter of cold steel, 
 
 Nor in the bayonet fence of man with man 
 
 Maintained their ground, but yielded, turned and ran. 
 
 Les armes blanches and the rifled gun 
 
 Had fought the battles, and the victories won. 
 
 The glorious wars ! but he, the doubtful chance 
 
 Of soldiers' glory quitting and advance, 
 
 His wounded limb less injured than he feared, 
 
 Was dealing now in timber, it appeared ; 
 
 Oak-timber finding for some mines of lead, 
 
 Worked by an English company, he said. 
 
 This youth perhaps was twenty -three years old ; 
 
 Simply and well his history he told. 
 
 They wished to hear about myself as well ; 
 I told them, but it was not much to tell ; 
 At the Mont Dore, of which the guide-book talks, 
 I'd taken, not the waters, but the walks. 
 Friends I had met, who on their southward way 
 Had gone before, I followed them to-day. 
 
 They wondered greatly at this wondrous thing, 
 Les Anglais are forever on the wing, 
 The conducteur said everybody knew 
 We were descended of the Wandering Jew. 
 And on with the declining sun we rolled, 
 And woods and vales and fuller streams behold. 
 
 About the hour when peasant people sup, 
 We dropped the peasant, took a cure up, 
 In hat and bands and soutane all to fit. 
 He next the conducteur was put to sit; 
 I in the corner gained the senior place. 
 Brown was his hair, but closely shaved his face ; 
 To lift his eyelids did he think it sin ? 
 I saw a pair of soft brown eyes within. 
 Older he was, but looked like twenty -two,
 
 324 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Fresh from the cases, to the country new. 
 
 I, the conducteur watching from my side, 
 A roguish twinkle in his eye espied ; 
 He begged to hear about the pretty pair 
 Whom he supposed he had been marrying there ; 
 The deed, he hoped, was comfortably done, 
 Monsieur VEveque he called him in his fun. 
 Then lifted soon his voice for all to hear ; 
 A baritone he had both strong and clear : 
 In fragments first of music made essay, 
 And tried his pipes and modest felt his way. 
 Le verre en main la mort nous trouvera, 
 It was, or Ah, vous dirai-je, maman ! 
 And then, A toi, ma belle, a toi toujours; 
 Till of his organ's quality secure, 
 Trifling no more, but boldly, like a man, 
 He filled his chest and gallantly began. 
 
 * THOUGH I have seemed, against my wiser will, 
 Your victim, ye tender foibles, still, 
 Once now for all, though half my heart be yours, 
 Adieu, sweet faults, adieu, ye gay amours ! 
 , Sad if it be, yet true it is to say, 
 
 I've fifty years, and 'tis too late a day, 
 
 My limbs are shrinking and my hair turns grey ; 
 
 Adieu, gay loves, it is too late a day ! 
 
 ' Once in your school (what good, alas ! is once ?) 
 I took rny lessons, and was not the dunce. 
 Oh, what a pretty girl was then Juliette ! 
 Don't you suppose that I remember yet, 
 Though thirty years divide me from the day, 
 When she and I first looked each other's way ? 
 But now ! midwinter to be matched with May ! 
 Adieu, gay loves, it is too late a day ! 
 
 ' You lovely Marguerite ! I shut my eyes, 
 And do my very utmost to be wise ; 
 Yet see you still ; and hear, though closed my ears, 
 And think I'm young in spite of all my years ; 
 Shall I forget you if I go away ? 
 To leave is painful, but absurd to stay ; 
 I've fifty dreadful reasons to obey. 
 Adieu, gay loves, it is too late a day ! '
 
 MARI MAGNO. 325 
 
 This priest beside the lusty conducteur 
 Under his beaver sat and looked demure ; 
 Faintly he smiled the company to please, 
 And folded held his hands above his knees. 
 Then, apropos of nothing, had we heard 
 He asked, about a thing that had occurred 
 At the Mont Dore a little time ago, 
 A wondrous cure ? and when we answered, No, 
 About a little girl he told a tale, 
 Who, when her medicines were of no avail, 
 Was by the doctor ordered to Mont Dore, 
 But nothing gained and only suffered more. 
 This little child had in her simple way 
 Unto the Blessed Virgin learnt to pray, 
 And, as it happened, to an image there 
 By the roadside one day she made her prayer, 
 And of our Lady, who can hear on high, 
 Begged for her parents' sake she might not die. 
 Our Lady of Grace, whose attribute is love, 
 Beheld this child, and listened from above. 
 Her parents noticed from that very day 
 The malady began to pass away, 
 And but a fortnight after, as they tell, 
 They took her home rejoicing, sound and well. 
 Things come, he said, to show us every hour 
 We are surrounded by superior power. 
 Little we notice, but if once we see, 
 The seed of faith will grow into a tree. 
 The conducteiir, he wisely shook his head : 
 Strange things do happen in our time, he said ; 
 If the bon Dieu but please, no doubt indeed, 
 When things are desperate, yet they will succeed. 
 Ask the postillion here, and he can tell 
 Who cured his horse, and what of it befell. 
 
 Then the postillion, in his smock of blue, 
 His pipe into his mouth's far corner drew, 
 And told about a farrier and a horse ; 
 But Auvergnat grew from bad to worse ; 
 His rank Arvernian patois was so strong, 
 With what he said I could not go along ; 
 And what befell and how it came to pass, 
 And if it were a horse or if an ass, 
 The sequence of his phrase I could not keep,
 
 326 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And in the middle fairly sank to sleep. 
 When I awoke, I heard a stream below 
 And on each bank saw houses in a row, 
 Correze the stream, the houses Tulle, they said ; 
 Alighted here and thankful went to bed. 
 
 ' But how,' said one, ' about the Pyrenees ? 
 In Hamlet give us Hamlet, if you please ; 
 Your friend declares you said you met with there 
 A peasant beauty, beauteous past compare, 
 Who fed her cows the mountain peaks between, 
 And asked if at Villetri you had been. 
 And was Villetri larger than was Rome ? 
 Her soldier-brother went away from home, 
 Two years ago, to Rome it was he went, 
 And to Villetri was this summer sent ; 
 He twenty-three, and she was sweet seventeen, 
 And fed her cows the mountain peaks between. 
 Lightly along a rocky path she led, 
 And from a grange she brought you milk and bread. 
 In summer here she lived, and with the snow 
 Went in October to the fields below ; 
 And where you lived, she asked, and oh, they say, 
 That with the English we shall fight some day ; 
 Loveliest of peasant girls that e'er was seen, 
 Feeding her cows the mountain peaks between.' 
 "Tis true,' I said, 'though to betray was mean. 
 My Pyrenean verses will you hear, 
 Though not about that peasant girl, I fear.' 
 ' Begin,' they said, ' the sweet bucolic song, 
 Though it to other maids and other cows belong.' 
 
 Currente Calamo. 
 
 QUICK, painter, quick, the moment seize 
 Amid the snowy Pyrenees ; 
 More evanescent than the snow, 
 The pictures come, are seen, and go : . 
 Quick, quick, currente ccdamo. 
 
 I do not ask the tints that fill 
 The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill ; 
 I ask not for the hues that fleet 
 Above the distant peaks ; my feet
 
 MART MAGNO. 327 
 
 Are on a poplar-bordered road, 
 Where with a saddle and a load 
 A donkey, old and ashen-grey, 
 Reluctant works his dusty way. 
 Before him, still with might and main 
 Pulling his rope, the rustic rein, 
 A girl : before both him and me, 
 Frequent she turns and lets me see, 
 Unconscious, lets me scan and trace . 
 The sunny darkness of her face 
 And outlines full of southern grace. 
 
 Following I notice, yet and yet, 
 Her olive skin, dark eyes deep set, 
 And black, and blacker e'en than jet, 
 The escaping hair that scantly showed, 
 Since o'er it in the country mode, 
 For winter warmth and summer shade, 
 The lap of scarlet cloth is laid. 
 And then, back-falling from the head, 
 A crimson kerchief overspread 
 Her jacket blue ; thence passing down, 
 A skirt of darkest yellow-brown, 
 Coarse stuff, allowing to the view 
 The smooth limb to the woollen shoe. 
 
 But who here's some one following too, 
 A priest, and reading at his book ! 
 Bead on, O priest, and do not look ; 
 Consider, she is but a child, 
 Yet might your fancy be beguiled. 
 Head on, O priest, and pass and go ! 
 But see, succeeding in a row, 
 Two, three, and four, a motley train, 
 Musicians wandering back to Spain ; 
 With fiddle and with tambourine, 
 A man with women following seen. 
 What dresses, ribbon-ends and flowers ! 
 And, sight to wonder at for hours, 
 The man, to Philip has he sat ? 
 With butterfly-like velvet hat; 
 One dame his big bassoon conveys, 
 On one his gentle arm he lays : 
 They stop, and look, and something say, 
 And to ' Espana ' ask the way.
 
 328 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 But while I speak, and point them on, 
 Alas ! my dearer friends are gone ; 
 The dark-eyed maiden and the ass 
 Have had the time the bridge to pass. 
 Vainly, beyond it far descried, 
 Adieu, and peace with you abide, 
 Grey donkey, and your beauteous guide. 
 The pictures come, the pictures go, 
 Quick, quick, currente calamo. 
 
 They praised the rhymes, but still would persevere 
 The eclogue of the mountain peaks to hear, 
 Eclogue that never was ; and then awhile, 
 Of France, and Frenchmen, and our native isle, 
 They talked ; pre-insular above the rest, 
 My friend his ardent politics expressed ; 
 France was behind us all, he saw in France 
 Worse retrogression, and the least advance. 
 Her revolutions had but thrown her back. 
 Powerful just now, but wholly off the track ; 
 They in religion were, as I had seen, 
 About where we in Chaucer's time had been ; 
 In Chaucer's time, and yet their Wickliffe where ? 
 Something they'd kept the worst part of Voltaire. 
 
 Strong for Old England, was New England too ; 
 The clergyman was neutral in his view, 
 And I, for France with more than I could do, 
 Though sound my thesis did not long maintain. 
 The contemplation of the nightly main, 
 The vaulted heavens above, and under these, 
 The black ship working through the dusky seas, 
 Deserting, to our narrow berths we crept ; 
 Sound slumbered there, the watch while others kept. 
 
 The second officer, who kept the watch, 
 A young man, fair of feature, partly Scotch 
 And partly Irish in his voice and way, 
 Joined iis the evening of the following day, 
 And of our stories when he heard us tell, 
 Offered to give a narrative as welL
 
 MARI MAG NO. 329 
 
 THE MATE'S STOKY. 
 
 I'VE often wondered how it is, at times 
 
 Good people do what are as bad as crimes. 
 
 A common person would have been ashamed 
 
 To do what once a family far-famed 
 
 For their religious ways was known to do. 
 
 Small harm befell, small thanks to them were due. 
 
 They from abroad, perhaps it cost them less, 
 
 Had brought a young French girl as governess, 
 
 A pretty, youthful thing as e'er you saw ; 
 
 She taught the children how to play and draw, 
 
 Of course, the language of her native land ; 
 
 English she scarcely learnt to understand. 
 
 After a time they wanted her no more ; 
 
 She must go home, but how to send her o'er, 
 
 Far in the south of France she lived, and they 
 
 In Ireland there was more than they could say. 
 
 A monthly steamer, as they chanced to know, 
 
 From Liverpool went over to Bordeaux^ 
 
 And would, they thought, exactly meet the case. 
 
 They wrote and got a friend to take a place ; 
 
 And from her salary paid her money down. 
 
 A trading steamer from the seaport town 
 
 Near which they lived, across the Channel plied, 
 
 And this, they said, a passage would provide. 
 
 With pigs, and with the Irish reaping horde, 
 This pretty tender girl was put on board ; 
 And a rough time of it, no doubt, had she, 
 Tossing about upon the Irish Sea. 
 Arrived at last and set ashore, she found 
 The steamer gone for which she had been bound. 
 The pious people, in their careless way, 
 Had made some loose mistake about the day. 
 She stood ; the passengers with whom she crossed 
 Went off, and she remained as one that's lost. 
 
 Think of the hapless creature standing here 
 Alone, beside her boxes on the pier. 
 Whither to turn, and where to try and go, 
 She knew not ; nay, the language did not know. 
 So young a girl, so pretty too, set down 
 Here, in the midst of a great seaport town,
 
 330 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 What might have happened one may sadly guess, 
 
 Had not the captain, seeing her distress, 
 
 Made out the cause, and told her she could stay 
 
 On board the vessel till the following day. 
 
 Next day, he said the steamer to Bordeaux 
 
 Was gone, no doubt, next month the next would go; 
 
 For this her passage-money she had paid, 
 
 But some arrangement could, he thought, be made, 
 
 If only she could manage to afford 
 
 To wait a month and pay for bed and board. 
 
 She sadly shook her head well, after all, 
 
 'Twas a bad town, and mischief might befall. 
 
 Would she go back ? Indeed 'twas but a shame 
 
 To take her back to those from whom she came. 
 
 ' There's one thing, Miss,' said he, ' that you can do ; 
 
 It's speaking somewhat sudden-like, it's true, 
 
 But if you'll marry me, I'll marry you. 
 
 Maybe you won't, but if you will you can.' 
 
 This captain was a young and decent man, 
 
 And I suppose she saw no better way ; 
 
 Marry they did, and married live this day. 
 
 Another friend, these previous nights away, 
 An officer of engineers, and round 
 By Halifax to far Bermuda bound, 
 Joined us this night ; a rover he had been. 
 Many strange sights and many climes had seen, 
 And much of various life ; his comment was, 'twas well 
 There was no further incident to tell. 
 He'd been afraid that e'er the tale was o'er, 
 'Twould prove the captain had a wife before. 
 The poor French girl was luckier than she knew ; 
 Soldiers and sailors had so often two. 
 And it was something, too, for men who went 
 From port to port to be with two content. 
 In every place the marriage rite supplied 
 A decent spouse to whom you were not tied. 
 Of course the women would at times suspect, 
 But felt their reputations were not wrecked. 
 
 One after night we took ourselves to task 
 For our neglect who had forborne to ask 
 The clergyman, who told his tale so well, 
 Another tale for our behalf to tell.
 
 MARI MAG NO. 331 
 
 He to a second had himself confessed. 
 Now, when to hear it eagerly we pressed, 
 He put us off ; but, ere the night was done, 
 Told us his second, and his sadder one. 
 
 THE CLERGYMAN'S SECOND TALE. 
 
 EDWARD and Jane a married couple were, 
 
 And fonder she of him or he of her 
 
 Was hard to say ; their wedlock had begun 
 
 When in one year they both were twenty -one ; 
 
 And friends, who would not sanction, left them free. 
 
 He gentle-born, nor his inferior she, 
 
 And neither rich ; to the newly- wedded boy, 
 
 A great Insurance Office found employ. 
 
 Strong in their loves and hopes, with joy they took 
 
 This narrow lot and the world's altered look ; 
 
 Beyond their home they nothing sought nor craved, 
 
 And even from the narrow income saved ; 
 
 Their busy days for no ennui had place, 
 
 Neither grew weary of the other's face. 
 
 Nine happy years had crowned their married state 
 
 With children, one a little girl of eight ; 
 
 With nine industrious years his income grew, 
 
 With his employers rose his favour too ; 
 
 Nine years complete had passed when something ailed. 
 
 Friends and the doctors said his health had failed, 
 
 He must recruit, or worse would come to pass ; 
 
 And though to rest was hard for him, alas ! 
 
 Three months of leave he found he could obtain, 
 
 And go, they said, get well and work again. 
 
 Just at this juncture of their married life, 
 Her mother, sickening, begged to have his wife. 
 Her house among the hills in Surrey stood, 
 And to be there, said Jane, would do the children good. 
 
 They let their house, and with the children she 
 Went to her mother, he beyond the sea ; 
 Far to the south his orders were to go. 
 A watering-place, whose name we need not know, 
 For climate and for change of scene was best : 
 There he was bid, laborious task, to rest.
 
 332 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 A dismal thing in foreign lands to roam 
 To one accustomed to an English home, 
 Dismal yet more, in health if feeble grown, 
 To live a boarder, helpless and alone 
 In foreign town, and worse yet worse is made, 
 If 'tis a town of pleasure and parade. 
 Dispiriting the public walks and seats, 
 The alien faces that an alien meets ; 
 Drearily every day this old routine repeats. 
 
 Yet here this alien prospered, change of air 
 Or change of scene did more than tenderest care ; 
 Three weeks were scarce completed, to his home, 
 He wrote to say, he thought he now could come 
 His usual work was sure he could resume, 
 And something said about the place's gloom, 
 And how he loathed idling his time away. 
 O, but they wrote, his wife and all, to say 
 He must not think of it, 'twas quite too quick ; 
 Let was their house, her mother still was sick, 
 Three months were given, and three he ought to take ; 
 For his, and hers, and for his children's sake. 
 
 He wrote again, 'twas weariness to wait, 
 This doing nothing was a thing to hate; 
 He'd cast his nine laborious years away, 
 And was as fresh as on his wedding-day ; 
 At last he yielded, feared he must obey. 
 
 And now, his health repaired, his spirits grown 
 Less feeble, less he cared to live alone. 
 'Twas easier now to face the crowded shore, 
 And table d'hote less tedious than before ; 
 His ancient silence sometimes he would break, 
 And the mute Englishman was heard to speak. 
 His youthful colour soon, his youthful air 
 Came back ; amongst the crowd of idlers there, 
 With whom good looks entitle to good name, 
 For his good looks he gained a sort of fame, 
 People would watch him as he went and came. 
 
 Explain the tragic mystery who can, 
 Something there is, we know not what, in man, 
 With all established happiness at strife, 
 And bent on revolution in his life. 
 Explain the plan of Providence who dare, 
 And tell us wherefore in this world there are
 
 MART MAG NO. 333 
 
 Beings who seem for this alone to live, 
 
 Temptation to another soul to give. 
 
 A beauteous woman at the table d'hote, 
 
 To try this English heart, at least to note 
 
 This English countenance, conceived the whim. 
 
 She sat exactly opposite to him. 
 
 Ere long he noticed with a vague surprise 
 
 How every day on him she bent her eyes ; 
 
 Soft and inquiring now they looked, and then 
 
 Wholly withdrawn, unnoticed came again ; 
 
 His shrunk aside : and yet there came a day, 
 
 Alas ! they did not wholly turn away. 
 
 So beautiful her beauty was, so strange, 
 
 And to his northern feeling such a change; 
 
 Her throat and neck Junonian in their grace ; 
 
 The blood just mantled in her southern face : 
 
 Dark hair, dark eyes ; and all the arts she had 
 
 With which some dreadful power adorns the bad, 
 
 Bad women in their youth, and young was she, 
 
 Twenty perhaps, at the utmost twenty-three, 
 
 And timid seemed, and innocent of ill ; 
 
 Her feelings went and came without her will. 
 
 You will not wish minutely to know all 
 His efforts in the prospect of the fall. 
 He oscillated to and fro, he took 
 High courage oft, temptation from him shook, 
 Compelled himself to virtuous thoughts and just, 
 And as it were in ashes and in dust 
 Abhorred his thought. But living thus alone, 
 Of solitary tedium weary grown ; 
 From sweet society so long debarred, 
 And fearing in his judgment to be hard 
 On her that he was sometimes off his guard 
 What wonder ? She relentless still pursued 
 Unmarked, and tracked him in his solitude. 
 And not in vain, alas ! 
 
 The clays went by and found him in the snare. 
 But soon a letter full of tenderest care 
 Came from his wife, the little daughter too 
 In a large hand the exercise was new 
 To her papa her love and kisses sent. 
 Into his very heart and soul it went. 
 Forth 011 the high and dusty road he sought
 
 334 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Some issue for the vortex of his thought. 
 Returned, packed up his things, and ere the day 
 Descended, was a hundred miles away. 
 
 There are, I know of course, who lightly treat 
 Such slips ; we stumble, we regain our feet ; 
 What can we do ? they say, but hasten on 
 And disregard it as a thing that's gone. 
 Many there are who in a case like this 
 Would calm re-seek their sweet domestic bliss ; 
 Accept unshamed the wifely tender kiss, 
 And lift their little children on their knees, 
 And take their kisses too ; with hearts at ease 
 Will read the household prayers, to church will go, 
 And sacrament nor care if people know. 
 Such men so minded do exist, God knows, 
 And, God be thanked, this was not one of those. 
 
 Late in the night, at a provincial town 
 In France, a passing traveller was put down ; 
 Haggard he looked, his hair was turning grey, 
 His hair, his clothes, were much in disarray : 
 In a bedchamber here one day he stayed, 
 Wrote letters, posted them, his reckon^ig paid 
 And went. 'Twas Edward rushing from his fall ; 
 Here to his wife he wrote and told her all. 
 Forgiveness yes, perhaps she might forgive 
 For her, and for the children, he must live 
 At any rate ; but their old home to share 
 As yet was something that he could not bear. 
 She with her mother still her home should make, 
 A lodging near the office he should take ; 
 And once a quarter he would bring his pay, 
 And he would see her on the quarter-day, 
 But her alone ; e'en this would dreadful be, 
 The children 'twas not possible to see. 
 
 Back to the office at this early day 
 To see him come, old-looking thus and grey, 
 His comrades wondered, wondered too to see 
 How dire a passion for his work had he, 
 How in a garret too he lived alone ; 
 So cold a husband, cold a father grown. 
 
 In a green lane beside her mother's home, 
 Where in old days they had been used to roam, 
 His wife had met him on the appointed day,
 
 MARI MAGNO. 335 
 
 Fell on his neck, said all that love could say, 
 And wept ; he put the loving arms away. 
 At dusk they met, for so was his desire ; 
 She felt his cheeks and forehead all on fire ; 
 The kisses which she gave he could not brook ; 
 Once in her face he gave a sidelong look, 
 Said, but for them he wished that he were dead, 
 And put the money in her hand and fled. 
 
 Sometimes' in easy and familiar tone, 
 Of sins resembling more or less his own 
 He heard his comrades in the office speak, 
 And felt the colour tingling in his cheek ; 
 Lightly they spoke as of a thing of nought ; 
 He of their judgment ne'er so much as thought. 
 
 I know not, in his solitary pains, 
 Whether he seemed to feel as in his veins 
 The moral mischief circulating still, 
 Backed with the torture of the double will ; 
 And like some frontier-land where armies wage 
 The mighty wars, engage and yet engage 
 All through the summer in the fierce campaign ; 
 March, counter-march, gain, lose, and yet regain ; 
 With battle reeks the desolated plain ; 
 So felt his nature yielded to the strife 
 Of the contending good and ill of life. 
 
 But a whole year this penance he endured, 
 Nor even then would think that he was cured. 
 Once in a quarter, in the country lane, 
 He met his wife and paid his quarter's gain ; 
 To bring the children she besought in vain. 
 
 He has a life small happiness that gives, 
 Who friendless in a London lodging lives, 
 Dines in a dingy chop-house, and returns 
 To a lone room while all within him yearns 
 For sympathy, and his whole nature burns 
 With a fierce thirst for some one, is there none ? 
 To expend his human tenderness upon. 
 So blank, and hard, and stony is the way 
 To walk, I wonder not men go astray. 
 
 Edward, whom still a sense that never slept 
 On the strict path undeviating kept, 
 One winter-evening found himself pursued 
 Amidst the dusky thronging multitude.
 
 336 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Quickly he walked, but strangely swift was she, 
 
 And pertinacious, and would make him see. 
 
 He saw at last, and recognising slow, 
 
 Discovered in this hapless thing of woe 
 
 The occasion of his shame twelve wretched months ago. 
 
 She gaily laughed, she cried, and sought his hand, 
 
 And spoke sweet phrases of her native land ; 
 
 Exiled, she said, her lovely home had left, 
 
 Not to forsake a friend of all but her bereft ; 
 
 Exiled, she cried, for liberty, for love, 
 
 She was ; still limpid eyes she turned above. 
 
 So beauteous once, and now such misery in, 
 
 Pity had all but softened him to sin ; 
 
 But while she talked, and wildly laughed, and cried, 
 
 And plucked the hand which sadly he denied, 
 
 A stranger came and swept her from his side. 
 
 He watched them in the gas-lit darkness go, 
 And a voice said within him, Even so, 
 So 'midst the gloomy mansions where they dwell 
 The lost souls walk the flaming streets of hell ! 
 The lamps appeared to fling a baleful glare, 
 A brazen heat was heavy in the air ; 
 And it was hell, and he some unblest wanderer there. 
 
 For a long hour he stayed the streets to roam, 
 Late gathering sense, he gained his garret home ; 
 There found a telegram that bade him come 
 Straight to the country, where his daughter, still 
 His darling child, lay dangerously ill. 
 The doctor would he bring ? Away he went 
 And found the doctor ; to the office sent 
 A letter, asking leave, and went again, 
 And with a wild confusion in his brain, 
 Joining the doctor caught the latest train. 
 The train swift whirled them from the city light 
 Into the shadows of the natural night. 
 
 'Twas silent starry midnight on the down, 
 Silent and chill, when they, straight come from town, 
 Leaving the station, walked a mile to gain 
 The lonely house amid the hills where Jane, 
 1 1 IT mother, and her children should be found. 
 \V:ikeil by their entrance, but of sleep unsound, 
 Tin- child not yet her altered father knew ; 
 Yet talked of her papa in her delirium too.
 
 MART MAGNO. 337 
 
 Danger there was, yet hope there was ; and he, 
 To attend the crisis, and the changes see, 
 And take the steps, at hand should surely be. 
 
 Said Jane the following day, ' Edward, you know, 
 Over and over I have told you so, 
 As in a better world I seek to live, 
 As I desire forgiveness, I forgive. 
 Forgiveness does not feel the word to say, 
 As I believe in One who takes away 
 Our sin and gives us righteousness instead, 
 You to this sin, I do believe, are dead. 
 'Twas I, you know, who let you leave your home 
 And bade you stay when you so wished to come ; 
 My fault was that : I've told you so before, 
 And vainly told ; but now 'tis something more. 
 Say, is it right, without a single friend, 
 Without advice, to leave me to attend 
 Children and mother both ? Indeed I've thought 
 Through want of you the chikl her fever caught. 
 Chances of mischief come with every hour. 
 It is not in a single woman's power 
 Alone and ever haunted more or less 
 With anxious thoughts of you and your distress, 
 'Tis not indeed, I'm sure of it, in me, 
 All things with perfect judgment to foresee. 
 This weight has grown too heavy to endure ; 
 And you, I tell you now, and I am sure, 
 Neglect your duty both to God and man 
 Persisting thus in your unnatural plan. 
 This feeling you must conquer, for you can. 
 And, after all, you know we are but dust, 
 What are we, in ourselves that we should trust ? ' 
 
 He scarcely answered her ; but he obtained 
 A longer leave, and quietly remained. 
 Slowly the child recovered, long was ill, 
 Long delicate, and he must watch her still ; 
 To give up seeing her he could not bear, 
 To leave her less attended, did not dare. 
 The child recovered slowly, slowly too 
 Recovered he, and more familiar drew 
 Home's happy breath ; and apprehension o'er, 
 Their former life he yielded to restore, 
 And to his mournful garret went no more.
 
 338 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Midnight was dim and hazy overhead , 
 
 When the tale ended and we turned to bed. 
 On the companion-way, descending slow, 
 The artillery captain, as we went below, 
 Said to the lawyer, life could not be meant 
 To be so altogether innocent. 
 What did the atonement show ? he, for the rest, 
 Could not, he thought, have written and confessed. 
 Weakness it was, and adding crime to crime 
 To leave his family that length of time, 
 The lawyer said ; the American was sure 
 Each nature knows instinctively its cure. 
 
 Midnight was in the cabin still and dead, 
 Our fellow-passengers were all in bed, 
 We followed them, and nothing further spoke. 
 Out of the sweetest of my sleep I woke 
 At two, and felt we stopped ; amid a dream 
 Of England knew the letting-off of steam 
 And rose. 'Twas fog, and were we off Cape Kace ? 
 The captain would be certain of his place. 
 Wild in white vapour flew away the force, 
 And self-arrested was the eager course 
 That had not ceased before. But shortly now 
 Cape Race was made to starboard on the bow. 
 The paddles plied. I slept. The following night 
 In the mid seas we saw a quay and light, 
 And peered through mist into an unseen town, 
 And on scarce-seeming land set one companion down, 
 And went. With morning and a shining sun, 
 Under the bright New Brunswick coast we run, 
 And visible discern to every eye 
 Rocks, pines, and little ports, and passing by 
 The boats and coasting craft. When sunk the night, 
 Early now sunk, the northern streamers bright 
 Floated and flashed, the cliffs and clouds behind, 
 With phosphorus the billows all were lined. 
 
 That evening, while the arctic streamers bright 
 Rolled from the clouds in waves of airy light, 
 The lawyer said, ' I laid by for to-night 
 A story that I would not tell before ; 
 For the last time, a confidential four, 
 We meet. Receive in your elected ears 
 A tale of human suffering and tears.'
 
 MART MAGNO. 339 
 
 THE LAWYER'S SECOND TALE. 
 
 Christian. 
 
 A HIGHLAND inn among the western hills, 
 A single parlour, single bed that fills 
 With fisher or with tourist, as may be ; 
 A waiting-maid, as fair as you can see, 
 With hazel eyes, and frequent blushing face, 
 And ample brow, and with a rustic grace 
 In all her easy quiet motions seen, 
 Large of her age, which haply is nineteen, 
 Christian her name, in full a pleasant name, 
 Christian and Christie scarcely seem the same ; 
 A college fellow, who has sent away 
 The pupils he has taught for many a day, 
 And comes for fishing and for solitude, 
 Perhaps a little pensive in his mood, 
 An aspiration and a thought have failed, 
 Where he had hoped, another has prevailed, 
 But to the joys of hill and stream alive, 
 And in his boyhood yet, at twenty -five. 
 
 A merry dance, that made young people meet, 
 And set them moving, both with hands and feet ; 
 A dance in which he danced, and nearer knew 
 The soft brown eyes, and found them tender too. 
 A dance that lit in two young hearts the fire, 
 The low soft flame, of loving sweet desire, 
 And made him feel that he could feel again ; 
 The preface this, what follows to explain. 
 
 That night he kissed, he held her in his arms, 
 And felt the subtle virtue of her charms ; 
 Nor less bewildered on the following day, 
 He kissed, he found excuse near her to stay, 
 Was it not love ? And yet the truth to speak, 
 Playing the fool for haply half a week, 
 He yet had fled, so strong within him dwelt 
 The horror of the sin, and such he felt 
 The miseries to the woman that ensue. 
 He wearied long his brain with reasonings fine, 
 But when at evening dusk he came to dine, 
 In linsey petticoat and jacket blue
 
 340 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 She stood, so radiant and so modest too, 
 
 All into air his strong conclusions flew. 
 
 Now should he go. But dim and drizzling too, 
 
 For a night march, to-night will hardly do, 
 
 A march of sixteen weary miles of way. 
 
 No, by the chances which our lives obey, 
 
 No, by the heavens and this sweet face he'll stay. 
 
 A week he stayed, and still was loth to go, 
 But she grew anxious and would have it so. 
 Her time of service shortly would be o'er, 
 And she would leave ; her mistress knew before. 
 Where would she go ? To Glasgow, if she could ; 
 Her father's sister would be kind and good ; 
 An only child she was, an orphan left, 
 Of all her kindred, save of this, bereft. 
 Said he, ' Your guide to Glasgow let me be, 
 You little know, you have not tried the sea ; 
 Say, at the ferry when are we to meet ? 
 Thither, I guess, you travel on your feet.' 
 She would be there on Tuesday next at three ; 
 ' dear, how glad and thankful she would be ; 
 But don't,' she said, ' be troubled much for me/ 
 
 Punctual they met, a second-class he took, 
 More naturally to her wants to look, 
 And from her side was seldom far away. 
 So quiet, so indifferent yet, were they, 
 As fellow-servants travelling south they seemed, 
 And no one of a love-relation dreamed. 
 At Oban, where the stormy darkness fell, 
 He got two chambers in a cheap hotel. 
 At Oban of discomfort one is sure, 
 Little the difference whether rich or poor. 
 
 Around the Mull the passage now to make, 
 They go aboard, and separate tickets take, 
 First-class for him, and second-class for her. 
 No other first-class passengers there were, 
 And with the captain walking soon alone, 
 This Highland girl, he said, to him was known. 
 He had engaged to take her to her kin ; 
 Could she be put the ladies' cabin in '.' 
 The difference gladly he himself would p:iy, 
 The weather seemed but menacing to-day.
 
 MARI MAGNO. 341 
 
 She ne'er had travelled from her home before, 
 He wished to be at hand to hear about her more. 
 
 Curious it seemed, but he had such a tone, 
 And kept at first so carefully alone, 
 And she so quiet was, and so discreet, 
 So heedful, ne'er to seek him or to meet, 
 The first small wonder quickly passed away. 
 
 And so from Oban's little land-locked bay 
 Forth out to Jura Jura pictured high 
 With lofty peaks against the western sky, 
 Jura, that far o'erlooks the Atlantic seas, 
 The loftiest of the Southern Hebrides. 
 Through the main sea to Jura ; when we reach 
 Jura, we turn to leftward to the breach, 
 And southward strain the narrow channel through, 
 And Colonsay we pass and Islay too ; 
 Cantire is on the left, and all the day 
 A dull dead calm upon the waters lay. 
 
 Sitting below, after some length of while, 
 He sought her, and the tedium to beguile, 
 He ventured some experiments to make, 
 The measure of her intellect to take. 
 Upon the cabin table chanced to lie 
 A book of popular astronomy ; 
 In this he tried her, and discoursed away 
 Of Winter, Summer, and of Night and Day. 
 Still to the task a reasoning power she brought, 
 And followed, slowly followed with the thought ; 
 How beautiful it was to see the stir 
 Of natural wonder waking thus in her ; 
 But loth was he to set on books to pore 
 An intellect so charming in the ore. 
 
 And she, perhaps, had comprehended soon 
 Even the nodes, so puzzling, of the moon ; 
 But nearing now the Mull they met the gale 
 Right in their teeth : and should the fuel fail ? 
 Thinking of her, he grew a little pale, 
 But bravely she the terrors, miseries, took : 
 And met him with a sweet courageous look : 
 Once, at the worst, unto his side she drew, 
 And said a little tremulously too, 
 ' If we must die, please let me come to you.' 
 
 I know not by what change of wind or tide,
 
 342 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Heading the Mull, they gained the eastern side, 
 But stiller now, and sunny e'en it grew; 
 Arran's high peaks unmantled to the view ; 
 While to the north, far seen from left to right, 
 The Highland range extended snowy white. 
 
 Now in the Clyde, he asked, what would be thought, 
 In Glasgow, of the company she brought : 
 ' You know,' he said, ' how I desire to stay ; 
 We've played at strangers for so long a day, 
 But for a while I yet would go away.' 
 
 She said, no, indeed they must not part. 
 Her father's sister had a kindly heart. 
 ' I'll tell her all, and 0, when you she sees, 
 I think she'll not be difficult to please.' 
 Landed at Glasgow, quickly they espied 
 Macf arlane, grocer, by the river side : 
 To greet her niece the woman joyful ran, 
 But looked with wonder on the tall young man. 
 Into the house the women went and talked, 
 He with the grocer in the doorway walked. 
 He told him he was looking for a set 
 Of lodgings : had he any he could let ? 
 
 The man was called to council with his wife ; 
 They took the thing as what will be in life, 
 Half in a kind, half in a worldly way ; 
 They said, the lassie might play out her play. 
 , The gentleman should have the second floor, 
 At thirty shillings, for a week or more. 
 
 Some days in this obscurity he stayed, 
 Happy with her, and some inquiry made 
 (For friends he found) and did his best to see, 
 What hope of getting pupils there would be. 
 This must he do, 'twas evident, 'twas clear, 
 Marry and seek a humble maintenance here. 
 Himself he had a hundred pounds a year. 
 To this plain business he would bend his life, 
 And find his joy in children and in wife, 
 A wife so good, so tender, and so true, 
 Mother to be of glorious children too. 
 
 Half to excuse his present lawless way, 
 He to the grocer happened once to say 
 Marriage would cost him more than others dear, 
 Cost him, indeed, three hundred pounds a-year.
 
 MAR I MAGNO. 343 
 
 ' 'Deed,' said the man, ' a heavy price, no doubt, 
 For a bit form that one can do without.' 
 And asked some questions, pertinent and plain, 
 Exacter information to obtain; 
 He took a little trouble to explain. 
 
 The College Audit now, to last at least 
 Three weeks, ere ending with the College Feast, 
 He must attend, a tedious, dull affair, 
 But he, as junior Bursar, must be there. 
 Three weeks, however, quickly would be fled, 
 And then he'd come, he didn't say to wed. 
 
 With plans of which he nothing yet would say, 
 Preoccupied upon the parting day, 
 He seemed a little absent and distrait ; 
 But she, as knowing nothing was amiss, 
 Gave him her fondest smile, her sweetest kiss. 
 
 A fortnight after, or a little more, 
 As at the Audit, weary of the bore, 
 He sat, and of his future prospects thought, 
 A letter in an unknown hand was brought. 
 'Twas from Macfarlane, and to let him know 
 To South Australia they proposed to go. 
 ' Rich friends we have, who have advised us thus, 
 Occasion offers suitable for us ; 
 Christie we take ; whate'er she find of new, 
 She'll ne'er forget the joy she's had with you; 
 'Tis an expensive pilgrimage to make, 
 You'll like to send a trifle for her sake.' 
 Nothing he said of when the ship would sail. 
 
 That very night, by swift-returning mail, 
 Ten pounds he sent, for what he did not know ; 
 And ' In no case,' he said, ' let Christian go.' 
 He in three days would come, and for his life 
 Would claim her and declare her as his wife. 
 
 Swift the night-mail conveyed his missive on ; 
 He followed in three days, and found them gone. 
 All three had sailed : he looked as though he dreamed j 
 The money -order had been cashed, it seemed. 
 
 The Clergyman, ' This story is mere pain/ 
 Exclaimed, ' for if the women don't sustain 
 The moral standard, all we do is vain.' 
 
 ' But what we want,' the Yankee said, ' to know,
 
 344 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Is if the girl went willingly or no. 
 Sufficient motive though one does not see, 
 'Tis clear the grocer used some trickery.' 
 
 He judged himself, so strong the clinging in 
 This kind of people is to kith and kin ; 
 For if they went and she remained behind, 
 No one she had, if him she failed to find. 
 Alas, this lawless loving was the cause, 
 She did not dare to think how dear she was. 
 Justly his guilty tardiness he curst, 
 He should have owned her when he left her first. 
 And something added how upon the sea, 
 She perilled, too, a life that was to be ; 
 A child that, born in far Australia, there 
 Would have no father and no father's care. 
 So to the South a lonely man returned, 
 For other scenes and busier life he burned, 
 College he left and settled soon in town, 
 Wrote in the journals, gained a swift renown. 
 Soon into high society he came, 
 And still where'er he went outdid his fame. 
 All the more liked and more esteemed, the less 
 He seemed to make an object of success. 
 
 An active literary life he spent, 
 Towards lofty points of public practice bent, 
 Was never man so carefully who read, 
 Whose plans so well were fashioned in his head, 
 Nor one who truths so luminously said. 
 Some years in various labours thus he passed, 
 A spotless course maintaining to the last. 
 Twice upon Government Commissions served 
 With honour ; place, which he declined, deserved. 
 He married then, a marriage fit and good, 
 That kept him where his worth was understood ; 
 A widow, wealthy, and of noble blood. 
 Mr. and Lady Mary are they styled, 
 One grief is theirs to be without a child. 
 
 I did not tell you how he went before 
 To South Australia, vainly to explore. 
 The ship had come to Adelaide, no doubt ; 
 Watching the papers he had made it out, 
 lint of themselves, in country or in town,
 
 MART MAGNO. 345 
 
 Nothing discovered, travelling up and down. 
 
 Only an entry of uncertain sound, 
 
 In an imperfect register he found. 
 
 His son, he thought, but could not prove it true ; 
 
 The surname of the girl it chanced he never knew. 
 
 But this uneasy feeling gathered strength 
 
 As years advanced, and it became at length 
 
 His secret torture and his secret joy 
 
 To think about his lost Australian boy. 
 
 Somewhere in wild colonial lands has grown 
 
 A child that is his true and very own. 
 
 This strong parental passion fills his mind, 
 
 To all the dubious chances makes him blind. 
 
 Still he will seek, and still he hopes to find. 
 
 Again will go. 
 
 Said I, ' O let him stay, 
 And in a London drawing-room some day 
 Rings on her fingers, brilliants in her hair, 
 The lady of the latest millionnaire 
 She'll come, and with a gathering slow surprise 
 On Lady Mary's husband turn her eyes : 
 The soft brown eyes that in a former day 
 From his discretion lured him all astray. 
 At home, six bouncing girls, who more or less 
 Are learning English of a governess, 
 Six boisterous boys, as like as pear to pear ; 
 Only the eldest has a different air.' 
 
 ' You jest,' he said, ' indeed it happened so.' 
 
 From a great party just about to go, 
 
 He saw, he knew, and ere she saw him, said 
 
 Swift to his wife as for the door he made, 
 
 ' My Highland bride ! to escape a scene I go, 
 
 Stay, find her out great God! and let me know.' 
 
 The Lady Mary turned to scrutinise 
 The lovely brow, the beautiful brown eyes, 
 One moment, then performed her perfect part, 
 And did her spiriting with simplest art, 
 Was introduced, her former friends had known, 
 Say, might she call to-morrow afternoon 
 At three ? yes ! At three she made her call, 
 And told her who she was and told her all. 
 Her lady manners all she laid aside ;
 
 346 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Like women the two women kissed and cried. 
 Half overwhelmed sat Christian by her side, 
 While she, < You know he never knew the day 
 When you would sail, but he believed you'd stay 
 Because he wrote you never knew, you say, 
 Wrote that in three days' time, they need not fear, 
 He'd come and then wo.uld marry you, my dear. 
 You never knew ? And he had planned to live 
 At Glasgow, lessons had arranged to give. 
 Alas, then to Australia he went out, 
 All through the land to find you sought about, 
 And found a trace which, though it left a doubt, 
 Sufficed' to make it still his grief, his joy, 
 To think he had a child, a living boy, 
 
 Whom you, my love ' 
 
 ' His child is six foot high, 
 I've kept him as the apple of my eye,' 
 Cried she, ' he's riding, or you'd see him here. 
 joy, that he at last should see his father dear ! 
 As soon as he comes in I'll tell him all, 
 And on his father he shall go and call.' 
 
 ' And you,' she said, my husband will you see ? ' 
 
 ' no, it is not possible for me. 
 The boy I'll send this very afternoon. 
 O dear, I know he cannot go too soon ; 
 And something I must write, to write will do.' 
 So they embraced and sadly bade adieu. 
 
 The boy came in, his father went and saw ! 
 We will not wait this interview to draw ; 
 Ere long returned, and to his mother ran : 
 His father was a wonderful fine man, 
 He said, and looked at her ; the Lady, too, 
 Had done whatever it was kind to do. 
 He loved his mother more than he could say, 
 But if she wished, he'd with his father stay. 
 A little change she noticed in his face, 
 E'en now the father's influence she could trace ; 
 From her the slight, slight severance had begun, 
 But simply she rejoiced that it was done. 
 She smiled and kissed her boy, and ' Long ago, 
 When I was young, I loved your father so. 
 Together now we had been living, too, 
 Only the ship went sooner than he knew.
 
 MAR I MAGNO. 347 
 
 In loving him you will be loving me : 
 Father and mother are as one, you see.' 
 
 Her letter caught him on the following day 
 As to the club he started on his way. 
 From her he guessed, the hand indeed was new ; 
 Back to his room he went and read it through. 
 
 1 I know not how to write and dare not see ; 
 But it will take a load of grief from me 
 ! what a load that you at last should know 
 The way in which I was compelled to go. 
 Wretched, I know, and yet it seems 'twas more 
 Cruel and wretched than I knew before ; 
 So many years to think how on your day 
 Joyful you'd come, and found me flown away. 
 What would you think of me, what would you say ? 
 O love, this little let me call you so ; 
 What other name to use I do not know. 
 let me think that by your side I sit, 
 And tell it you, and weep a little bit, 
 And you too weep with me, for hearing it. 
 Alone so long I've borne this dreadful weight ; 
 Such grief, at times it almost turned to hate. 
 let me think you sit and listening long, 
 Comfort me still, and say I wasn't wrong, 
 And pity me, and far, far hence again 
 Dismiss, if haply any yet remain, 
 Hard thoughts of me that in your heart have lain. 
 love ! to hear your voice I dare not go ; 
 But let me trust that you will judge me so. 
 
 ' I think no sooner were you gone away, 
 My aunt began to tell me of some pay, 
 More than three hundred pounds a-year 'twould be, 
 Which you, she said, would lose by marrying me. 
 Was this a thing a man of sense would do ? 
 Was I a fool, to look for it from you ? 
 You were a handsome gentleman and kind, 
 And to do right were every way inclined, 
 But to this truth I must submit my mind, 
 You would not marry. "Speak and tell me true, 
 Say, has he ever said one word to you 
 That meant as much ? " 0, love, I knew you would. 
 I've read it in your eyes so kind and good, 
 Although you did not speak, I understood.
 
 348 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Though for myself, indeed, I sought it not, 
 
 It seemed so high, so undeserved a lot, 
 
 But for the child, when it should come, I knew 
 
 O, I was certain what you meant to do. 
 
 She said, " We quit the land, will it be right 
 
 Or kind to leave yoii for a single night, 
 
 Just on the chance that he will come down here, 
 
 And sacrifice three hundred pounds a-year, 
 
 And all his hopes and prospects fling away, 
 
 And has already had his will, as one may say ? 
 
 Go you with us, and find beyond the seas, 
 
 Men by the score to choose from, if you please." 
 
 I said my will and duty was to stay, 
 
 Would they not help me to some decent way 
 
 To wait, and surely near was now the day ? 
 
 Quite they refused ; had they to let you know 
 
 Written, I asked, to say we were to go ? 
 
 They told me yes ; they showed a letter, too, 
 
 Post-office order that had come from you. 
 
 Alas, I could not read or write, they knew. 
 
 I think they meant me, though they did not say, 
 
 To think you wanted me to go away ; 
 
 O, love, I'm thankful nothing of the kind 
 
 Ever so much as came into my mind. 
 
 ' To-morrow was the day that would not fail ; 
 For Adelaide the vessel was to sail. 
 All night I hoped some dreadful wind would rise, 
 And lift the seas and rend the very skies. 
 All night I lay and listened hard for you. 
 Twice to the door I went, the bolt I drew, 
 And called to you ; scarce what I did I knew. 
 
 ' Morning grew light, the house was emptied clear ; 
 The ship would go, the boat was lying near. 
 They had my money, how was I to stay ? 
 Who could I go to, when they went away ? 
 Out in the streets I could not lie, you know. 
 O, dear, but it was terrible to go. 
 Yet, yet I looked ; I do not know what passed, 
 I think they took and carried me at last. 
 Twelve hours I lay, and sobbed in my distress ; 
 But in the night, let be this idleness, 
 I said, I'll bear it for my baby's sake, 
 Lest of my going mischief it should take,
 
 MARI MAGNO. 349 
 
 Advice will seek, and every caution use ; 
 My love I've lost his child I must not lose. 
 
 ' How oft I thought, when sailing on the seas, 
 Of our dear journey through the Hebrides, 
 When you the kindest were and best of men : 
 0, love, I did not love you right till then. 
 O, and myself how willingly I blamed, 
 So simple who had been, and was ashamed, 
 So mindful only of the present joy, 
 When you had anxious cares your busy mind to employ. 
 Ah, well, I said, but now at least he's free, 
 He will not have to lower himself for me. 
 He will not lose three hundred pounds a.-year, 
 In many ways my love has cost him dear. 
 
 ' Upon the passage, great was my delight, 
 A lady taught me how to read and write. 
 She saw me much, and fond of me she grew, 
 Only I durst not talk to her of you. 
 
 ' We had a quiet time upon the seas, 
 And reached our port of Adelaide with ease. 
 At Adelaide my lovely baby came. 
 Philip, he took his father's Christian name, 
 And my poor maiden surname, to my shame. 
 O, but I little cared, I loved him so, 
 'Twas such a joy to watch and see him grow. 
 At Adelaide we made no length of stay ; 
 Our friends to Melbourne just had gone away. 
 We followed shortly where they led before, 
 To Melbourne went, and flourished more and more. 
 My aunt and uncle both are buried there ; 
 I closed their eyes, and I was left their heir. 
 They meant me well, I loved them for their care. 
 
 ' Ten years ago I married Robert ; dear 
 And well he loved, and waited many a year. 
 Selfish it seemed to turn from one so true, 
 And I of course was desperate of you. 
 I've borne him children six ; we've left behind 
 Three little ones whom soon I hope to find. 
 To my dear boy he ever has been kind. 
 
 ' Next week we sail, and I should be so glad, 
 Only to leave my boy will make me sad. 
 But yours he is by right the grief I'll bear, 
 And at his age, more easy he can spare,
 
 350 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Perhaps, a mother's than a father's care. 
 Indeed I think him like his father, too; 
 He will be happier, probably, with you. 
 'Tis best, I know, nor will he quite forget, 
 Some day he'll come perhaps and see his mother yet. 
 ' heaven ! farewell perhaps I've been to blame 
 To write as if it all were still the same. 
 Farewell, write not. I will not seek to know 
 Whether you ever think of me or no.' 
 love, love, love, too late ! the tears fell down. 
 He dried them up and slowly walked to town. 
 
 To bed with busy thoughts ; the following day 
 Bore us expectant into Boston Bay ; 
 With dome and steeple on the yellow skies, 
 Upon the left we watched with curious eyes 
 The Puritan great Mother City rise. 
 Among the islets, winding in and round, 
 The great ship moved to her appointed ground. 
 We bade adieu, shook hands and went ashore : 
 I and my friend have seen our friends no more.
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 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 inarches 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 1 These songs were composed either during the writer's voyage 
 across the Atlantic in 1852, or during his residence iu America. 
 
 351
 
 352 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 YE flags of Piccadilly, 
 
 Where I posted up and down, 
 
 And wished myself so often 
 
 Well away from you and town, 
 
 Are the people walking quietly 
 
 And steady on their feet, 
 Cabs and omnibuses plying 
 
 Just as usual in the street ? 
 
 Do the houses look as upright 
 
 As of old they used to be, 
 And does nothing seem affected 
 
 By the pitching of the sea ? 
 
 Through the Green Park iron railings 
 Do the quick pedestrians pass ? 
 
 Are the little children playing 
 
 Round the plane-tree in the grass ? 
 
 This squally wild north-wester 
 With which our vessel fights, 
 
 Does it merely serve with you to 
 Carry up some paper kites ? 
 
 Ye flags of Piccadilly, 
 
 Which I hated so, I vow 
 I could wish with all my heart 
 
 You were underneath me now! 
 
 Co MR 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 ?
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 353 
 
 Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew, 
 Familiar things so old my heart believed them true, 
 These far, far back, behind me lie, before 
 The dark clouds mutter, and t'he 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, 
 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. 
 
 Coine 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 Avaves 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. 
 
 Dear home in England, safe and fast 
 If but in thee my lot lie cast,
 
 354 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 355 
 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 356 C LOU G IPS POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE mighty ocean rolls and raves, 
 To part u^ with its angry waves ; 
 But arch on arch from shore to shore, 
 In a vast fabric reaching o'er, 
 
 With careful labours daily wrought 
 By steady hope and tender thought, 
 The wide and weltering waste above 
 Our hearts have bridged it with their love. 
 
 There fond anticipations fly 
 To rear the growing structure high, 
 Dear memories upon either side 
 Combine to make it large and wide. 
 
 There, happy fancies day by day, 
 New courses sedulously lay ; 
 There soft solicitudes, sweet fears, 
 And doubts accumulate, and tears. 
 
 While the pure purpose of the soul, 
 To form of many parts a whole, 
 To make them strong and hold them true, 
 From end to end, is carried through.
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 357 
 
 Then when the waters war between, 
 1 Upon the masonry unseen, 
 Secure and swift, from shore to shore, 
 With silent footfall travelling o'er, 
 
 Our sundered spirits come and go, 
 Hither and thither, to and fro, 
 Pass and repass, now linger near, 
 Now part, anew to reappear. 
 
 With motions of a glad surprise, 
 We meet each other's wondering eyes, 
 At- work, at play, when people talk, 
 And when we sleep, and when we walk. 
 
 Each dawning day my eyelids see 
 You come, methinks, across to me, 
 And I, at every hour anew, 
 Could dream I travelled o'er to you. 
 1853. 
 
 THAT out of sight is out of mind 
 Is true of most we leave behind ; 
 It is not sure, nor can be true, 
 My own and only love, of you. 
 
 They were my friends, 'twas sad to part ; 
 Almost a tear began to start ; 
 But yet as things run on they find 
 That out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 For men, that will not idlers be, 
 Must lend their hearts to things they see ; 
 And friends who leave them far behind, 
 When out of sight are out of mind. 
 
 I blame it not ; I think that when 
 The cold and silent meet again, 
 Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind, 
 Twas ' out of sight,' was ' out of mind.'
 
 358 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 I knew it when we parted, well, 
 I knew it, but was loth to tell ; 
 I felt before, what now I find, 
 That 'out of sight' is 'out of mind.' 
 
 That friends, however friends they were, 
 Still deal with things as things occur, 
 And that, excepting for the blind, 
 What's out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 But love, the poets say, is blind f 
 So out of sight and out of mind 
 Need not, nor will, I think, be true, 
 My own and only love, of you. 
 1853. 
 
 WERE you with me or I with you, 
 There's nought, methinks, I might not do ; 
 Could venture here, and venture there, 
 And never fear, nor ever care. 
 
 To things before, and things behind, 
 Could turn my thoughts, and turn my mind, 
 On this and that, day after day, 
 Could dare to throw myself away. 
 
 Secure, when all was o'er, to find 
 My proper thought, my perfect mind, 
 And unimpaired receive anew 
 My own and better self in you. 
 1863. 
 
 AM I with you, or you with me ? 
 
 Or in some blessed place above, 
 Where neither lands divide nor sea, 
 
 Are we united in our love ? 
 
 Oft while in longing here I lie, 
 
 That wasting ever still endures ; 
 My soul out from me seems to fly, 
 
 And half-way, somewhere, meet with yours.
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 359 
 
 Somewhere but where I cannot guess 
 Beyond, may be, the bound of space, 
 
 The liberated spirits press 
 
 And meet, bless heaven, and embrace. 
 
 It seems not either here nor there, 
 
 Somewhere between us up above, 
 A region of a clearer air, 
 
 The dwelling of a purer love. 
 1852. 
 
 WERE I with you, or you with me, 
 My love, how happy should we be ; 
 Day after day it is sad cheer 
 To have you there, while I am here. 
 
 My darling's face I cannot see, 
 My darling's voice is mute for me, 
 My fingers vainly seek the hair 
 Of her that is not here, but there. 
 
 In a strange land, to her unknown, 
 I sit and think of her alone ; 
 And in that happy chamber where 
 We sat, she sits, nor has me there. 
 
 Yet still the happy thought recurs 
 That she is mine, as I am hers, 
 That she is there, as I am here, 
 And loves me, whether far or near. 
 
 The mere assurance that she lives 
 And loves me, full contentment gives; 
 I need not doubt, despond, or fear, 
 For, she is there, and I am here. 
 1852. 
 
 WERE you with me, or I with you, 
 There's nought methinks I could not do ; 
 And nothing that, for your dear sake, 
 I might not dare to undertake.
 
 360 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 With thousands standing by as fit, 
 More keen, perhaps more needing it, 
 To be the first some job to spy, 
 And jump and call out, Here am I ! 
 
 for one's miserable self 
 To ask a pittance of the pelf, 
 To claim, however small, a share, 
 Which other men might think so fair : 
 
 It was not worth it ! a first time 
 A thought upon it seemed a crime ; 
 To stoop and pick the dirty pence, 
 A taint upon one's innocence. 
 
 My own ! with nothing sordid, base, 
 Or mean, we would our love disgrace ; 
 Yet something I methinks could do, 
 Were you with me, or I with you : 
 
 Some misconstruction would sustain ; 
 Count some humiliation gain ; 
 Make unabashed a righteous claim, 
 And profess merit without shame : 
 
 Apply for service ; day by day 
 Seek honest work for honest pay, 
 Without a fear by any toil 
 The over-cleanly hand to soil : 
 
 Secure in safety to return, 
 And every pettiness unlearn ; 
 And unimpaired still find anew 
 My own and better self in you. 
 
 SHIP, ship, ship, 
 
 That travellest over the sea, 
 What are the tidings, I pray thee, 
 
 Thou bearest hither to me ?
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE. 361 
 
 Are they tidings of comfort and joy, 
 That shall make me seem to see 
 
 The sweet lips softly moving 
 And whispering love to me ? 
 
 Or are they of trouble and grief, 
 Estrangement, sorrow, and doubt, 
 
 To turn into torture my hopes, 
 And drive me from Paradise out ? 
 
 ship, ship, ship, 
 
 That comest over the sea, 
 Whatever it be thou bringest, 
 
 Come quickly with it to me. 
 1853.
 
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF ILIAD. 
 (I. 1-32.) 
 
 GODDESS, the anger sing of the Pelean Achilles, 
 Fatal beginning of griefs imnumbered to the Achaeans ; 
 Many valiant souls untimely it hurried to Hades, 
 And the heroes left themselves of dogs to be eaten 
 And of ravenous birds till Zeus's plan was accom- 
 plished 
 
 From the day when first contention arose to dissever 
 Atrides the King and the godlike hero Achilles. 
 
 What divinity thus incited them to contention ? 
 Zeus and Leto's son ; who, in anger with A gamemnon, 
 Sent a deadly disease on the host, destroying the people, 
 On account of the wrong the King to his worshipper 
 
 offered, 
 
 Chryses, who had come to the hollow ships of Achaia, 
 To recover his daughter, with gifts of costly redemption, 
 Carrying in his hands the wreaths of the archer Apollo 
 Set on a golden staff beseeching all the Achaeans, 
 And the Atridae in chief, the two in command of the 
 
 nations : 
 * Ye, Atreus' sons, and other well-greaved Acha'ian 
 
 heroes, 
 
 May the gods, who live in Olympian houses, accord you 
 Capture of Priam's town and safe to return to Achaia, 
 But liberate to me my child and take the redemption 
 Fearing Zeus's son, the far-death-dealing Apollo.' 
 
 Then the Achseans all with acclamation assented, 
 Honour to show to the priest, and take the costly redemp- 
 tion; 
 
 363
 
 364 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Only to Atrides Agamemnon it was unpleasing, 
 Sternly who dismissed him Avith contumelious answer .- 
 < Old man, let me not, by the hollow ships of Achaia 
 Lingering find you now, or henceforth ever appearing, 
 Lest to defend you fail the staff and wreaths of Apollo. 
 Her do I not release until old age come upon her, 
 In my house in the land of Argos, far from her country, 
 Stepping at the loom and in the chamber attending. 
 Go, and trouble me not, that your return be the safer.' 
 
 (I. 121-218.) 
 
 And replying, said godlike, swift-footed Achilles : 
 
 ' Atrides, our chief, as in rank, so in love of possessions, 
 
 Say, in what way shall the noble Achseans find you a 
 
 present ? 
 
 Little we yet have gained the general stock to replenish, 
 Distributed were all the spoils we took from the cities, 
 And to recall our gifts and reapportion befits not 
 Yield you the maiden to-day to the god, and we, the 
 
 Achseans, 
 
 Three or four times over will compensate it, if ever 
 Zeus the capture accord of the well-walled Ilian city.' 
 And with words of reply the King Agamemnon ad- 
 dressed him : 
 
 ' Think not, great as you are, god-resembling Achilles 
 Thus to dissimulate and evade me with a profession ; 
 Is it that you desire to enjoy your prize, and to let me 
 Sit empty-handed here, and mine you bid me surrender 
 Doubtless, if the noble Achseans find me another 
 Suitable to my wants and answerable in value ; 
 But, if they do not give, myself will make" my election 
 Yours, or that, if I please, of Ajax or of Ulysses, 
 I for my own will take, and leave the loser lamenting. 
 At a suitable time this, after, will we determine ; 
 Now proceed we to haul a swift ship into the water, 
 Choose the rowers to take her, and send the cattle aboard 
 
 her 
 
 For sacrifice, and bring the beautiful daughter of Chryses 
 Also on board, and appoint some prudent chief to convey 
 
 her 
 Ajax shall it be, or Idoineneus, or Ulysses ?
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 365 
 
 Or will Pelides, incomparable of heroes, 
 Go, and with holy rite appease the wrath of Apollo ? ' 
 And with a frown swift-footed Achilles eyed him, and 
 
 answered : 
 
 ' me ! clothed-upon with impudence, greedy-hearted, 
 How shall any Achsean again be willing to serve you, 
 Make any expedition, or fight in battle to help you ? 
 Certainly not upon any account of the Troi'an horsemen 
 Came I hither to fight ; they never gave me occasion, 
 Never carried away any cattle of mine, any horses, 
 Nor in Phthia ever, the rich land, feeder of people, 
 Devastated the fruit ; since numerous, to divide them, 
 Mountains shadowy lie, and a sea's tumultuous water : 
 To attend thee we came, on thy effrontery waiting, 
 Reparation to take of the T^rojans for Menelaus, 
 And thy unblushing self. All which you little remember, 
 And can threaten to-day of my reward to deprive me, 
 Dearly with labour earned, and given me by the Achaeans. 
 Do I ever receive any gift your gifts to compare with, 
 When the Achaeans sack any wealthy town of the Trojans ? 
 Truly the larger part of the busy, hurrying warfare 
 My hands have to discharge ; but, in the day of division, 
 Yours is the ample share, and I, content with a little, 
 Thankfully turn to my ships, well wearied out with the 
 
 fighting. 
 
 Now to Phthia I go far wiser for me to do so, 
 Home with my hollow ships to travel, than for another 
 Accumulate riches to be requited with insult.' 
 
 And replying, said the king of men, Agamemnon : 
 * Go, if to go be your wish ; I keep you not do not ask 
 
 you 
 
 For my honour to stay ; I have others here to support it, 
 Who and Zeus above all, the Counsellor will uphold 
 
 me. 
 
 You are the hatefullest to me of the Zeus-fed princes, 
 Lover for evermore of brawl and battle and discord. 
 Strong if you are, your strength was by some deity given. 
 Home with your hollow ships, and with your people re- 
 turning 
 
 Order the Myrmidonians : expect not me to regard you, 
 Or to observe your wrath. I advertise you beforehand 
 As Chryseida Phoebus Apollo hath bid me surrender, 
 I in a ship of my own will with niy people remit her
 
 366 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Home, and the beautiful-cheeked Brise'ida then to replace 
 
 her 
 Out of your tent, your prize, will carry ; an argument to 
 
 you 
 How much greater I am than yourself, and a warning to 
 
 others 
 Not to oppose my will and talk with me as an equal.' 
 
 So said he, and pain seized Pelides, and in the bosom 
 Under his hairy breast two purposes he divided, 
 Either, from his thigh the glittering blade unsheathing, 
 To put aside the rest and straightway kill Agamemnon, 
 Or to repress his wrath and check himself in his anger. 
 With the purposes yet conflicting thus in his bosom, 
 From the sheath the huge sword was issuing out, when 
 
 Athena 
 Came from heaven : the goddess, the white-armed Hera, 
 
 desired it, 
 
 Solicitous for the good of the one alike and the other. 
 Standing behind, by the yellow hair she drew back 
 
 Achilles, 
 
 Visible only to him; of the rest to no one apparent ; 
 And with wonder seized he turned, and knew in a moment 
 Pallas Athenaea, with dreadful eyes looking at him ; 
 And he opened his lips with winged words and addressed 
 
 her: 
 
 ' Wherefore art thou come, child of the aegis-bearer ; 
 Was it the fury to see of Atrides Agamemnon ? 
 Lo, I declare it now, and you will see it accomplished, 
 His injurious acts will bring his death-blow upon him.' 
 
 And replying, said the blue-eyed goddess, Athena : 
 1 To repress I came, if practicable, your anger, 
 Out of heaven, the goddess, the white-armed Hera, 
 
 desired me, 
 
 Solicitous for the good of the one alike and the other. 
 Abstain from violence, put back the sword in the scab- 
 bard, 
 
 Let opprobrious words, if necessary, requite him ; 
 For I declare it now, and you will see it accomplished, 
 Three times as many gifts will soon, as costly, be sent 
 
 you 
 In reparation of this ; be ruled by us to be patient.' 
 
 And replying, spoke and said swift-footed Achilles : 
 ' Unto admonition of you two given, goddess,
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 367 
 
 Even the greatly incensed should yield ; 'tis well to obey 
 
 you; 
 Who to the voice of the gods is obedient, they will assist 
 
 him.' 
 
 ELEGIACS. 
 
 FROM thy far sources, 'mid mountains airily climbing, 
 
 Pass to the rich lowland, thou busy sunny river ; 
 Murmuring once, dimpling, pellucid, limpid, abundant, 
 
 Deepening now, widening, swelling, a lordly river. 
 Through woodlands steering, with branches waving above 
 thee, 
 
 Through the meadows sinuous, wandering irriguous ; 
 Towns, hamlets leaving, towns by thee, bridges across 
 thee, 
 
 Pass to palace garden, pass to cities populous. 
 Murmuring once, dimpling, 'mid woodlands wandering 
 
 idly, 
 
 Now with mighty vessels loaded, a mighty river. 
 Pass to the great waters, though tides may seem to resist 
 
 thee, 
 
 Tides to resist seeming, quickly will lend thee passage, 
 Pass to the dark waters that roaring wait to receive 
 
 thee; 
 Pass them thou wilt not, thou busy sunny river. 
 
 Freshwater, 1861. 
 
 II. 
 
 TRUNKS the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing, 
 
 Boughs with apples laden beautiful, Hesperian, 
 Golden, odoriferous, perfume exhaling about them, 
 
 Orbs in a dark umbrage luminous and radiant ; 
 To the palate grateful, more luscious were not in Eden, 
 
 Or in that fabled garden of Alcinous ; 
 Out of a dark umbrage sounds also musical issued, 
 
 Birds their sweet transports uttering in melody : 
 Thrushes clear piping, wood-pigeons cooing, arousing 
 
 Loudly the nightingale, loudly the sylvan echoes ; 
 Waters transpicuous flowed under, flowed to the listening 
 
 Ear with a soft murmur, softly soporiferous ;
 
 368 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Nor, with ebon locks too, there wanted, circling, attentive 
 Unto the sweet fluting, girls, of a swarthy shepherd ; 
 
 Over a sunny level their flocks are lazily feeding, 
 They of Ainor musing rest in a leafy cavern. 
 
 1861. 
 
 ALCAICS. 
 
 So spake the voice : and as with a single life 
 Instinct, the whole mass, fierce, irretainable, 
 Down on that unsuspecting host swept ; 
 Down, with the fury of winds, that all night 
 Upbrimming, sapping slowly the dyke, at dawn 
 Fall through the breach o'er holmstead and harvest ; and 
 Heard roll a deluge : while the milkmaid 
 Trips i' the dew, and remissly guiding 
 Morn's first uneven furrow, the farmer's boy 
 Dreams out his dream ; so, over the multitude 
 Safe-tented, uncontrolled and uncon- 
 trollably sped the Avenger's fury. 
 
 ACTION. 1 
 
 OVER a mountain slope with lentisk, and with abounding 
 Arbutus, and the red oak overtufted, 'mid a noontide 
 Now glowing fervidly, the Leto-born, the divine one, 
 Artemis, Arcadian wood-rover, alone, hunt-weary, 
 Unto a dell cent'ring many streamlets her foot unerring 
 Had guided. Platanus with fig-tree shaded a hollow, 
 Shaded a waterfall, where pellucid yet abundant 
 Streams from perpetual full-flowing sources a current : 
 Lower on either bank in sunshine flowered the oleanders : 
 Plenteous under a rock green herbage here to the margin 
 Grew with white poplars overcrowning. She thither 
 
 arrived, 
 
 Unloosening joyfully the vest enfolded upon her, 
 Swift her divine shoulders discovering, swiftly revealing 
 Her maidenly bosom and all her beauty beneath it, 
 
 1 Passages of the second letter of Parepidemus (vol. i. pp. 400,401) 
 illustrate the theory which Mr. Cloiifjh lia.s carried into practice in these 
 hexameters as well as in the Translations from the Iliad.
 
 ESSAYS IN CLASSICAL METRES. 369 
 
 To the river water overflowing to receive her 
 Yielded her ambrosial nakedness. But with an instant 
 Conscious, with the instant th' immortal terrific anger 
 Flew to the guilty doer : that moment, where amid amply 
 Concealing plane-leaves he th' opportunity pursued, 
 Long vainly, possessed, unwise, Actseon, of hunters, 
 Hapless of Arcadian, and most misguided of hunters, 
 Knew the divine mandate, knew fate directed upon him. 
 He, to the boughs crouching, with dreadful joy the de- 
 sired one 
 
 Had viewed descending, viewed as in a dream, disarraying, 
 And the unclad shoulders awestruck, awestruck let his 
 
 eyes see 
 
 The maidenly bosom, but not dim fear fell upon them 
 Not more had witnessed. Not, therefore, less the forest 
 
 through 
 
 Banging, their master ceasing thenceforth to remember, 
 With the instant together came trooping, as to devour him 
 His dogs from the ambush. Transformed suddenly be- 
 fore them, 
 
 He fled, an antlered stag, wild with terror to the mountain. 
 She, the liquid stream in, her limbs carelessly reclining, 
 The flowing waters collected grateful about her.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 COME, POET, COME! 1 
 
 COME, Poet, coine ! 
 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. 
 
 1 A great proportion of the Poems described as Miscellaneous have, 
 like some included in previous divisions, been brought together from 
 rough copies and unfinished manuscripts. Fragmentary and imperfect 
 as they are, they yet are so characteristic of their writer that they have 
 been placed here along with others more finished. 
 
 371
 
 372 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 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 DREAM LAND. 
 
 To think that men of former days 
 In naked truth deserved the praise 
 Which, fain to have in flesh and blood 
 An image of imagined good, 
 Poets have sung and men received, 
 And all too glad to be deceived, 
 Most plastic and most inexact, 
 Posterity has told for fact ; 
 To say what was, was not as we, 
 This also is a vanity. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Ere Agamemnon, warriors were, 
 Ere Helen, beauties equalling her, 
 Brave ones and fair, whom no one knows, 
 And brave or fair as these or those. 
 The commonplace whom daily we 
 In our dull streets and houses see,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 373 
 
 To think of other mould than these 
 Were Cato, Solon, Socrates, 
 Or Mahomet or Confutze, 
 This also is a vanity. 
 
 in. 
 
 Hannibal, Csesar, Charlemain, 
 
 And he before, who back on Spain 
 
 Kepelled the fierce inundant Moor ; 
 
 Godfrey, St. Louis, wise and pure, 
 
 Washington, Cromwell, John, and Paul, 
 
 Columbus, Luther, one and all, 
 
 Go mix them up, the false and true, 
 
 With Sindbad, Crusoe, or St. Preux, 
 
 And say as he was, so was he, 
 
 This also is a vanity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Say not : Behold it here or there, 
 Or on the earth, or in the air. 
 That better thing than can be seen 
 Is neither now nor e'er has been ; 
 It is not in this land or that, 
 But in a place we soon are at, 
 Where all can seek and some can find, 
 Where hope is liberal, fancy kind, 
 And what we wish for we can see, 
 Which also is a vanity. 
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. 
 
 IT is not sweet content, be sure, 
 
 That moves the nobler Muse to song, 
 
 Yet when could truth come whole and pure 
 From hearts that inly writhe with wrong ? 
 
 'Tis not the calm and peaceful breast 
 That sees or reads the problem true ; 
 
 They only know on whom 't has prest 
 Too hard to hope to solve it too.
 
 374 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Our ills are worse than at their ease 
 These blameless happy souls suspect, 
 
 They only study the disease, 
 Alas, who live not to detect. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 BUT that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn 
 No verity of slowly strengthening light 
 Early or late hath issued ; that the day 
 Scarce-shown, relapses rather, self-withdrawn, 
 Back to the glooms of ante-natal night, 
 For this, human beings, mourn we may. 
 
 TWO MOODS. 
 
 AH, blame him not because he's gay ! 
 That he should smile, and jest, and play 
 But shows how lightly he can bear, 
 How well forget that load which, where 
 Thought is, is with it, and howe'er 
 Dissembled, or indeed forgot, 
 Still is a load, and ceases not. 
 This aged earth that each new spring 
 Comes forth so young, so ravishing 
 In summer robes for all to see, 
 Of flower, and leaf, and bloomy tree, 
 For all her scarlet, gold, and green, 
 Fails not to keep within unseen 
 That inner purpose and that force 
 Which on the untiring orbit's course 
 Around the sun, amidst the spheres 
 Still bears her thro' the eternal years. 
 Ah, blame the flowers and fruits of May, 
 And then blame him because he's gay. 
 
 Ah, blame him not, for not being gay, 
 
 Because an hundred times a day 
 
 He doth not currently repay 
 
 Sweet words with ready words as sweet,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 375 
 
 And for each smile a smile repeat. 
 
 To mute submissiveness confined, 
 
 Blame not, if once or twice the mind 
 
 Its pent-up indignation wreak 
 
 In scowling brow and flushing cheek, 
 
 And smiles curled back as soon as born, 
 
 To dire significance of scorn. 
 
 Nor blame if once, and once again 
 
 He wring the hearts of milder men, 
 
 If slights, the worse if undesigned, 
 
 Should seem unbrotherly, unkind ; 
 
 For though tree wave, and blossom blow 
 
 Above, earth hides a fire below ; 
 
 Her seas the starry laws obey, 
 
 And she from her own ordered way 
 
 Swerves not, because it dims the day 
 
 Or changes verdure to decay. 
 
 Ah, blame the great world on its way, 
 
 And then blame him for not being gay. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 DANCE on, dance on, we see, we see 
 Youth goes, alack, and with it glee, 
 A boy the old man ne'er can be ; 
 Maternal thirty scarce can find 
 The sweet sixteen long left behind ; 
 Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain, 
 That boys and girls may once again 
 Be that for them they cannot be, 
 But which it gives them joy to see, 
 ' Youth goes and glee ; but not in vain, 
 Young folks, if only you remain. 
 
 Dance on, dance on, 'tis joy to see; 
 The dry red leaves on winter's tree 
 Can feel the new sap rising free. 
 On, on, young folks ; so you survive, 
 The dead themselves are still alive ; 
 The blood in dull parental veins 
 Long numbed, a tingling life regains.
 
 376 CLOUGirS POEMS. 
 
 Deep down in earth, the tough old root 
 Is conscious still of flower and fruit. 
 Spring goes and glee but were not vain : 
 In you, young folks, they come again. 
 
 Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel ; 
 
 Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel, 
 
 Our senses too with music reel ; 
 
 Nor let your pairs neglect to fill 
 
 The old ancestral scorned quadrille. 
 
 Let hand the hand uplifted seek, 
 
 And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek ; 
 
 Love too ; but gently, nor astray, 
 
 And yet, deluder, yet in play. 
 
 Dance on ; youth goes : but all's not vain, 
 
 Young folks, if only you remain. 
 
 . Dance on, dance on, 'tis joy to see ; 
 We once were nimble e'en as ye, 
 And danced to give the oldest glee ; 
 wherefore add, as we, you too, 
 Once gone your prime cannot renew ; 
 You too, like us, at last shall stand 
 To watch and not to join the band, 
 Content some day (a far-off day) 
 To your supplanters soft to say, 
 Youth goes, but goes not all in vain, 
 Young folks, so only you remain, 
 Dance on, dance on, 'tis joy to see. 
 
 SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMS. 
 
 YOUTH, that went, is come again, 
 Youth, for which we all were fain ; 
 With soft pleasure and sweet pain 
 In each nerve and every vein, 
 Circling through the heart and brain, 
 Whence and wherefore come again ? 
 Eva, tell me ! 
 
 Dead and buried when we thought him, 
 Who the magic spell hath taught him ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS FOE. MS. 377 
 
 Who the strong elixir brought him ? 
 Dead and buried as we thought, 
 Lo ! unasked for and unsought 
 Conies he, shall it be for nought ? 
 Eva, tell me ! 
 
 Youth that lifeless long had lain, 
 Youth that long we longed in vain for, 
 Used to grumble and complain for, 
 Thought at last to entertain 
 A decorous cool disdain for, 
 On a sudden see again 
 Comes, but will not long remain, 
 Comes, with whom too in his train, 
 Comes, and shall it be in vain ? 
 
 Eva, tell me! 
 
 THESIS AND ANTITHESIS. 
 
 IF that we thus are guilty doth appear, 
 Ah, guilty tho' we are. grave judges, hear ! 
 Ah, yes ; if ever you in your sweet youth 
 'Midst pleasure's borders missed the track of truth, 
 Made love on benches underneath green trees, 
 Stuffed tender rhymes with old new similes, 
 Whispered soft anythings, and in the blood 
 Felt all you said not most was understood 
 Ah, if you have as which of you has not ? 
 Nor what you were have utterly forgot, 
 Then be not stern to faults yourselves have known, 
 To others harsh, kind to yourselves alone. 
 
 That we, young sir, beneath our youth's green trees 
 Once did, not what should profit, but should please, 
 In foolish longing and in love-sick play 
 Forgot the truth and lost the flying day 
 That we went wrong we say not is not true, 
 But, if we erred, were we not punished too ? 
 If not if no one checked our wandering feet, 
 Shall we our parents' negligence repeat ?
 
 378 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 In future times that ancient loss renew, 
 If none saved us, forbear from saving you ? 
 Nor let that justice in your faults be seen 
 Which in our own or was or should have been ? 
 
 Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then, 
 
 And, so recalling, listen yet again ; 
 
 If you escaped, 'tis plainly understood 
 
 Impunity may leave a culprit good ; 
 
 If you were punished, did you then, as now, 
 
 The justice of that punishment allow ? 
 
 Did what your age consents to now, appear 
 
 Expedient then and needfully severe ? 
 
 In youth's indulgence think there yet might be 
 
 A truth forgot by grey severity. 
 
 That strictness and that laxity between, 
 
 Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean. 
 
 'Tis possible, young sir, that some excess 
 Mars youthful judgment and old men's no less ; 
 Yet we must take our counsel as we may 
 For (flying years this lesson still convey), 
 'Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise, 
 And not to use, but still correct one's eyes. 
 
 Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng 
 
 Of myriads gone before ; 
 To flutter and flap and flit along 
 
 The airy limbo shore. 
 
 Go, words of sport and words of wit, 
 
 Sarcastic point and tine, 
 And words of wisdom wholly fit, 
 
 With folly's to combine. 
 
 Go, words of wisdom, words of sense, 
 Which, while the heart belied, 
 
 The tongue still uttered for pretence, 
 The inner blank to hide.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 379 
 
 Go, words of wit, so gay, so light, 
 
 That still were meant express 
 To soothe the smart of fancied slight 
 
 By fancies of success. 
 
 Go, broodings vain o'er fancied wrong ; 
 
 Go, love-dreams vainer still ; 
 And scorn that's not, but would be, strong ; 
 
 And Pride without a Will. 
 
 Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way 
 
 Where myriads went before, 
 To languish out your lingering day 
 
 Upon the limbo shore. 
 
 November, 1850. 
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 How in God's name did Columbus get over 
 
 Is a pure wonder to me, I protest, 
 Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover, 
 Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest. 
 
 Bad enough all the same, 
 
 For them that after came, 
 
 But, in great Heaven's name, 
 
 How he should ever think 
 
 That on the other brink 
 Of this wild waste terra fir ma should be, 
 Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me. 
 
 How a man ever should hope to get thither, 
 
 E'en if he knew that there was another side ; 
 But to suppose he should come any whither, 
 Sailing straight on into chaos untried, 
 
 In spite of the motion 
 
 Across the whole ocean, 
 
 To stick to the notion 
 
 That in some nook or bend 
 
 Of a sea without end 
 He should find North and South America, 
 Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me.
 
 380 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, 
 
 Judged that the earth like an orange was round, 
 None of them ever said, Come along, follow me, 
 Sail to the West, and the East will be found. 
 
 Many a day before 
 
 Ever they'd come ashore, 
 
 From the ' San Salvador,' 
 
 Sadder and wiser men 
 
 They'd have turned back again ; 
 And that lie did not. but did cross the sea, 
 Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me. 
 
 EVEN THE WINDS AND THE SEA OBEY. 
 
 SAID the Poet, I wouldn't maintain, 
 
 As the mystical German has done, 
 That the land, inexistent till then, 
 
 To reward him then first saw the sun ; 
 And yet I could deem it was so, 
 
 As o'er the new waters he sailed, 
 That his soul made the breezes to blow, 
 
 With his courage the breezes had failed ; 
 His strong quiet purpose had still 
 
 The hurricane's fury withheld ; 
 The resolve of his conquering will 
 
 The lingering vessel impelled : 
 For the beings, the powers that range 
 
 In the air, on the earth, at our sides, 
 Can modify, temper, and change 
 
 Stronger things than the winds and the tides, 
 By forces occult can the laws 
 
 As we style them of nature o'errule ; 
 Can cause, so to say, every cause, 
 
 And our best mathematics befool ; 
 Can defeat calculation and plan, 
 
 Baffle schemes ne'er so wisely designed, 
 But will bow to the genius of man, 
 
 And acknowledge a sovereign mind.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 381 
 
 REPOSE IN EGYPT. 
 
 O HAPPY mother ! while the man wayworn 
 Sleeps by his ass and dreams of daily bread, 
 Wakeful and heedful for thy infant care 
 happy mother ! while thy husband sleeps, 
 Art privileged, blessed one, to see 
 Celestial strangers sharing in thy task, 
 And visible angels waiting on thy child. 
 
 Take, young soul, infant heaven-desired, 
 
 Take and fear not the cates, although of earth, 
 
 Which to thy hands celestial hands extend, 
 
 Take and fear not : such vulgar meats of life 
 
 Thy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass ; 
 
 The seeming ill, contaminating joys, 
 
 Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow ; 
 
 The pleasures as the pains of our strange life 
 
 Thou art engaged, self-compromised, to share. 
 
 Look up, upon thy mother's face there sits 
 
 No sad suspicion of a lurking ill, 
 
 No shamed confession of a needful sin; 
 
 Mistrust her not, although of earth she too : 
 
 Look up ! the bright-eyed cherubs overhead 
 
 Strew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the just. 
 
 Look ! thy own father's servants these, and thine, 
 
 Who at his bidding and at thirie are here. 
 
 In thine own word was it not said long since 
 
 Butter and honey shall he eat, and learn 
 
 The evil to refuse and choose the good ? 
 
 Fear not, babe divine, fear not, accept ; 
 
 happy mother, privileged to see, 
 
 While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery. 
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 LIPS, lips, open ! 
 
 Up comes a little bird that lives inside 
 
 Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.
 
 382 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings, 
 Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his 
 wings. 
 
 Little bird, little bird, whither will you go ? 
 Bound about the world, while nobody can know. 
 
 Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee ? 
 
 Far away around the world, while nobody can see. 
 
 Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam ? 
 All round the world and around again home ; 
 
 Bound the round world, and back through the air, 
 When the morning comes, the little bird is there. 
 
 Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies, 
 Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird's away, 
 Little bird will come again, by the peep of day ; 
 
 Sleep, little boy, the little bird must go 
 
 Bound about the world, while nobody can know. 
 
 Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round, 
 Bound and round he goes ; sleep, sleep sound. 
 
 TBANSLATIONS FBOM GOETHE. 
 
 OVER every hill 
 
 All is still ; 
 In no leaf of any tree 
 
 Can you see 
 The motion of a breath. 
 Every bird has ceased its song, 
 
 Wait ; and thou too, ere long, 
 
 Shall be quiet in death.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 383 
 
 IT. 
 
 WHO ne'er his bread with tears hath ate, 
 Who never through the sad night hours 
 
 Weeping upon his bed hath sate, 
 He knows not you, you heavenly powers. 
 
 Forth into life you bid us go, 
 
 And into guilt you let us fall, 
 Then leave us to endure the woe 
 
 It brings unfailingly to all. 
 
 in. 
 
 You complain of the woman for roving from one to 
 
 another : 
 Where is the constant man whom she is trying to find ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 SLUMBER and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the 
 
 immortals, 
 
 By Prometheus were brought hither to comfort man- 
 kind ; 
 But what in heaven was light, to human creatures was 
 
 heavy : 
 
 Slumber became our Sleep, Sleep unto mortals was 
 Death. 
 
 v. 
 
 OH, the beautiful child ! and oh, the most happy mother ! 
 
 She in her infant blessed, and in its mother the babe 
 
 What sweet longing within me this picture might not 
 
 occasion, 
 
 Were I not, Joseph, like you, calmly condemned to 
 stand by ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 DIOGENES by his tub, contenting himself with the sun- 
 shine, 
 
 And Calanus with joy mounting his funeral pyre : 
 Great examples were these for the eager approving of 
 
 Philip, 
 
 But for the Conqueror of Earth were, as the earth was, 
 too small,
 
 384 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 URANUS. 1 
 
 WHEN on the primal peaceful blank profound, 
 
 Which in its still unknowing silence holds 
 
 All knowledge, ever by withholding holds 
 
 When on that void (like footfalls in far rooms), 
 
 In faint pulsations from the whitening East 
 
 Articulate voices first were felt to stir, 
 
 And the great child, in dreaming grown to man, 
 
 Losing his dream to piece it up began ; 
 
 Then Plato in me said, 
 
 ' 'Tis but the figured ceiling overhead, 
 
 With cunning diagrams bestarred, that shine 
 
 In all the three dimensions, are endowed 
 
 With motion too by skill mechanical, 
 
 That thou in height, and depth, and breadth, and power, 
 
 Schooled unto pure Mathesis, might proceed 
 
 To higher entities, whereof in us 
 
 Copies are seen, existent they themselves 
 
 In the sole kingdom of the Mind and God. 
 
 Mind not the stars, mind thou thy Mind and God.' 
 
 By that supremer Word 
 
 O'ermastered, deafly heard 
 
 Were hauntings dim of old astrologies ; 
 
 Chaldean mumblings vast, with gossip light 
 
 From modern ologistic fancyings mixed, 
 
 Of suns and stars, by hypothetic men 
 
 Of other frame than ours inhabited, 
 
 Of lunar seas and lunar craters huge. 
 
 And was there atmosphere, or was there not ? 
 
 And without oxygen could life subsist ? 
 
 And was the world originally mist ? 
 
 Talk they as talk they list, 
 
 I, in that ampler voice, 
 
 Unheeding, did rejoice. 
 
 1 This thought is taken from a passage on Astronomy in Plato's 
 Republic, in which the following sentence occurs, vii. 520, D: 'We 
 must use the fretwork of the sky as patterns, with a view to the study 
 which aims at these higher realities, just as if we chanced to meet with 
 diagrams cunningly drawn and devised by Dsudalus or some other 
 craftsman or painter.'
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 385 
 
 SELENE. 
 
 MY beloved, is it nothing 
 Though we meet not, neither can, 
 That I see thee, and thou me, 
 That we see, and see we see, 
 When I see I also feel thee ; 
 Is it nothing, my beloved ? 
 
 Thy luminous clear beauty 
 
 Brightens on me in my night, 
 
 I withdraw into my darkness 
 
 To allure thee into light. 
 
 About me and upon rne I feel them pass and stay, 
 
 About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray. 
 
 And thou, thou also feelest 
 
 When thou stealest 
 
 Shamefaced and half afraid 
 
 To the chamber of thy shade, 
 
 Thou in thy turn, 
 
 Thou too feelest 
 
 Something follow, something yearn, 
 
 A full orb blaze and burn. 
 
 My full orb upon thine, 
 
 As thine erst, gently smiling, 
 
 Softly wooing, sweetly wiling, 
 
 Gleamed on mine ; 
 
 So mine on thine in turn 
 
 When thou feelest blaze and burn, 
 
 Is it nothing, my beloved ? 
 
 My beloved, is it nothing 
 When I see thee and thou me, 
 When we each other see, 
 Is it nothing, my beloved ? 
 
 Closer, closer come unto me. 
 Shall I see thee and no more ? 
 I can see thee, is that all ? 
 Let me also,
 
 386 CLOUOH'S POEMS. 
 
 Let me feel thee, 
 
 Closer, closer, my beloved, 
 
 Come unto me, come to me, come ! 
 
 cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not, 
 Lookest onward, look'st before, 
 
 Yet I follow, evermore. 
 
 Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way, 
 
 Scarcely lookest, wilt not stay, 
 
 From thine alien way. 
 
 The inevitable motion 
 Bears me forth upon the line 
 Whose course I cannot see. 
 
 1 must move as it conveys me 
 Evermore. It so must be. 
 
 O cold one, and I round thee 
 Revolve, round only thee, 
 Straining ever to be nearer 
 While thou evadest still ; 
 Repellest still, O cold one, 
 Nay, but closer, closer, closer, 
 My beloved, come, come, come ! 
 
 The inevitable motion 
 
 Carries both upon its line, 
 
 Also you as well as me. 
 
 What is best, and what is strongest, 
 
 We obey. It so must be. 
 
 Cruel, cruel, didst thou only 
 Feel as I feel evermore, 
 A force, though in, not of me, 
 Drawing inward, in, in, in. 
 
 Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endeth, 
 Thou shalt feel me closer, closer, 
 My beloved, close, close to thee, 
 Come to thee, come, come, come ! 
 
 The inevitable motion 
 Bears us both upon its line 
 Together, you as me, 
 Together and asunder, 
 Evermore. It so must be.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 387 
 
 AT ROME. 
 
 RICHLY soiled and richly sunned, 
 Exuberant, fervid, and fecund ! 
 
 Is this the fixed condition 
 On which may Northern pilgrim come, 
 To imbibe thine ether-air, and sum 
 
 Thy store of old tradition ? 
 Must we be chill, if clean, and stand 
 Foot-deep in dirt on classic land ? 
 
 So is it : in all ages so, 
 
 And in all places man can know, 
 
 From homely roots unseen below 
 
 The stem in forest, field, and bower, 
 
 Derives the emanative power 
 
 That crowns it with the ethereal flower, 
 
 From mixtures foetid, foul, and sour 
 
 Draws juices that those petals fill. 
 
 Ah Nature, if indeed thy will 
 Thou own'st it, it shall not be ill ! 
 And truly here, in this quick clime, 
 Where, scarcely bound by space or time, 
 The elements in half a day 
 Toss off with exquisitest play 
 What our cold seasons toil and grieve, * 
 And never quite at last achieve ; 
 Where processes, with pain, and fear, 
 Disgust, and horror wrought, appear 
 The quick mutations of a dance, 
 Wherein retiring but to advance, 
 Life, in brief interpause of death, 
 One moment sitting taking breath, 
 Forth comes again as glad as e'er, 
 In some new figure full as fair, 
 Where what has scarcely ceased to be, 
 Instinct with newer birth we see 
 What dies, already, look you, lives ; 
 In such a clime, who thinks, forgives ; 
 Who sees, will understand ; who knows, 
 In calm of knowledge find repose,
 
 388 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 And thoughtful as of glory gone, 
 So too of more to come anon, 
 Of permanent existence sure, 
 Brief intermediate breaks endure. 
 
 Nature, if indeed thy will, 
 Thou ovvnest it, it is not ill ! 
 And e'en as oft on heathy hill, 
 On moorland black, and ferny fells, 
 Beside thy brooks and in thy dells, 
 Was welcomed erst the kindly stain 
 Of thy true earth, e'en so again 
 With resignation fair, and meet 
 The dirt and refuse of thy street, 
 My philosophic foot shall greet, 
 So leave but perfect to my eye 
 Thy columns, set against thy sky ! 
 
 LAST WORDS. NAPOLEON AND WELLINGTON. 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 Is it this, then, world-warrior, 
 That, exulting, through the folds 
 
 Of the dark and cloudy barrier 
 Thine enfranchised eye beholds ? 
 
 'Is, when blessed hands relieve thee 
 From the gross and mortal clay, 
 
 This the heaven that should receive thee ? 
 ' Tete d'arrnee.' 
 
 Now the final link is breaking, 
 
 Of the fierce, corroding chain, 
 And the ships, their watch forsaking, 
 
 Bid the seas no more detain, 
 Whither is it, freed and risen, 
 
 The pure spirit seeks away, 
 Quits for what the weary prison ? 
 ' Tgte d'arme'e.' 
 
 Doubtless angels, hovering o'er thee 
 In thine exile's sad abode,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 389 
 
 Marshalled even now before thee, 
 
 Move upon that chosen road ! 
 Thither they, ere friends have laid thee 
 
 Where sad willows o'er thee play, 
 Shall already have conveyed thee ! 
 ' Tete d'armee.' 
 
 Shall great captains, foiled and broken, 
 Hear from thee on each great day, 
 
 At the crisis, a word spoken 
 Word that battles still obey 
 
 ' Cuirassiers here, here those cannon ; 
 Quick, those squadrons, up away ! 
 
 To the charge, on as one man, on ! ' 
 ' Tete d'armee.' 
 
 (Yes, too true, alas ! while sated 
 
 Of the wars so slow to cease, 
 Nations, once that scorned and hated, 
 
 Would to Wisdom turn, and Peace ; 
 Thy dire impulse still obeying, 
 
 Fevered youths, as in the old day, 
 
 In their hearts still find thee saying, 
 
 <Te-te d'armee.') 
 
 Oh, poor soul ! Or do I view thee, 
 From earth's battle-fields withheld, 
 
 In a dream, assembling to thee 
 
 Troops that quell not, nor are quelled. 
 
 Breaking airy lines, defeating 
 Limbo-kings, and, as to-day, 
 
 Idly to all time repeating 
 
 < Tete d'armee ' ? 
 
 WELLINGTON. 
 
 And what the words, that with his failing breath 
 Did England hear her aged soldier say ? 
 
 I know not. Yielding tranquilly to death, 
 
 With no proud speech, no boast, he passed away. 
 
 Not stirring words, nor gallant deeds alone, 
 Plain patient work fulfilled that length of life;
 
 390 CLOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 Duty, not glory Service, not a throne, 
 Inspired his effort, set for him the strife. 
 
 Therefore just Fortune, with one hasty blow, 
 Spurning her minion, Glory's, Victory's lord, 
 
 Gave all to him that was content to know, 
 In service done its own supreme reward. 
 
 The words he said, if haply words there were, 
 When full of years and works he passed away, 
 
 Most naturally might, methinks, refer 
 To some poor humble business of to-day. 
 
 ' That humble simple duty of the day 
 
 Perform/ he bids ; ' ask not if small or great : 
 
 Serve in thy post ; be faithful, and obey ; 
 Who serves her truly, sometimes saves the State.' 
 
 1852. 
 
 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 tricolour 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 lost past hope, I heard you say 
 Your welcome to the noble pain.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 391 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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. 
 
 ALTERAM PARTEM. 
 
 OR shall I say, Vain word, false thought, 
 Since Prudence hath her martyrs too, 
 And Wisdom dictates not to do, 
 Till doing shall be not for nought ? 
 
 Not ours to give or lose is life ; 
 Will Nature, when her brave ones fall, 
 Remake her work ? or songs recall 
 Death's victim slain in useless strife ?
 
 392 C LOUGH'S POEMS. 
 
 That rivers flow into the sea 
 
 Is loss and waste, the foolish say, 
 
 Nor know that back they find their way, 
 
 Unseen, to where they wont to be. 
 
 Showers fall upon the hills, springs flow, 
 The river runneth still at hand, 
 Brave men are born into the land, 
 And whence the foolish do not know. 
 
 No ! no vain voice did on me fall, 
 Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, 
 * ' Tis better to have fought and lost, 
 Than never to have fought at all.' 
 1849. 
 
 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.
 
 INDEX 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIKST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Highland inn among the western hills 339 
 
 A youth and maid upon a summer night .... 314 
 
 A youth was I. An elder friend with me .... 293 
 
 Across the sea, along the shore 76 
 
 Ah, blame him not because he's gay !..... 374 
 
 Am I with you, or you with me ? . . . . . . 358 
 
 And replying, said godlike, swift-footed Achilles . . . 364 
 
 As, at a railway junction, men .27 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay . . . .28 
 
 Away, haunt thou not me ....... 8 
 
 Beside me, in the car, she sat 230 
 
 Blessed are those who have not seen 72 
 
 Bright October was come, the misty-bright October . . 200 
 
 But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie . . 212 
 
 But if as not by that the soul desired ..... 291 
 
 But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn . . 374 
 
 But whether in the uncoloured light of truth .... 290 
 
 Cease, empty Faith, the Spectrum saith . . . .71 
 
 Come back again, my olden heart ! ..... 5 
 
 Come back, come back, behold with straining mast . . 354 
 
 Come home, come home ! and where is home for me . . 352 
 
 Coiue, Poet, come ! 371 
 
 Dance on, dance on, we see, we see ..... 375 
 
 Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer . 234 
 
 Dearest of boys, please come to-day ..... 206 
 
 Diogenes by his tub, contenting himself with the sunshine . 383 
 
 Duty that's to say, complying 141 
 
 Each for himself is still the rule ...... 143 
 
 Eastward, or Northward, or West ? I wander and ask as I 
 
 wander .......... 274 
 
 Edward and Jane a married couple were .... 331 
 
 393
 
 394 INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! Her vans the vessel tries . . . 351 
 
 Farewell, my Highland lassie ! when the year returns around 22 
 For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not 
 
 her blushes 204 
 
 From thy far sources, 'mid mountains airily climbing . . 367 
 
 Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng .... 378 
 
 Goddess, the anger sing of the Pelean Achilles . . . 363 
 
 Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er ' 353 
 
 Hearken to me, ye mothers of my tent 54 
 
 Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent .... 8 
 
 Hope evermore and believe, O man, for e'en as thy thought . 146 
 
 How in God's name did Columbus get over .... 379 
 
 How often sit I, poring o'er 10 
 
 I dreamed a dream : I dreamt that I espied . . , . 77 
 
 I have seen higher, holier things than these . . 14 
 
 I saw again the spirits on a day 145 
 
 I stayed at La Quenille, ten miles or more .... 321 
 
 If it is thou whose casual hand withdraws .... 291 
 If that we thus are guilty doth appear . . . . .377 
 
 If, when in cheerless wanderings, dull and cold ... 15 
 
 In controversial foul impureness ... 1 .. 75 
 
 Is it illusion ? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages . 245 
 
 Is it this, then, O world-warrior ...... 388 
 
 Is it true, ye gods, who treat us 30 
 
 It fortifies iny soul to know 72 
 
 It is not sweet content, be sure 373 
 
 It may be true 73 
 
 It was but some few nights ago 1 
 
 It was the afternoon ; and the sports were now at the ending 155 
 
 I've often wandered how it is, at times 329 
 
 Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said ... 27 
 
 Like a child 10 
 
 Lips, lips, open ! 381 
 
 Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 65 
 
 Matthew and Mark and Luke and holy John : . .77 
 
 Morn, in yellow and white, came broadening out from 
 
 the mountains ......... 162 
 
 My beloved, is it nothing 385 
 
 My sons, and ye children of my sons 69 
 
 My wind is turned to bitter north 13 
 
 O God! O God! and must I still go on 134 
 
 O happy mother! while the man wayworn .... 381 
 
 <) happy they whose hearts receive 147 
 
 O kind protecting Darkness! as a child 11 
 
 O let me love my love qnto myself alone . , .70
 
 INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES. 395 
 
 O only Source of all our light and life 68 
 
 O richly soiled and richly sunned . . . . . . 387 
 
 O ship, ship, ship 360 
 
 O stream descending to the sea ...... 153 
 
 O tell me, friends, while yet we part 28 
 
 O Thou whose image in the shrine 69 
 
 Oh, the beautiful child! and oh, the most happy mother ! . 383 
 ' Old things need not be therefore true ' . . . . .75 
 
 On grass, on gravel, in the sun ...... 228 
 
 On the mountain, in the woodland . . . .24 
 
 Once more the wonted road I tread 11 
 
 Or shall I say, Vain word, false thought .... 391 
 
 Over a mountain slope with leutisk, and with abounding . 368 
 
 Over every hill . 382 
 
 Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested 
 
 summits 233 
 
 Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane 154 
 
 Roused by importunate knocks 11 
 
 Said the Poet, I wouldn't maintain 380 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth ..... 392 
 
 Say, will it, when our hairs are grey 148 
 
 Shall I decide it by a random shot? 291 
 
 Since that last evening we have fallen indeed ! . . .33 
 Slumber and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the 
 
 immortals ......... 383 
 
 So I went wrong ......... 4 
 
 So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five together . . 195 
 
 So in the golden morning they parted and went to the westward 173 
 
 So in the golden weather they waited. But Philip returned not 184 
 
 So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone .... 84 
 
 So on the morrow's morrow, with Term-time dread returning 219 
 
 So spake the voice : and as with a single life .... 368 
 
 Some future day when what is now is not .... 355 
 
 Sweet streamlet bason! at thy side 7 
 
 That children in their loveliness should die . . . . 289 
 
 That out of sight is out of mind ...... 357 
 
 That there are better things within the womb . . . 289 
 
 The grasses green of sweet content 151 
 
 The human spirits saw I on a day 144 
 
 The mighty ocean rolls and raves 356 
 
 The scene is different, and the place, the air .... 87 
 
 The Silver Wedding! on some pensive ear .... 15 
 
 The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow . . . 227 
 
 There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno . 277 
 
 These are the words of Jacob's wives, the words ... 61 
 
 Thou shalt have one God only; who 143 
 
 Though to the vilest things beneath the moon ... 9
 
 396 INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 Thought may well be ever ranging ...... 19 
 
 Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past . . 80 
 
 To see the rich autumnal tint depart . . . . 290 
 
 To spend uncounted years of pain ...... 73 
 
 To think that men of former days . ..... 372 
 
 To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain .... 142 
 
 Trunks the forest yielded with gums ambrosial oozing . . 367 
 
 Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there ... 4 
 
 'Twas on a sunny summer day . . . . . . 3 
 
 Upon the water, in the boat ....... 152 
 
 Well, well, Heaven bless you all from day to day! . . 9 
 
 Were you with me, or 1 with you ...... 358 
 
 Were I with you, or you with me ...... 359 
 
 Were you with me, or I with you ...... 359 
 
 What voice did on my spirit fall ...... 390 
 
 What we, when face to face we see ..... 74 
 
 Whate'er you dream with doubt possest . . . .152 
 
 When on the primal peaceful blank profound . . . . 384 
 
 When panting sighs the bosom fill . . . . . : 20 
 
 When soft September brings again ..... 7 
 
 When the dews are earliest falling ...... 23 
 
 Whence are ye, vague desires ...... 149 
 
 Whence comest thou, shady lane? and why and how? . 5 
 
 Where lies the land to which the ship would go? . . . 355 
 
 Who is this man that walketh in the field .... 57 
 
 Who ne'er his bread with tears hath ate .... 383 
 
 Why should I say I see the things I see not ? . . .17 
 
 Ye flags of Piccadilly ........ 352 
 
 Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way ..... 9 
 
 Yet to the wondrous St.Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotonda 260 
 
 You complain of the woman for roving from one to another . 383 
 
 Youth, that went, is come again . . . . . . 376
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
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 Book Slip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)4280
 
 UCLA-College Library 
 
 PR 4455 A2 1900 
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 L 005 672 715 9 
 
 
 PR 
 
 A2 
 
 1900