What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth ?- Most men eddy about
Here and there-eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die- Perish; and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild
Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, Foam'd for a moment, and gone.
And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires,
Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust, Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah, yes! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave! We, we have chosen our path- Path to a clear-purposed goal, Path of advance !-but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth- Then, on the height, comes the storm. Thunder crashes from rock
To rock, the cataracts reply,
Lightnings dazzle our eyes. Roaring torrents have breach'd
The track, the stream-bed descends
In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footstep-the spray
Boils o'er its borders! aloft The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin; alas,
Havoc is made in our train!
Friends, who set forth at our side, Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left!
With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compress'd, we strain on, On-and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs- Holds his lantern to scan
Our storm-beat figures, and asks: Whom in our party we bring? Whom we have left in the snow?
Sadly we answer: We bring Only ourselves! we lost
Sight of the rest in the storm.
Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side.
But thou would'st not alone Be saved, my father! alone Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand.
If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried
Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing-to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.
And through thee I believe
In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honour'd and blest
By former ages, who else—
Such, so soulless, so poor,
Is the race of men whom I see- Seem'd but a dream of the heart, Seem'd but a cry of desire. Yes! I believe that there lived Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous, and arid, and vile; But souls temper'd with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind.
Servants of God!- -or sons
Shall I not call you? because
Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind,
His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died!
See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line.
Where are they tending?-A God
Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. Ah, but the way is so long!
Years they have been in the wild! Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, Rising all round, overawe; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. -Ah, keep, keep them combined! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive ; Sole they shall stray; in the rocks Stagger for ever in vain,
Die one by one in the waste.
Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear,
Radiant with ardour divine! Beacons of hope, ye appear!
Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away.
Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave!
Order, courage, return.
Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God.
A MONODY, to commemorate the author's friend, ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, who died at Florence, 1861.
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village-street its haunted mansion lacks, And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,
And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks-- Are ye too changed, ye hills?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays ! Here came I often, often, in old days- Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames ?--- This winter-eve is warm,
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
The tender purple spray on copse and briers! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, She needs not June for beauty's heightening,
Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night !— Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour; Now seldom come I, since I came with him. That single elm-tree bright
Against the west-I miss it! is it gone?
We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
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