To our luxury or need;
And with a certain prophecy
Learn'd to count the courses held
By the chance-worlds that whirl on high,
The nightmares of a dreaming sky.
Surely it were an easy task
After this to bend and yoke
The mighty Thought of ages past,
The Horse our younger fathers broke :
The wondrous Steed
Whose wind-wing'd speed
Treads on the hill-top and the cloud,-
The glorious Horse
Whose sun-paved course
The young Greek and Roman bow'd,—
The Steed whose mane,
Like golden rain,
A glory round the Italian shed
On the great road through Hell and Heaven
His restless will alone might tread,-
The Horse with living music shod
To the one bard of England given,
By whom, as by a guiding God,
His tramp of melody was driven
Through every deep and hidden part
Of that strange thing the human heart.
And yet the Song is still,
And on the cloud and hill
Does the strong Steed unbitted stray;
The wave and air we tame,
Harness the wind and flame,—
Uncurb'd and free his glories play.
None the Wing'd One's speed may yoke,—
Lost the bit, the bridle broke,—
Unknown the might, unseen the way.
He alone may mount the Steed
To whom the ancient spell is known;
He its magic letters read
Who has the Will, and he alone :
And the Will our souls have sold
For the love of steel and gold,—
Sold the mighty for the mean,
Truck'd the priceless for the vile,
Barter'd for the foul the clean;
And, instead of weeping, smile.
In the name of Truth alone
Might the ancient rider feel
The strength to curb the heavenly Steed:
A very child would scarcely need
Scourge in hand or spur on heel
If that little word were known;
But giant brawn and Titan force-
Strength of muscle and of mind-
Human wit and might combined,
Were those letters five unread,
Ill upon the task were sped
To mount and curb the glorious Horse.
Earth is old, but then was young:
They were children, We are men : Youth's great hymn of faith is sung: Clay which counts could worship then.
Give us a God-a living God,
One to wake the sleeping soul,
One to cleanse the tainted blood
Whose pulses in our bosoms roll:
A vigorous faith's refreshing breath,
To make us hunger for the True,—
A faith to quicken and renew
The nightmare of our Life-in-Death!
Come it how or whence it may,
That Faith divine, that earnest Will,—
This alone may teach the way
To curb and bit the Wing'd One still.
Truth and Faith are ever wed,—
Faith alone the cloud may tread
And look unblinded on the Sun.
This was the magic of the Dead :
They had a faith,—and we have none.
THE BATTLE OF GOD.
So strive, so rule, Almighty Lord of All!
So greatly win thy planet-victory!
So gloriously what baffles bring in thrall!
So strongly work, Earth's final jubilee
With gladness and with singing to instal!
And man may work with the great God: yea, ours
This privilege,—all others how beyond!
To tend the great Man-root until it flowers;
To scorn with godly laughter when Despond
Tamely before a hoary hindrance cowers ;
Effectually the planet to subdue,
And break old savagehood in claw and tusk;
That noble end to trust in and pursue
Which under Nature's half-expressive husk
Lies ever from the base conceal'd from view;
To draw our fellows up, as with a cord
Of love, unto their high-appointed place,
Till, from our state barbaric and abhorr'd,
We do arise unto a royal race:
To be the blest companions of The Lord.
CHARLES WELDON.
18- 1856?
THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE.
The Poem of the Universe
Nor rhythm has nor rhyme;
Some God recites the wondrous song
A stanza at a time.
Great deeds is he foredoom'd to do—
With Freedom's flag unfurl'd—
Who hears the echo of that song
As it goes down the world.
Great words he is compell'd to speak
Who understands the song :
He rises up like fifty men,
Fifty good men and strong.
A stanza for each century :—
Now heed it, all who can!
Who hears it, he, and only he,
Is the elected man.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
1819-1861.
What voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera! when thy bridge I cross'd? "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 breadth and beauty of your land.
Yet not in vain, although in vain,
O men of Brescia! on the day
Of loss past hope I heard you say
Your welcome to the noble pain.
You said "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 fear'd 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 (O 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 cross'd :
'Tis better to have fought and lost
Than never to have fought at all.
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