Artbur bugb Clough

1819-1861

QUA CURSUM VENTUS

(From Ambarvalia, 1843)

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;

5 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:

10

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 steered15 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,

20

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 O blithe breeze! and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

25 One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare,O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!

At last, at last, unite them there.

WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER
SHADOW OF TURNING "
(From the same)

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.
5 I steadier step when I recall
That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH (From the same)

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.

5 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.

10

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,

Where daylight comes, comes in the light, 15 In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

THE STREAM OF LIFE

(From the same)

O stream descending to the sea,
Thy messy banks between,
The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow,
The leafy trees are green.

5 In garden plots the children play,
The fields the labourers till,
And houses stand on either hand,
And thou descendest still.

10

O life descending unto death,
Our waking eyes behold,
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,
Companions young and old.

Strong purposes our minds possess,
Our hearts affections fill,

15 We toil and earn, we seek and learn,
And thou descendest still.

20

O end to which our currents tend,
Inevitable sea,

To which we flow, what do we know,
What shall we guess of thee?

A roar we hear upon thy shore,
As we our course fulfil;

Scarce we divine a sun will shine
And be above us still,

Matthew Arnold

1822-1888

STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE

(First published in Fraser's Magazine, 1855)
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,

The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. 5 The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, Through forest, up the mountain-side.

The autumnal evening darkens round, The wind is up, and drives the rain; While, hark! far down, with strangled sound 10 Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods, Over his boiling cauldron broods.

Swift rush the spectral vapours white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, 15 Showing-then blotting from our sight!— Halt-through the cloud-drift something shines! High in the valley, wet and drear, The huts of Courrerie appear.

Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher 20 Mounts up the stony forest-way.

At last the encircling trees retire;
Look! through the showery twilight grey
What pointed roofs are these advance?—
A palace of the Kings of France?

25 Approach, for what we seek is here! Alight, and sparely sup, and wait

For rest in this outbuilding near;

Then cross the sward and reach that gate; Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come 30 To the Carthusians' world-famed home.

The silent courts, where night and day
Into their stone-carved basins cold
The splashing icy fountains play-
The humid corridors behold,

35 Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white!

The chapel, where no organ's peal
Invests the stern and naked prayer!—
With penitential cries they kneel
40 And wrestle; rising then, with bare
With white uplifted faces stand
Passing the Host from hand to hand;

Each takes, and then his visage wan
Is buried in his cowl once more.
45 The cells!-the suffering Son of Man
Upon the wall-the knee-worn floor-
And where they sleep, that wooden bed,
Which shall their coffin be, when dead!

The library, where tract and tome
50 Not to feed priestly pride are there,
To hymn the conquering march of Rome,
Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!

They paint of souls the inner strife,
Their drops of blood, their death in life.

55 The garden, overgrown-yet mild,

See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!