adorn’d outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.
East and West
In the bare midst of Anglesey they show
Two springs which close by one another play,
And, “Thirteen hundred years agone,” they say,
“Two saints met often where those waters flow.
“One came from Penmon westward, and a glow
Whiten’d his face from the sun’s fronting ray.
Eastward the other, from the dying day;
And he with unsunn’d face did always go.”
Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark,
men said.
The Seër from the East was then in light,
The Seër from the West was then in shade.
Ah! now ’tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright
The man of the bold West now comes array’d;
He of the mystic East is touch’d with night.
Monica’s Last Prayer46
“Oh could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”—
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall.
Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call.
But at God’s altar, oh! remember me.
Thus Monica, and died in Italy.
Yet fervent had her longing been, through all
Her course, for home at last, and burial
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea.
Had been; but at the end, to her pure soul
All tie with all beside seem’d vain and cheap,
And union before God the only care.
Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole;
Yet we her memory, as she pray’d, will keep,
Keep by this: Life in God, and union there!
Palladium
Set where the upper streams of Simois flow
Was the Palladium, high ’mid rock and wood;
And Hector was in Ilium, far below,
And fought, and saw it not, but there it stood!
It stood; and sun and moonshine rain’d their light
On the pure columns of its glen-built hall.
Backward and forward roll’d the waves of fight
Round Troy; but while this stood, Troy could not fall.
So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.
Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air;
Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll;
We visit it by moments, ah! too rare!
We shall renew the battle in the plain
To-morrow; red with blood will Xanthus be;
Hector and Ajax will be there again;
Helen will come upon the wall to see.
Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife,
And fluctuate ’twixt blind hopes and blind despairs,
And fancy that we put forth all our life,
And never know how with the soul it fares.
Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high,
Upon our life a ruling effluence send;
And when it fails, fight as we will, we die,
And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.
Thyrsis47
A Monody, to Commemorate the Author’s Friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, Who Died at Florence, 1861
Thus yesterday, to-day, to-morrow come,
They hustle one another and they pass;
But all our hustling morrows only make
The smooth to-day of God.
From Lucretius, an unpublished Tragedy
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,
Up past the 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 Scholar-Gipsy, was not dead;
While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!
But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;
And with the country-folk acquaintance made
By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay’d.
Ah me! this many a year
My pipe is lost, my shepherd’s-holiday!
Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
Into the world and wave of men depart;
But Thyrsis of his own will went away.
It irk’d him to be here, he could not rest.
He loved each simple joy the country yields,
He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,
For that a shadow lower’d on the fields,
Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
Some life of men unblest
He knew, which made him droop, and fill’d his head.
He went; his piping took a troubled sound
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
He could not wait their passing, he is dead!
So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year’s primal burst of bloom is o’er,
Before the roses and the longest day—
When garden-walks, and all the grassy floor,
With blossoms, red and white, of fallen May,
And chestnut-flowers are strewn—
So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?
Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on,
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow;
Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!
What matters it? next year he will return,
And we shall have him in the sweet
