His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowlèd portrait dear;
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.

1840.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

70

1858.

BRAHMA

IF the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

4

8

They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings;

I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!

12

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. 16
Ralph Waldo Emerson.

IN A LECTURE-ROOM

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 skiey shower,

And clouds that sink and rest on hill

tops high,

Wisdom at once, and Power,

Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, in-
cessantly?

Why labour at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,

And the strong current flowing,

Right onward to the Eternal Shore?

1840. 1849.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

"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.

ΙΟ

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. 1862.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

8

12

16

SELF-DEPENDENCE

WEARY of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire

O'er the sea and to the stars I send:

"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd

66

me,

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

8

Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew;

66

Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,

Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,

Over the lit sea's unquiet way,

In the rustling night-air came the answer :

12

I Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. 16

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see,

These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining,

And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;

20

For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."

66

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
Resolve to be thyself; and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

1852.

Matthew Arnold.

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28

32

THE FUTURE

A WANDERER is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship

On the breast of the river of Time;
Brimming with wonder and joy

He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been, Whether he wakes

Where the snowy mountainous pass,

Echoing the screams of the eagles,
Hems in its gorges the bed

Of the new-born clear-flowing stream;
Whether he first sees light

Where the river in gleaming rings

Sluggishly winds through the plain;

Whether in sound of the swallowing sea-
As is the world on the banks,

So is the mind of the man.

Vainly does each, as he glides,

Fable and dream

Of the lands which the river of Time

Had left ere he woke on its breast,

Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. Only the tract where he sails

ΙΟ

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