Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth,

The labor and the wounds are vain,

The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

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.

Arthur Hugh Clough

The Last Decalogue

THOU shalt have one God only; who

Would be at the expense of two?

No graven images may be

Worshipped, except the currency:

Swear not at all; for, for thy curse

Thine enemy is none the worse:

At church on Sunday to attend

Will serve to keep the world thy friend:

Honour thy parents; that is, all

From whom advancement may befall:

Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive

Officiously to keep alive:

Do not adultery commit;

Advantage rarely comes of it:

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,

When it's so lucrative to cheat:

Bear not false witness; let the lie

Have time on its own wings to fly:

Thou shalt not covet, but tradition

Approves all forms of competition.

Arthur Hugh Clough

In a Lecture Room

AWAY, haunt thou me not,

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 skyey shower,

And clouds that sink and rest on hilltops high,

Wisdom at once, and Power,

Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?

Why labor at the dull mechanic oar,

When the fresh breeze is blowing,

And the strong current flowing,

Right onward to the Eternal Shore?

Arthur Hugh Clough

The Thread of Truth

TRUTH is a golden thread, seen here and there

In small bright specks upon the visible side

Of our strange being's parti-coloured web.

How rich the universe! 'Tis a vein of ore

Emerging now and then on Earth's rude breast,

But flowing full below. Like islands set

At distant intervals on Ocean's face,

We see it on our course; but in the depths

The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps

Its faithful way, invisible but sure.

Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men

Pass by so many marks, so little heeding?

Arthur Hugh Clough

Ye Flags of Picadilly

YE flags of Piccadilly,

Where I posted up and down,

And wished myself so often

Well away from you and town--

Are the people walking quietly

And steady on their feet,

Cabs and omnibuses plying

Just as usual in the street?

Do the houses look as upright

As of old they used to be,

And does nothing seem affected

By the pitching of the sea?

Through the Green Park iron railings

Do the quick pedestrians pass?

Are the little children playing

Round the plane-tree in the grass?

This squally wild northwester

With which our vessel fights,

Does it merely serve with you to

Carry up some paper kites?

Ye flags of Piccadilly,

Which I hated so, I vow

I could wish with all my heart

You were underneath me now!

Arthur Hugh Clough

There is no god, the wicked sayeth

"THERE is no God," the wicked saith,

"And truly it's a blessing,

For what He might have done with us

It's better only guessing."

"There is no God," a youngster thinks,

"or really, if there may be,

He surely did not mean a man

Always to be a baby."

"There is no God, or if there is,"

The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny

If He should take it ill in me

To make a little money."

"Whether there be," the rich man says,

"It matters very little,

For I and mine, thank somebody,

Are not in want of victual."

Some others, also, to themselves,

Who scarce so much as doubt it,

Think there is none, when they are well,

And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath

The shadow of the steeple;

The parson and the parson's wife,

And mostly married people;

Youths green and happy in first love,

So thankful for illusion;

And men caught out in what the world

Calls guilt, in first confusion;

And almost everyone when age,

Disease, or sorrows strike him,

Inclines to think there is a God,

Or something very like Him.

Arthur Hugh Clough