Quotes by Arthur Hugh Clough

That rivers flow into the sea Is loss and waste, the foolish say, Nor know that back they find their way, Unseen, to where they wont to be. Showers fall upon the hills, springs flow, The river runneth still at hand, Brave men are born into the land, And whence the foolish do not know. No! no vain voice did on me fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘_’Tis_ better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 1849 _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. 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 FOOTNOTES [1] This and the following Early Poems are reprinted from the volume called _Ambarvalia_. [2] This was written for the twenty-fifth wedding-day of Mr. and Mrs. Walrond, of Calder Park. [3] Ho Thëos meta sou—God be with you! [4] The manuscript of this poem is very imperfect, and bears no title. [5] The manuscript of this poem is incomplete; but it has been thought best to give all the separate fragments, since they evidently are conceived on the same plan, and throw light on each other. [6] This poem, as well as the ‘Mari Magno,’ was not published during the author’s lifetime, and should not be regarded as having received his finishing touches. [7] Flood. [8] Reap. [9] Reaping. [10] Shocks. [11] Public-house in the hamlet. [12] This poem is reprinted from the volume called _Ambarvalia_. [13] Hic avidus stetit Vulcanus, hic matrona Juno, et Nunquam humeris positurus arcum; Qui rore puro Castaliæ lavit Crines solutos, qui Lyciæ tenet Dumeta natalemque silvam, Delius et Patareus Apollo.

For in the church, and at the bar, On ’Change, at court, where’er they are, The devil takes the hindmost, O! Husband for husband, wife for wife, Are careful that in married life The devil takes the hindmost, O! From youth to age, whate’er the game, The unvarying practice is the same— The devil takes the hindmost, O! And after death, we do not know, But scarce can doubt, where’er we go, The devil takes the hindmost, O! Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro, The devil take the hindmost, O! _THE LATEST 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. _THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT._ The human spirits saw I on a day, Sitting and looking each a different way; And hardly tasking, subtly questioning, Another spirit went around the ring To each and each: and as he ceased his say, Each after each, I heard them singly sing, Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low, We know not—what avails to know? We know not—wherefore need we know? This answer gave they still unto his suing, We know not, let us do as we are doing. Dost thou not know that these things only seem?— I know not, let me dream my dream. Are dust and ashes fit to make a treasure?— I know not, let me take my pleasure. What shall avail the knowledge thou hast sought?— I know not, let me think my thought. What is the end of strife?— I know not, let me live my life. How many days or e’er thou mean’st to move?

Three weeks hence unbury _Thicksides_ and _hairy_ Aldrich. But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick-named Adam, Who are they that go, and when do they promise returning? And a silence ensued, and the Tutor himself continued, Airlie remains, I presume, he continued, and Hobbes and Hewson. Answer was made him by Philip, the poet, the eloquent speaker: Airlie remains, I presume, was the answer, and Hobbes, peradventure; Tarry let Airlie May-fairly, and Hobbes, brief-kilted hero, Tarry let Hobbes in kilt, and Airlie ‘abide in his breeches;’ Tarry let these, and read, four Pindars apiece an’ it like them! Weary of reading am I, and weary of walks prescribed us; Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more weary, Eager to range over heather unfettered of gillie and marquis, I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal classics. And to the Tutor rejoining, Be mindful; you go up at Easter, This was the answer returned by Philip, the Pugin of women. Good are the Ethics I wis; good absolute, not for me, though; Good, too, Logic, of course; in itself, but not in fine weather. Three weeks hence, with the rain, to Prudence, Temperance, Justice, Virtues Moral and Mental, with Latin prose included; Three weeks hence we return to cares of classes and classics. I will away with the rest, and bury my dismal classics. But the Tutor inquired, the grave man, nick-named Adam, Where do you mean to go, and whom do you mean to visit? And he was answered by Hope, the Viscount, His Honour, of Ilay. Kitcat, a Trinity _coach_, has a party at Drumnadrochet, Up on the side of Loch Ness, in the beautiful valley of Urquhart; Mainwaring says they will lodge us, and feed us, and give us a lift too Only they talk ere long to remove to Glenmorison. Then at Castleton, high in Braemar, strange home, with his earliest party, Harrison, fresh from the schools, has James and Jones and Lauder. Thirdly, a Cambridge man I know, Smith, a senior wrangler, With a mathematical score hangs-out at Inverary. Finally, too, from the kilt and the sofa said Hobbes in conclusion, Finally, Philip must hunt for that home of the probable poacher, Hid in the braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of _What-did-he-call-it_.

Or shall I say, Vain word, false thought, Since Prudence hath her martyrs too, And Wisdom dictates not to do, Till doing shall be not for nought? Not ours to give or lose is life; Will Nature, when her brave ones fall, Remake her work? or songs recall Death’s victim slain in useless strife? That rivers flow into the sea Is loss and waste, the foolish say, Nor know that back they find their way, Unseen, to where they wont to be. Showers fall upon the hills, springs flow, The river runneth still at hand, Brave men are born into the land, And whence the foolish do not know. No! no vain voice did on me fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘_’Tis_ better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 1849 _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. 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 FOOTNOTES [1] This and the following Early Poems are reprinted from the volume called _Ambarvalia_. [2] This was written for the twenty-fifth wedding-day of Mr. and Mrs. Walrond, of Calder Park. [3] Ho Thëos meta sou—God be with you! [4] The manuscript of this poem is very imperfect, and bears no title. [5] The manuscript of this poem is incomplete; but it has been thought best to give all the separate fragments, since they evidently are conceived on the same plan, and throw light on each other.

1852 * * * * * Some future day when what is now is not, When all old faults and follies are forgot, And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away, We’ll meet again, upon some future day. When all that hindered, all that vexed our love, As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above, When all but it has yielded to decay, We’ll meet again upon some future day. When we have proved, each on his course alone, The wider world, and learnt what’s now unknown, Have made life clear, and worked out each a way, We’ll meet again,—we shall have much to say. With happier mood, and feelings born anew, Our boyhood’s bygone fancies we’ll review, Talk o’er old talks, play as we used to play, And meet again, on many a future day. Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see, In some far year, though distant yet to be, Shall we indeed,—ye winds and waters, say!— Meet yet again, upon some future day? 1852 * * * * * Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o’er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go. On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 1852 * * * * * The mighty ocean rolls and raves, To part us with its angry waves; But arch on arch from shore to shore, In a vast fabric reaching o’er, With careful labours daily wrought By steady hope and tender thought, The wide and weltering waste above— Our hearts have bridged it with their love. There fond anticipations fly To rear the growing structure high Dear memories upon either side Combine to make it large and wide.

’ These juicy meats, this flashing wine, May be an unreal mere appearance; Only—for my inside, in fine, They have a singular coherence. Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain; And any empty sick sensation. Remember, anything like pain Is only your imagination. Trust me, I’ve read your German sage To far more purpose e’er than you did; You find it in his wisest page, Whom God deludes is well deluded. _Di._ Where are the great, whom thou would’st wish to praise thee? Where are the pure, whom thou would’st choose to love thee? Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee, Whose high commands would cheer, whose chidings raise thee? Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind. (Written in London, standing in the Park, One evening in July, just before dark.) _Sp._ As I sat at the café, I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking, How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! How pleasant it is to have money. I sit at my table _en grand seigneur_, And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor; Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good living, But also the pleasure of now and then giving. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money. It was but last winter I came up to town, But already I’m getting a little renown; I make new acquaintance where’er I appear; I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money. I drive through the streets, and I care not a d——n; The people they stare, and they ask who I am; And if I should chance to run over a cad, I can pay for the damage if ever so bad. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho! So pleasant it is to have money. We stroll to our box and look down on the pit, And if it weren’t low should be tempted to spit; We loll and we talk until people look up, And when it’s half over we go out to sup.

Yes, it was he, on the ledge, bare-limbed, an Apollo, down-gazing, Eyeing one moment the beauty, the life, ere he flung himself in it, Eyeing through eddying green waters the green-tinting floor underneath them, Eyeing the bead on the surface, the bead, like a cloud rising to it, Drinking-in, deep in his soul, the beautiful hue and the clearness, Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the unboasting, the Glory of headers; Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his knapsack, spectator and critic, Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper, the Cloud-compeller. Yes, they were come; were restored to the party, its grace and its gladness, Yes, were here, as of old; the light-giving orb of the household, Arthur, the shapely, the tranquil, the strength-and-contentment diffusing, In the pure presence of whom none could quarrel long, nor be pettish, And, the gay fountain of mirth, their dearly beloved of Pipers; Yes, they were come, were here: but Hewson and Hope—where they then? Are they behind, travel-sore, or ahead, going straight, by the pathway? And from his seat and cigar spoke the Piper, the Cloud-compeller. Hope with the uncle abideth for shooting. Ah me, were I with him! Ah, good boy that I am, to have stuck to my word and my reading! Good, good boy to be here, far away, who might be at Balloch! Only one day to have stayed who might have been welcome for seven, Seven whole days in castle and forest—gay in the mazy Moving, imbibing the rosy, and pointing a gun at the horny! And the Tutor impatient, expectant, interrupted. Hope with the uncle, and Hewson—with him? or where have you left him? And from his seat and cigar spoke the Piper, the Cloud-compeller. Hope with the uncle, and Hewson—Why, Hewson we left in Rannoch, By the lochside and the pines, in a farmer’s house,—reflecting— Helping to shear,[8] and dry clothes, and bring in peat from the peat-stack. And the Tutor’s countenance fell; perplexed, dumb-foundered Stood he,—slow and with pain disengaging jest from earnest. He is not far from home, said Arthur from the water, He will be with us to-morrow, at latest, or the next day. And he was even more reassured by the Piper’s rejoinder. Can he have come by the mail, and have got to the cottage before us? So to the cottage they went, and Philip was not at the cottage; But by the mail was a letter from Hope, who himself was to follow. Two whole days and nights succeeding brought not Philip, Two whole days and nights exhausted not question and story.