DOVER BEACH
Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; -on the French coast
the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of
England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the
tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night
air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd
land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back,
and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern
sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round
earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle
furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges
drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which
seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor
light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for
pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle
and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
[written 1852? Published 1867]
From IN MEMORIAM (1850)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The
wish, that of the living whole
No
life may fall beyond the grave
Derives it not from what we have
The
likest God within the soul?
Are
God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams?
So
careful of the type she seems,
So
careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhere
Her
secret meaning in her deeds,
And
finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,
I
falter where I firmly trod,
And
falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness up to God,
I
stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And
gather dust and chaff, and call
To
what I feel is Lord of all,
And
faintly trust the larger hope.
[Section 55; ll. 1-20]
'So
careful of the type?' but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She
cries, 'A thousand types are gone:
I
care for nothing, all shall go.
'Thou makest thine appeal to me:
I
bring to life, I bring to death:
The
spirit does but mean the breath.
I
know no more.' And he, shall he,
Who trusted God was love indeed
And
love Creation's final law --
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shrieked against his creed?
[LVI ll. 1-16]
ÒEASTER DAYÓ NAPLES, 1849
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
THROUGH
the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,
With fiercer heat than
flamed above my head
My
heart was hot within me; till at last
My brain was lightened,
when my tongue had said—
Christ is not risen!
Christ is not risen, no,
He
lies and moulders low;
Christ is not risen.
What
though the stone were rolled away, and though
The
grave found empty there?——
If
not there, then elsewhere;
If
not where Joseph laid Him first, why then
Where other men
Translaid
Him after; in some humbler clay
Long ere to-day
Corruption
that sad perfect work hath done,
Which
here she scarcely, lightly had begun.
The
foul engendered worm
Feeds
on the flesh of the life-giving form
Of
our most Holy and Anointed One.
He
is not risen, no,—
He
lies and moulders low;
Christ is not risen.
What
if the women, ere the dawn was grey,
Saw
one or more great angels, as they say,
(Angels,
or Him himself)? Yet neither there, nor then,
Nor
afterward, nor elsewhere, nor at all,
Hath
He appeared to Peter or the Ten;
Nor,
save in thunderous terror, to blind Saul;
Save
in an after-Gospel and late Creed
He
is not risen indeed,
Christ is not risen.
Or
what if eÕen, as runs the tale, the Ten
Saw,
heard, and touched, again and yet again?
What
if at EmmaŸsÕ inn and by CapernaumÕs Lake
Came One the bread that brake—
Came
One that spake as never mortal spake,
And
with them ate and drank and stood and walked about?
Ah!
ÔsomeÕ did well to ÔdoubtÕ!
Ah!
the true Christ, while these things came to pass,
Nor
heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor dreamt, alas!
He
was not risen, no—
He
lay and moulder low,
Christ was not risen.
As
circulates in some great city crowd
A
rumour changeful, vague, importunate, and loud,
From
no determined centre, or of fact,
Or
authorship exact,
Which no man can deny
Nor verify;
So
spread the wondrous fame;
He all the same
Lay
senseless, mouldering, low.
He
was not risen, no—
Christ was not risen!
Ashes
to ashes, dust to dust;
As
of the unjust, also of the just—
Yea, of that Just One too.
This
is the one sad Gospel that is true—
Christ is not risen.
Is
He not risen, and shall we not rise?
Oh,
we unwise!
What
did we dream, what wake we to discover?
Ye
hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, cover!
In
darkness and great gloom
Come
ere we thought it is our day of doom,
From
the cursed world which is one tomb,
Christ is not risen!
Eat,
drink, and play, and think that this is bliss:
There
is no Heaven but this;
There is no Hell;—
Save
Earth, which serves the purpose doubly well,
Seeing it visits still
With
equallest apportionment of ill
Both
good and bad alike, and brings to one same dust
The
unjust and the just
With Christ, who is not risen.
Eat,
drink, and die, for we are souls bereaved
Of all the creatures under
heavenÕs wide cope
We are most hopeless, who
had once most hope,
And
most beliefless, that had most believed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
As
of the unjust, also of the just—
Yea, of that just One too!
It
is the one sad Gospel that is true—
Christ is not risen!
Weep not beside the tomb,
Ye
women, unto whom
He
was great solace while ye tended Him;
Ye
who with napkin oÕer the head
And
folds of linen round each wounded limb
Laid out the Sacred Dead;
And
thou that barÕst Him in thy wondering womb;
Yea,
Daughters of Jerusalem, depart,
Bind
up as best ye may your own sad bleeding heart:
Go
to your homes, your living children tend,
Your earthly spouses love;
Set
your affections not on things above,
Which
moth and rust corrupt, which quickliest come to end:
Or
pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye can,
For
death; since dead is He whom ye deemed more than man,
Who
is not risen: no—
But
lies and moulders low—
Who is not
risen!
Ye
men of Galilee!
Why
stand ye looking up to heaven, where Him ye neÕer may see,
Neither
ascending hence, nor returning hither again?
Ye
ignorant and idle fishermen!
Hence
to your huts, and boats, and inland native shore,
And
catch not men, but fish;
WhateÕer things ye might wish,
Him
neither here nor there ye eÕer shall meet with more.
Ye
poor deluded youths, go home,
Mend the old nets ye left to roam,
Tie
the split oar, patch the torn sail:
It
was indeed an Ôidle taleÕ—
He was not risen!
And,
oh, good men of ages yet to be,
Who
shall believe because ye did not see—
Oh,
be ye warned, be wise!
No
more with pleading eyes,
And
sobs of strong desire,
Unto the empty vacant void aspire,
Seeking
another and impossible birth
That
is not of your own, and only mother earth.
But
if there is no other life for you,
Sit
down and be content, since this must even do:
He is not risen!
One
look, and then depart,
Ye
humble and ye holy men of heart;
And
ye I ye ministers and stewards of a Word
Which
ye would preach, because another heard—
Ye
worshippers of that ye do not know,
Take these things hence and go:—
He is not risen!
Here, on our Easter Day
We
rise, we come, and lo! we find Him not,
Gardener
nor other, on the sacred spot:
Where
they have laid Him there is none to say;
No
sound, nor in, nor out—no word
Of
where to seek the dead or meet the living Lord.
There
is no glistering of an angelÕs wings,
There
is no voice of heavenly clear behest:
Let
us go hence, and think upon these things
In
silence, which is best.
Is
He not risen? No—
But
lies and moulders low?
Christ is not risen?