I SAW again the spirits on a day, Where on the earth in mournful case they lay;

Five porches were there, and a pool, and round,

Huddling in blankets, strewn upon the ground,

Tied-up and bandaged, weary, sore and spent,

The maimed and halt, diseased and impotent.

For a great angel came, 't was said, and stirred

The pool at certain seasons, and the word

Was, with this people of the sick, that they

Who in the waters here their limbs

Which now I seek in vain, and never can recall?”

And then, as weary of in vain renewing

His question, thus his mournful thought pursuing,

"I know not, I must do as other men are doing."

But what the waters of that pool might be,

Of Lethe were they, or Philosophy; And whether he, long waiting, did attain

Deliverance from the burden of his pain There with the rest; or whether, yet before,

Some more diviner stranger passed the door

With his small company into that sad place,

And breathing hope into the sick man's face, [go,

Bade him take up his bed, and rise and What the end were, and whether it

were so,

Further than this I saw not, neither know. 1849. 1862.

FROM AMOURS DE VOYAGE

EN ROUTE

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,

Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,

Come, let us go,-to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,

Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.

Come let us go; though withal a voice whisper, "The world that we live in, Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib;

'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel;

Clough's long poem in hexameters, The Bothie of Tober-Na-Vuolich, interesting as it is, is of too little importance and poetic value in proportion to its length, to be included in these selections; and no parts of it are detachable as extracts. Some examples of Clough's use of hexameters (and elegiacs) may however be taken from his other long poem, the Amours de Voyage, which suffer comparatively little in being separated from their context, and are equally characteristic of some of Clough's moods. They are also interesting as a contrast to Byron's verses on Rome, in Childe Harold and elsewhere. On the Amours de Voyage, see especially Bage hot's Essay on Clough.

Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser;

'Tis but to go and have been."-Come, little bark! let us go.

ROME

ROME disappoints me still; but I shrink

and adapt myself to it. Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression

Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me

Feel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickwork

Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo,

Merely a marvelous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.

Te gods! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed,

Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in? What do I find in the Forum? An archway and two or three pillars. Well, but St. Peter's?

Alas, Bernini

has filled it with sculpture! No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum.

Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement, This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea?

Yet of solidity much, but of splendor

little is extant:

"Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!" their Emperor vaunted; "Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!" the Tourist may answer.

THE PANTHEON

No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian! canst not, Strip and replaster and daub and do what they will with thee, be so! Here underneath the great porch of colossal Corinthian columns,

Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian belfries above them?

Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, till thy whole vast Round grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I repeople thy niches, Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, and Virgins, and children, But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer worship;

He, who with pure dew laveth of Castaly His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia The oak forest and the wood that bore him,

Delos' and Patara's own Apollo.

ON MONTORIO'S HEIGHT

TIBUR is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio

Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyri cal cadence ;

Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,

With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,

Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace :

So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,

Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,

Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;

Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,

Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters,

Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro

(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I

wander and gaze, of the shadows, Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces), Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,

Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace :

So not seeing I sang; so now-Nor seeing, nor hearing,

Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,

Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,

Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,

But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,

Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,

But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapory mountains,

lost il Moro;—

Rome is fallen; and fallen, or falling, heroical Venice.

I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single small chit of a girl, sit

Moping and mourning here,-for her, and myself much smaller. Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle,

Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

Are they upborne from the field on the slumberous pinions of angels Unto a far-off home, where the weary rest from their labor,

And the deep wounds are healed, and the bitter and burning moisture Wiped from the generous eyes? or do they linger, unhappy,

Pining, and haunting the grave of their by-gone hope and endeavor?

All declamation, alas! though I talk, I care not for Rome nor

Italy; feebly and faintly, and but with the lips, can lament the

Wreck of the Lombard youth, and the
victory of the oppressor.
Whither depart the brave !-God knows;
I certainly do not.

ENVOI

So go forth to the world, to the good report and the evil!

Go, little book! thy tale, is it not evil and good?

Go, and if strangers revile, pass quietly by without answer.

Go, and if curious friends ask of thy rearing and age.

Say, "I am flitting about many years from brain unto brain of

Feeble and restless youths born to inglorious days:

But," so finish the word, “I was writ in a Roman chamber,

When from Janiculan heights thundered the cannon of France." 1848-1849. 1858.

PESCHIERA

WHAT Voice did on my spirit fall,
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?
""Tis better to have fought and lost.
Than never to have fought at all."

The tricolor-a trampled rag—
Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track
By sentry boxes yellow-black,
Lead up to no Italian flag.

I see the Croat soldier stand
Upon the grass of your redoubts;
The eagle with his black wings flouts
The breadth and beauty of your land.

Yet not in vain, although in vain,
O men of Brescia, on the day
Of loss past hope, I heard you say
Your welcome to the noble pain.

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 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 :
Honor 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.

FROM DIPSYCHUS

1862.

"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, " 't were 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 every one when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,

This world is very odd we see,
We do not comprehend it;
But in one fact we all agree,
God won't, and we can't mend it.

Being common sense, it can't be sin
To take it as I find it;
The pleasure to take pleasure in ;
The pain, try not to mind it.

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. 1849. 1869.

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 chiding raise thee?

Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find

When the enemy is near thee,
Call on us!

In our hands we will upbear thee,
He shall neither scathe nor scare thee,
He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee.
Call on us!

Call when all good friends have left thee,
Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee;
Call when hope and heart are sinking,
And the brain is sick with thinking,
Help, O help!

Call, and following close behind thee There shall haste, and there shall find thee,

Help, sure help.

When the panic comes upon thee,
When necessity seems on thee,
Hope and choice have all forgone thee,
Fate and force are closing o'er thee,
And but one way stands before thee-
Call on us!

Oh, and if thou dost not call,
Be but faithful, that is all.
Go right on, and close behind thee
There shall follow still and find thee,
Help, sure help.

1849. 1862. SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH

SAY not the struggle nought 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, [slowly,

In front, the sun climbs slow, how But westward, look, the land is bright. 1849. 1862.