Arthur Hugh Clough.

Clough, born at Liverpool, 1819, died of malarial fever at Florence, 1861. He was educated at Rugby under Dr. Arnold, and was on affectionate terms with that noble teacher. "Over the career of none of his pupils," says F. T. Palgrave, “did Arnold watch with a livelier interest or a more sanguine hope." Having won the Baliol scholarship in 1836, Clough went to Oxford, and in 1843 was appointed tutor as well as fellow of Oriel College. His principal poem, "The Bothie of Tober-Na-Vuolich,' which he terms "a long vacation pastoral," appeared in 1848. It is written in hexameter verse, and is rich in evidence of his own yearning for the higher truths of life.

His "Amours de Voyage," the result of a holiday of travel in Italy, is in the same measure. It appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly while Clough was residing (1852) at Cambridge, near Boston, Mass. It is an unsuccessful attempt to give the poetical form to what might have been more aptly and effectively said in prose. "Dipsychus," his third long poem, was written in Venice in 1850. In 1848, from conscientious motives, Clough had given up both his tutorship and his fellowship at Oxford. His life, though uneventful, was full of work, and the great problems of humanity exercised his sincere and searching intellect to the last. As a poet he is very unequal; at times showing himself in his flights the peer of Tennyson, and then lapsing into the commonplace or obscure. In his forty-two years he did much good work, but his life was even richer in promise than in performance. A selection from his papers, with letters and a memoir, edited by his widow, was published in two volumes in 1869.

I WILL NOT ASK TO FEEL THOU ART.

O Thou whose image in the shrine
Of human spirits dwells divine,
Which from that precinct once conveyed,
To be to outer day displayed,
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind
Mere blank, and void of empty mind,
Which wilful fancy seeks in vain
With casual shapes to fill again,--

O Thou that in our bosom's shrine
Doth dwell, unknown because divine!
I thought to speak, I thought to say,
"The light is here," "behold the way,"
"The voice was thus," and "thus the word,"
And "thus I saw," and "that I heard,"-
But from the lips that half essayed
The imperfect utterance fell unmade.

O Thou in that mysterious shrine
Enthroned, as I must say, divine!

I will not frame one thought of what
Thou mayest either be or not.

I will not prate of "thus" or "so,” And be profane with "yes" and "no;" Enough that in our soul and heart Thou, whatsoe'er Thou may'st be, art!

Unseen, secure in that high shrine,
Acknowledged present and divine,
I will not ask some upper air,
Some future day, to place Thee there;
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men
And women saw Thee thus or then:
Thy name was such, and there or here
To him or her Thou didst appear.

Do only Thou in that dim shrine,
Unknown or known, remain, divine;
There, or if not, at least in eyes
That scan the fact that round them lies,
The hand to sway, the judgment guide,
In sight and sense Thyself divide:
Be Thou but there,-in soul and heart,
I will not ask to feel Thou art.

CONSIDER IT AGAIN.

"Old things need not be therefore true:"
O brother men, nor yet the new!
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain,
And yet consider it again!

The souls of now two thousand years
Have laid up here their toils and fears,
And all the earnings of their pain,—
Ah, yet consider it again!

We! what do we see? each a spaco

Of some few yards before his face;
Does that the whole wide plan explain?
Ah, yet consider it again!

Alas! the great world goes its way,
And takes its truth from each new day;
They do not quit, nor can retain,
Far less consider it again.

QUI LABORAT, ORAT.

753

O only Source of all our light and life,
Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel,
But whom the hours of mortal moral strife
Alone aright reveal!

Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly brought, Thy presence owns ineffable, divine; Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought, My will adoreth Thine.

With eye down-dropped, if then this earthly mind
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart,-
Nor seek to see-for what of earthly kind
Can see Thee as Thou art?-

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold

In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see,

It dare not dare the dread communion hold
In ways unworthy Thee,-

Oh not unowned, Thou shalt unnamed forgive,
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ;
And if in work its life it seem to live,
Shalt make that work be prayer.

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies,
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part,
And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes
In recognition--start.

But as Thou willest, give or e'en forbear
The beatific supersensual sight,

So, with Thy blessing blessed, that humbler prayer
Approach Thee morn and night.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI.'

The following from the "Amours de Voyage" is a specimen of the measure and style of that work, as well as of "The Bothie of Tober-Na-Vuolich."

Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,-to

Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yet

Still, individual culture is also something, and no man Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on,

Or would be justified, even, in taking away from the world that

Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here;

Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely.

On the whole, we are meant to look out for ourselves; it is certain

Sweet and becoming it is to die for one's country.

Through winds and tides one compass guidesTo that and your own selves be true.

But O, blithe breeze! and O, great seas! Though ne'er that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought-
One purpose hold where'er they fare;
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there!

IN A GONDOLA.

ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE.
Afloat; we move-delicious! Ah,
What else is like the gondola ?
This level floor of liquid glass
Begins beneath us swift to pass.
It goes as though it went alone
By some impulsion of its own.

(How light it moves, how softly! Ah, Were all things like the gondola !)

How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Could life as does our gondola,
Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares,
And moral duties and affairs,
Unswaying, noiseless, swift, and strong,
Forever thus thus glide along!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)

With no more motion than should bear
A freshness to the languid air;
With no more effort than expressed
The need and naturaluess of rest,
Which we beneath a grateful shade
Should take on peaceful pillows laid!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)

In one unbroken passage borne
To closing night from opening morn,
Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark
Some palace front, some passing bark;
Through windows catch the varying shore,
And hear the soft turns of the oar!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola !)

Walt Whitman.

AMERICAN.

755

Whitman was born in 1819 at West Hills, L. I., but moved with his family to Brooklyn, N. Y., while he was yet a child. At thirteen he learned to set type, and a few years later was employed as a teacher in a country school. In 1849 he travelled in the Western States. He drifted to New Orleans, and there, for a year, edited a paper. Returning home, he went into business as a builder-his father's occupation. In 1856 he published "Leaves of Grass," which attracted attention for the rough, untrammelled power it displayed. It was marred, however, by much that was offensive to ears gentle and polite. During the Civil War he was employed in hospitals and camps. He gave the result of his experiences in a thin volume, entitled "Drum Taps." He was on one occasion removed from his post as a Department Clerk, because of the literary sins in his "Leaves of Grass." He has been praised by Emerson, Tennyson, and Ruskin-high authorities in literature. His impulse seems to have been to be true to the thoughts of the moment at all hazards, and to say what came uppermost without regard to consequences. Ruskin, in a letter (1879) ordering copies of Whitman's works, remarked that the reason they excite such furious criticism is, "They are deadly true—in the sense of rifles—against all our deadliest sins:" an assertion which will be contested by many as eccentric if not extravagant.

FROM "THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER."

Now, trumpeter! for thy close,

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet; Sing to my soul-renew its languishing faith and hope;

Rouse up my slow belief-give me some vision of the future;

Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy.
O glad, exulting, culminating song!
A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes!
Marches of victory-man disenthralled-the con-

queror at last!

Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man

all joy!

A re-born race appears-a perfect world—all joy ! Women and men in wisdom, innocence, and health—

all joy!

Riotous, laughing bacchanals, filled with joy! War, sorrow, suffering gone-the rank earth purged -nothing but joy left!

The ocean filled with joy-the atmosphere all joy! Joy! joy in freedom, worship, love! Joy in the ecstasy of life!

Enough to merely be! Enough to breathe!
Joy! joy! all over joy!

Oh, that of myself, discharging my excrementitious body, to be burned, or rendered to powder, or buried,

My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres, My voided body, nothing more to me, returning to the purifications, further offices, eternal uses of the earth!

Whoever you are! you are he or she for whom the earth is solid and liquid,

You are he or she for whom the sun and moon hang in the sky,

For none more than you are the present and the past,
For none more than you is immortality!
Each man to himself, and each woman to herself,
is the word of the past and present, and the
word of immortality:

No one can acquire for another-not one!
Not one can grow for another-not one!

#

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first— Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first; Be not discouraged-keep on-there are divine things, well enveloped,

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Charles Anderson Dana.

AMERICAN.

Born in Hinsdale, N. H., August 8th, 1819, Dana passed two years at Harvard, but left before graduating, on account of an affection of the eyes. He joined George Ripley (1802-1880) and others in the Brook Farm Association. Removing to New York, he became a prominent journalist, and was connected with the Tribune. In 1863-64 he was Assistant Secretary of War. On leaving that post, he bought, with the aid of some associates, the New York Sun, which was in a declining condition, and made it a great financial success. He was associated with Ripley in editing Appleton's Cyclopædia; and in 1858 he edited "The Household Book of Poetry." His poetry was nearly all written before his twenty-fifth year. One of his early achievements was a tour of Europe on foot. He is a great linguist, and can converse with his foreign guests in their own languages.

MANHOOD.

Dear, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ; For, like a god toiling in earthly slavery, Fronting thy sad fate with a joyous bravery, Each darker day a sunnier mien thou wearest.