The poems and prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough With a selection from his letters and a memoir: Edited by his wife: In two volumes: With a portrait |
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 | The poems and prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough |  |
Scene V.
—The Lido.Sp.
What now? the Lido shall it be?
That none may say we didn't see
The ground which Byron used to ride on,
And do I don't know what beside on.
Ho, barca! here! and this light gale
Will let us run it with a sail.
Di.
I dreamt a dream: till morning light
A bell rang in my head all night,
Tinkling and tinkling first, and then
Tolling and tinkling, tolling again,
So brisk and gay, and then so slow!
O joy and terror! mirth and woe!
Ting, ting, There is no God; ting, ting,—
Dong, there is no God; dong,
There is no God; dong, dong.
A bell rang in my head all night,
124
Tolling and tinkling, tolling again,
So brisk and gay, and then so slow!
O joy and terror! mirth and woe!
Ting, ting, There is no God; ting, ting,—
Dong, there is no God; dong,
There is no God; dong, dong.
Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting.
Come, dance and play, and merrily sing,
Staid Englishman, who toil and slave
From your first childhood to your grave,
And seldom spend and always save—
And do your duty all your life
By your young family and wife;
Come, be't not said you ne'er had known
What earth can furnish you alone.
The Italian, Frenchman, German even,
Have given up all thoughts of heaven:
And you still linger—oh, you fool!—
Because of what you learnt at school.
You should have gone at least to college,
And got a little ampler knowledge.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:
Do as you like, as now you do;
If work's a cheat, so's pleasure too,
And nothing's new and nothing's true;
Dong, there is no God; dong.
Come, dance and play, and merrily sing,
Staid Englishman, who toil and slave
From your first childhood to your grave,
And seldom spend and always save—
And do your duty all your life
By your young family and wife;
Come, be't not said you ne'er had known
What earth can furnish you alone.
The Italian, Frenchman, German even,
Have given up all thoughts of heaven:
And you still linger—oh, you fool!—
Because of what you learnt at school.
You should have gone at least to college,
And got a little ampler knowledge.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:
Do as you like, as now you do;
If work's a cheat, so's pleasure too,
And nothing's new and nothing's true;
Dong, there is no God; dong.
O, in our nook unknown, unseen,
We'll hold our fancy like a screen
Us and the dreadful fact between;
And it shall yet be long—ay, long—
The quiet notes of our low song
Shall keep us from that sad dong, dong.—
We'll hold our fancy like a screen
Us and the dreadful fact between;
And it shall yet be long—ay, long—
The quiet notes of our low song
125
Hark, hark, hark! O voice of fear,
It reaches us here, even here!
Dong, there is no God; dong.
It reaches us here, even here!
Dong, there is no God; dong.
Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,
To battle, to battle—haste, haste—
To battle, to battle—aha, aha!
On, on, to the conqueror's feast,
From east to west, and south and north,
Ye men of valour and of worth,
Ye mighty men of arms, come forth
And work your will, for that is just;
And in your impulse put your trust,
Beneath your feet the fools are dust.
Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,
The good are weak, the wicked strong;
And oh, my God, how long, how long!
Dong, there is no God; dong.
To battle, to battle—haste, haste—
To battle, to battle—aha, aha!
On, on, to the conqueror's feast,
From east to west, and south and north,
Ye men of valour and of worth,
Ye mighty men of arms, come forth
And work your will, for that is just;
And in your impulse put your trust,
Beneath your feet the fools are dust.
Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,
The good are weak, the wicked strong;
And oh, my God, how long, how long!
Dong, there is no God; dong.
Ring, ting; to bow before the strong,
There is a rapture too in this;
Work for thy master, work, thou slave—
He is not merciful, but brave.
Be't joy to serve, who free and proud
Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;
Take that, 'tis all thou art allowed,
Except the snaky hope that they
May sometime serve who rule to-day.
When, by hell-demons, shan't they pay?
O wickedness, O shame and grief,
And heavy load, and no relief!
O God, O God! and which is worst,
To be the curser or the curst,
The victim or the murderer? Dong,
Dong, there is no God; dong.
There is a rapture too in this;
Work for thy master, work, thou slave—
He is not merciful, but brave.
Be't joy to serve, who free and proud
Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;
Take that, 'tis all thou art allowed,
Except the snaky hope that they
May sometime serve who rule to-day.
When, by hell-demons, shan't they pay?
O wickedness, O shame and grief,
And heavy load, and no relief!
O God, O God! and which is worst,
To be the curser or the curst,
126
Dong, there is no God; dong.
Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,
Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!
Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,
Who offer noblest hearts, to heal
The tenderest hurts honour can feel,
Paid magistrates and the police!
O peddling merchant-justice, go,
Exacter rules than yours we know;
Resentment's rule, and that high law
Of whoso best the sword can draw.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.
Go on, my friends, as now you do;
Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;
And nothing's new, and nothing's true.
Dong, there is no God; dong.
Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!
Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,
Who offer noblest hearts, to heal
The tenderest hurts honour can feel,
Paid magistrates and the police!
O peddling merchant-justice, go,
Exacter rules than yours we know;
Resentment's rule, and that high law
Of whoso best the sword can draw.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.
Go on, my friends, as now you do;
Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;
And nothing's new, and nothing's true.
Dong, there is no God; dong.
I had a dream, from eve to light
A bell went sounding all the night.
Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:
I tried to stop it, but in vain.
It ran right on, and never broke;
Only when day began to stream
Through the white curtains to my bed,
And like an angel at my head
Light stood and touched me—I awoke,
And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’
A bell went sounding all the night.
Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:
I tried to stop it, but in vain.
It ran right on, and never broke;
Only when day began to stream
Through the white curtains to my bed,
And like an angel at my head
Light stood and touched me—I awoke,
And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’
Sp.
Ah! not so bad. You've read, I see,
Your Béranger, and thought of me.
But really you owe some apology
For harping thus upon theology.
I'm not a judge, I own; in short,
Religion may not be my forte.
The Church of England I belong to,
And think Dissenters not far wrong too;
They're vulgar dogs; but for his creed
I hold that no man will be d---d.
But come and listen in your turn,
And you shall hear and mark and learn.
Your Béranger, and thought of me.
But really you owe some apology
For harping thus upon theology.
127
Religion may not be my forte.
The Church of England I belong to,
And think Dissenters not far wrong too;
They're vulgar dogs; but for his creed
I hold that no man will be d---d.
But come and listen in your turn,
And you shall hear and mark and learn.
‘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.’
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'nt mean a man
Always to be a baby.’
‘Or really, if there may be,
He surely did'nt 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.’
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.’
‘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.
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
128
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
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;
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,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
But eccoci! with our barchetta,
Here at the Sant' Elisabetta.
Here at the Sant' Elisabetta.
Di.
Vineyards and maize, that's pleasant for sore eyes.
Sp.
And on the island's other side,
The place where Murray's faithful Guide
Informs us Byron used to ride.
Di.
The trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!
The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea—
Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it.
Sp.
Look back; one catches at this station
Lagoon and sea in combination.
Di.
On her still lake the city sits,
Where bark and boat around her flits;
Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking,
Of Adriatic billows breaking.
129
Oh, a grand surge! we'll bathe; quick, quick!—undress!
Quick, quick!—in, in!
We'll take the crested billows by their backs
And shake them. Quick! in, in!
And I will taste again the old joy
I gloried in so when a boy;
Aha! come, come—great waters, roll!
Accept me, take me, body and soul!
That's done me good. It grieves me though,
I never came here long ago.
Sp.
Pleasant, perhaps; however, no offence,
Animal spirits are not common sense;
They're good enough as an assistance,
But in themselves a poor existence.
But you, with this one bathe, no doubt,
Have solved all questions out and out.
| The poems and prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough | |