But with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. But, though he is to learn from Nature and love Nature and enjoy Nature, he is to remember that she never was the friend of _one_, Nor promised love she could not give; and so he is not to expect too much from her, or demand impossible boons. Still less is he to be content with feeling himself "in harmony" with her; for Man covets all which Nature has, but more. That "more" is Conscience and the Moral Sense. Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends; Nature and man can never be fast friends. And this brings us to the idea of Duty as set forth in his poems, and Duty resolves itself into three main elements: Truth--Work--Love. Truth comes first. Man's prime duty is to know things as they are. Truth can only be attained by light, and light he must cultivate, he must worship. Arnold's highest praise for a lost friend is that he was "a child of light"; that he had "truth without alloy," And joy in light, and power to spread the joy. The saddest part of that friend's death is the fear that it may bring, After light's term, a term of cecity: the best hope for the future, that light will return and banish the follies, sophistries, delusions, which have accumulated in the darkness. "Lucidity of soul" may be--nay, must be, "sad"; but it is not less imperative. And the truth which light reveals must not only be sought earnestly and cherished carefully, but even, when the cause demands it, championed strenuously. The voices of conflict, the joy of battle, the "garments rolled in blood," the "burning and fuel of fire" have little place in Arnold's poetry. But once at any rate he bursts into a strain so passionate, so combatant, that it is difficult for a disciple to recognize his voice; and then the motive is a summons to a last charge for Truth and Light-- They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, Hotly charged--and sank at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall! But the note of battle, even for what he holds dearest and most sacred, is not a familiar note in his poetry. He had no natural love of the throng'd field where winning comes by strife. His criticism of life sets a higher value on work than on fighting. "Toil unsevered from tranquillity," "Labour, accomplish'd in repose"--is his ideal of happiness and duty. Even the Duke of Wellington--surely an unpromising subject for poetic eulogy--is praised because he was a worker, Laborious, persevering, serious, firm.