When the soul, growing clearer, Sees God no nearer; When the soul, mounting higher, To God comes no nigher; But the arch-fiend Pride Mounts at her side, Foiling her high emprize, Sealing her eagle eyes, And, when she fain would soar, Make idols to adore; Changing the pure emotion Of her high devotion, To a skin-deep sense Of her own eloquence; Strong to deceive, strong to enslave,-- Save, O, save! From the ingrained fashion Of this earthly nature That mars thy creature; From grief, that is but passion; From mirth, that is but feigning; From tears, that bring no healing; From wild and weak complaining;-- Thine old strength revealing, Save, O, save! From doubt, where all is doable, Where wise men are not strong; Where comfort turns to trouble; Where just men suffer wrong; Where sorrow treads on joy; Where sweet things soonest cloy; Where faiths are built on dust; Where love is half mistrust, Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea; O, set us free! O, let the false dream fly Where our sick souls do lie, Tossing continually. O, where thy voice doth come, Let all doubts be dumb; Let all words be mild; All strife be reconciled; All pains beguiled. Light brings no blindness; Love no unkindness; Knowledge no ruin; Fear no undoing, From the cradle to the grave,-- Save, O, save! MATTHEW ARNOLD. * * * * * WHY THUS LONGING? Why thus longing, thus forever sighing For the far off, unattained, and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying, Offers up its low perpetual hymn? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw,-- If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,-- No fond voices answer to thine own; If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten By daily sympathy and gentle tone. Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Not by works that gain thee world-renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, And truly loving, thou canst truly live. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, When all nature hails the Lord of light, And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning, Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright? Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Proud proprietors in pomp may shine; But with fervent love if thou adorest, Thou art wealthier,--all the world is thine.