Suggested by Matthew Arnold's Stanzas - Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse

I     That one long dirge-moan sad and deep,     Low, muffled by the solemn stress     Of such emotion as doth steep     The soul in brooding quietness,     Befits our anguished time too well,     Whose Life-march is a funeral knell.     Dirge for a mighty Creed outworn     Its spirit fading from the earth,     Its mouldering body left forlorn:     Weak idol! feeding scornful mirth     In shallow hearts; divine no more     Save to some ignorant pagan poor;     And some who know how by Its light     The past world well did walk and live,     And feel It even now more bright     Than any lamp mere men can give;     So cling to It with yearning faith,     Yet own It almost quenched in death:     While many who win wealth and power     And honours serving at Its shrine,     Rather than lose their worldly dower     Proclaim their dead thing 'Life divine';     And sacrifice to coward lust     Their own souls' truth, a people's trust.     And will none mourn the mighty Dead,     Pillar of heavenly fire and cloud,     Which through this life's wild desert led     For whole millenniums each grand crowd     Of sages, bards, saints, heroes, all     Whose names we glory to recall?     None mourn Him, dead, with deep-moved soul,     Whom, living, all our sires adored?     None feel the heavy darkness roll     Stifling about us, when the Lord     Leaves us to walk by our own light,     That one pale speck in boundless Night?     That earthly lamp when sun and star,     When all the heavenly lights are lost:     Does it shed radiance round afar?     Our pathway is by deep gulfs cross'd     It fathoms none. We lift it high:     It casts not one beam on the sky.     If He thus died as no more fit     To lead the modern march of thought,     Supreme, commanding, guiding it,     With noblest love and wisdom fraught;     He was at least Divine; and none     Of human souls can lead it on.     We pine in our dark living tomb,     Waiting the God-illumined One     Who, only, can disperse the gloom;     Completing what the Dead begun,     Or farther leading us some space     Toward our eternal resting-place.     But Israel wanders shepherdless,     Or gloom-involved unloving lies,     And in despair's stark sinfulness     Reviles the promised Paradise     It cannot reach Father divine!     Let us not long thus hopeless pine.     Still the deep dirge-notes long and low     Breathe forth strange anguish to recall     Could we forget our direst woe:     A proud strong Age fast losing all     Earth has of heaven; bereft of faith;     And living in Eternal Death.     And loudly boastful of such life:     Blinded by our material might,     Absorbed in frantic worldly strife,     Unconscious of the utter Night     Whose palpable and monstrous gloom     Is gathering for our spirits' tomb.     We feel as gods in our own hearts;     Seeming to conquer Time and Space;     Wealth gorging our imperial marts,     Earth pregnant, from the fierce embrace     Our matter-lusting spirits press,     With unexampled fruitfulness.     God, answering well our worldly prayer,     Our hearts' chief prayer through all the hours     Of selfish joy and sordid care,     Comes down to us in golden showers:     God turns to Mammon at our cry;     Our souls wealth-crushed, dross-stifled lie.     Those few, how rich! while this great mass,     Myriads with equal greed for gold,     Sink in such want and woe, alas!     As never can on earth be told:     These starve, and those yet wealthier rise     Meanwhile in both the spirit dies.     Hear now the thrilling dirge-notes peal     The anguished cry in thunder rolls:-     The few yet left who think and feel,     Who yearn with strenuous soaring souls     For more than earth or time can grant;     Where, where shall they appease their want?     Black disbelief, substantial doubt     Wreathe-blent into one louring cloud     Through which Heaven's light can scarce shine out     Round all the Faiths: all in such shroud     Fade ghostlike to th' entombing Past:     Our Heaven is wildly overcast.     Yet each Creed, senile, sick, half-dead,     With bitter spite and doting rage     Reviles all others, Whoso, led     By thirst of love to pilgrimage,     Seeks now old God-given Wells of Life,     Finds drought-dry centres of vain strife;     And turns away in blank despair,     To scoff or weep as fits his mood.     0 God in Heaven, hear our prayer!     We know Thou art, Allwise, Allgood,     Yet sink in godless misery:     Oh, teach us how to worship Thee! II     The great Form lies there nerveless still:     But as we fix our longing gaze     It grows in grandest beauty, till     We worship in entranced amaze;     Such holy love and wisdom seem     To be there rapt in heavenly dream     .     Oh, if He may once more awake!     Oh, if it be not death, but sleep!     And He from that dread slumber break     Refreshed and strong, full-powered to sweep     The darkness from our path again;     Once more the Guiding Star of men!     Yet, though it be death, view It well.     The brow, how nobly high and broad     What love on those shut lips might well!     This Form sublimely templed God:     And, if not perfect, is a shrine     Approaching well the most divine.     Do not turn hastily away     From mighty death to petty life;     Gaze in deep reverence on the clay     With such a soul's expression rife:     Read here, read long, the features worn     By One incarnate Heavenly-born.     So may we hope to recognise     That Greater One who shall succeed     This death-bound Monarch, who now lies     In mute appealing for our need:     God cannot long desert His earth;     In the Old's death the New has birth.     What say we? we know well this truth,     There is no death for the Divine,     Which lives in ever-perfect youth:     The Form alone, its earthly shrine     Is subject to earth's mortal sway;     Sickens, and dies, and rots away.     Thus each Form in its turn expires,     No more with all revealed Truth rife,     Which even at that time inspires     Some new and nobler form with life,     Grander and vaster to express     More of Its infinite heavenliness.     Thus has it been since Time's first birth,     Thus must it be for evermore:     Still lie, moth-eaten, on the earth     Old garments which this Spirit wore;     Till, soiled and rent, they were off-thrown,     And wider-flowing robes put on.     They could not grow with His great growth,     Pauseless though slow throughout the years;     And vainly worshippers-so loath     To leave what lengthened use endears     May still the empty robes adore;     Their virtue was from Him who wore.     Let none say the Divine is dead,     Although this Form be soul-less quite:     The Heavenly Sun doth ever shed     His lifeful heat, His saving light;     Never our earth doth lose His ray,     Save when she turns herself away.     Let none say the Divine is dumb,     Although His voice no more we hear:     It is that we are deaf become.     For measured to each eye and ear     His glory shines, His voice outspeaks;     To each He gives the most it seeks.     Our spirits may for ever grow;     And He will fill them as before,     And still their measure overflow     With His unlessened infinite More:     He gives us all we can receive;     He teaches all we can believe.     The pure can see Him perfect, pure;     The strong feel Him, Omnipotence;     The wise, All-wise; He is obscure     But to the gross and earth-bound sense:     Alas for us with blinded sight     Who dare to cry, There is no light! III     Nay, ask us not to rise and leave     Him from whom power and life seem gone;     Say not that it is weak to grieve;     Duty does not, now, urge us on:     In vain ye urge; too well we know     We cannot by our own strength go.     Vainly ye choose you Saviours now     Of men, however good and wise     Be those your mean faith would endow     With power to which no man can rise:     No best men living lure our faith     From the Divine though veiled in death.     Vainly ye wander every way     Throughout the earth in search of Heaven,     Changing your useless path each day     With each new transient impulse given     By human guides, who still agree     In naught but fallibility.     We should know better from the lore     Of worldly wisdom, keen mistrust     On which our minds so love to pore;     Nor leave for any child of dust     This One Divine: to Him adhere     Till the diviner One appear.     My brothers, let us own the truth,     Bitter and mournful though it be,     That we who spent our dreary youth     In foul and sensual slavery,     Are all too slavish, too unmanned,     For Conquerors of the Promised Land.     In unprogressive wanderings     We plod the desert to and fro;     And fiery serpents' mortal stings,     Earthquake and sword and weary woe     And pestilence deal fearful death     Amongst us for our want of faith.     Far-scattered o'er the Waste forlorn     Our bones shall whiten through the years,     And startle pilgrims yet unborn;     Our noblest captains, priests and seers,     Dark death shall one by one remove,     For lack of wisdom, faith, or love.     Yet be we patient, meek and pure,     Unselfishly resigned to God's     Mysterious judgements; and endure     Our sore scarce-intermitted loads     Of grief and weary pain, imbued     With sternly passive fortitude:     And pray that those who shall succeed     Prove worthy of a happier life     Than we dare ask for as our meed;     That they a constant noble strife     Victorious against Ill may wage,     And gain the glorious heritage.     Cease now to cry and storm, and move,     By such tumultuous toil opprcst     As, without guidance, vain must prove.     When God keeps still can ye not rest?     When He sends night so dark and deep,     Why shrink from renovating sleep?     Sleep, to His care resigned, a space;     That when He rises in His might     To lead our hosts from this dire place,     We may have strength and heart to fight     All evils that would bar our way,     And march unfaltering all the day.     Yes, let us stay in loving grief,     Which patient hope and trust yet cheer,     Silent beside our silent Chief,     Till His Successor shall appear;     Till death's veil fall from off His face,     Or One anointed take His place.     Nay, our adoring love should have     More faith than to believe that He,     Before Another comes to save,     Can leave us in blind misery     Without a Guide: God never can     So utterly depart from man.     We will move onward! Let us trust     That there is life and saving power     In this dear Form which seems but dust.     Arise, arise! though darkness lower,     Earnest, bold-hearted, cease to mourn;     It shall before our hosts be borne.     Triumphantly He ever led     Our faithful armies while alive;     What though His form be cold and dead,     His Spirit doth that death survive:     We conquer by that Soul this Form     Enshrined, not ill, while free and warm.     Thus men have honoured fellow men,     Who dying left a lofty fame;     And won most glorious victories then     By inspiration of a Name:     If in men's names such life abode,     Shall there not in His, Son of God?     A dawn-light creeps throughout the gloom,     Sullenly sinks the storm of wrath;     Life blossoms in our desert tomb;     Mysteriously we find a path     Which leadeth on to Paradise.     Thus to our love's faith He replies!     But, while the dirge still rolls away     In passionate thunders wildly blent     With mournful moanings, let us pray     Still on our Holy War intent     'O God, revive the seeming Dead;     Or send Another in His stead!     'The wintry midnight drear is past,     But still the dawn gleams grey and cold;     Dread phantoms haunt each restless blast,     Our stumblings still are manifold:     Oh, let Thy cloudless Sun rise soon,     And flood us with His summer noon!'