14.06.2008, 08:47
England and Oxford
I
Line after line the tale beneath the pen
Moves on, and rodent Time with tireless tooth
Works o'er our portion, till one day forsooth
We tread the cool gray shadow, ageing men.
This change I mark, and sadly pondering then
Catch the soul's murmur, accented with ruth:
"Oh, let me hear upon the lips of youth
`Eothen' and `Eothen' once again! "
And Oxford, oh, do thou with soulful toil,
While o'er our folk tumultuous ages throng,
Mounted at night as o'er some priceless spoil,
For us the fineness of this cult prolong,
Still nurturing in our sweet English soil
That glory from the Morningland of song.
II
Yet, Oxford, it is better thou should'st know
That eyes which love thee in thy culture see
The withering curse of long sterility.
Rooted in England, thou hast ceased to grow
Together with her growth. Thy waters flow
Not with her broadening current to the sea.
But murmuring their delicious melody
They wander forth and wist not where they go.
And thus thy fine-edged spirit, which in high
Disdain hath never paltered with the pelf
Of modern rapine, doth too often fly
To endless erochets, wayward as an elf,
Self-humouring and posturing and shy,
And broods apart and lives unto itself.
III
None than thyself more royally to-day
Hath given to England in her hour of need.
In every field where England's children bleed
Thine own haue there more richly bled than they.
And Oxford still incarnadines the clay
To such a sanctity as doth o'erplead
The voice of censure, silenced by the deed
Of the great heart that laid them where they lay.
'Tis their's, that murmur fluttering from the marge
Of thither Acheron, where their Gares they ply
In deathless death: "O Mother mine, enlarge
Thy life to England's. Thou hast learned to die.
But while thy life thou dost so grandly give,
One thing thou lackest, Oxford; learn to live!"
IV
There is one source alone which can supply
New life and impulse. 'Tis a voice that rolls
Half inarticulate in English souls,
From field and mine and factory, where they ply
The single talent Fate did not deny,
Their labour. Now they hear upon the shoals
Of a sad life that there are other goals
To man's existence than they yet descry;
And, scarcely yet discerned, they deeply feel
A presence over them, a haunting sense
Of music in the world, whose echoes steal
Unto them from the spheres, where in the immense
Circle of night and day the planets keep
Measure and watch, while mortals toil and weep.
V
Thine be it to direct their, steps aright
Unto that bourne which, doth not cease to haunt.
They cry for it, not knowing what they want,
Or what for man is best—the use of sight;
Some inkling of the precious power of light,
To glorify a mean existence gaunt,
And check the bitter self-inflicted taunt
That nothing worthy calls them home at night.
And thou can'st set them, questing, male them feel
The nearness of true knowledge, where it lies
In common things with which they daily deal,
Yet ending in the Splendour of the skies;
Or teach them. in shunned volumes to detect
The simplicity of letters unsuspect.
VI
Yet — for the kindly Mother may not quit
Her cloistered sanctuary, where from the height
Of scholarship's remoteness day and night
She strains truth's fabric—it is those who sit
A season at her feet, and learn to fit
Their spirits to her own, who must requite
These lofty Bares, and earry out the light,
And serve it round, and tend its burning, lit.
But thine, O Kindly Mother, first to prove
Thy ministers, and having chosen, tune,
Bringing thy spirit o'er them, till they move
Like one at thy behest — as to the moon,
Passing soft influence from the quiet skies,
The oceans with their weight of waters rise.
VII
One thing must be thine instant, anxious care,
Which an thine honour thou dar'st not refuse.
Long time our people now the habit lose
Of speech consecutive (which man should wear
Upon him like a garment, fit and fair)
And through some faulting of the brain abuse
Thought's flowing vesture of a thousand hues,
Oft shorn to shreds, all fluttering in the air.
I mark and grieve; for in this lost control
We trace the weakness of these breathless times,
When man no longer keeps his nature whole,
Nor governs his spirit; and it chimes
With the unruly in us, deadliest threat
Our English liberty hath fronted yet.
VIII
It is not for art's sake this precious dower
Of speech must be renewed, but for the sake
Of life within. The expression doth not break
Silence in vain, but with reflexive power
To vitalize its source, and parting shower
New riches an the donor. Thus we take
Life's counterthrust upon our souls, and shake
The vessel, lest by standing Being sour.
All life's a language; but 'tis not enough
To launch forth with it wildly into space,
Adding one atom to the blinding drain,
A pitiable froth-bell in the trough
Of each new sause, wherein the striving race
Tries issue with stern time—perchance in vain.
I
Line after line the tale beneath the pen
Moves on, and rodent Time with tireless tooth
Works o'er our portion, till one day forsooth
We tread the cool gray shadow, ageing men.
This change I mark, and sadly pondering then
Catch the soul's murmur, accented with ruth:
"Oh, let me hear upon the lips of youth
`Eothen' and `Eothen' once again! "
And Oxford, oh, do thou with soulful toil,
While o'er our folk tumultuous ages throng,
Mounted at night as o'er some priceless spoil,
For us the fineness of this cult prolong,
Still nurturing in our sweet English soil
That glory from the Morningland of song.
II
Yet, Oxford, it is better thou should'st know
That eyes which love thee in thy culture see
The withering curse of long sterility.
Rooted in England, thou hast ceased to grow
Together with her growth. Thy waters flow
Not with her broadening current to the sea.
But murmuring their delicious melody
They wander forth and wist not where they go.
And thus thy fine-edged spirit, which in high
Disdain hath never paltered with the pelf
Of modern rapine, doth too often fly
To endless erochets, wayward as an elf,
Self-humouring and posturing and shy,
And broods apart and lives unto itself.
III
None than thyself more royally to-day
Hath given to England in her hour of need.
In every field where England's children bleed
Thine own haue there more richly bled than they.
And Oxford still incarnadines the clay
To such a sanctity as doth o'erplead
The voice of censure, silenced by the deed
Of the great heart that laid them where they lay.
'Tis their's, that murmur fluttering from the marge
Of thither Acheron, where their Gares they ply
In deathless death: "O Mother mine, enlarge
Thy life to England's. Thou hast learned to die.
But while thy life thou dost so grandly give,
One thing thou lackest, Oxford; learn to live!"
IV
There is one source alone which can supply
New life and impulse. 'Tis a voice that rolls
Half inarticulate in English souls,
From field and mine and factory, where they ply
The single talent Fate did not deny,
Their labour. Now they hear upon the shoals
Of a sad life that there are other goals
To man's existence than they yet descry;
And, scarcely yet discerned, they deeply feel
A presence over them, a haunting sense
Of music in the world, whose echoes steal
Unto them from the spheres, where in the immense
Circle of night and day the planets keep
Measure and watch, while mortals toil and weep.
V
Thine be it to direct their, steps aright
Unto that bourne which, doth not cease to haunt.
They cry for it, not knowing what they want,
Or what for man is best—the use of sight;
Some inkling of the precious power of light,
To glorify a mean existence gaunt,
And check the bitter self-inflicted taunt
That nothing worthy calls them home at night.
And thou can'st set them, questing, male them feel
The nearness of true knowledge, where it lies
In common things with which they daily deal,
Yet ending in the Splendour of the skies;
Or teach them. in shunned volumes to detect
The simplicity of letters unsuspect.
VI
Yet — for the kindly Mother may not quit
Her cloistered sanctuary, where from the height
Of scholarship's remoteness day and night
She strains truth's fabric—it is those who sit
A season at her feet, and learn to fit
Their spirits to her own, who must requite
These lofty Bares, and earry out the light,
And serve it round, and tend its burning, lit.
But thine, O Kindly Mother, first to prove
Thy ministers, and having chosen, tune,
Bringing thy spirit o'er them, till they move
Like one at thy behest — as to the moon,
Passing soft influence from the quiet skies,
The oceans with their weight of waters rise.
VII
One thing must be thine instant, anxious care,
Which an thine honour thou dar'st not refuse.
Long time our people now the habit lose
Of speech consecutive (which man should wear
Upon him like a garment, fit and fair)
And through some faulting of the brain abuse
Thought's flowing vesture of a thousand hues,
Oft shorn to shreds, all fluttering in the air.
I mark and grieve; for in this lost control
We trace the weakness of these breathless times,
When man no longer keeps his nature whole,
Nor governs his spirit; and it chimes
With the unruly in us, deadliest threat
Our English liberty hath fronted yet.
VIII
It is not for art's sake this precious dower
Of speech must be renewed, but for the sake
Of life within. The expression doth not break
Silence in vain, but with reflexive power
To vitalize its source, and parting shower
New riches an the donor. Thus we take
Life's counterthrust upon our souls, and shake
The vessel, lest by standing Being sour.
All life's a language; but 'tis not enough
To launch forth with it wildly into space,
Adding one atom to the blinding drain,
A pitiable froth-bell in the trough
Of each new sause, wherein the striving race
Tries issue with stern time—perchance in vain.