Rugby Chapel

Coldly, sadly descends

   The autumn-evening. The field

   Strewn with its dank yellow drifts

   Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,

   Fade into dimness apace,

   Silent;—hardly a shout

   From a few boys late at their play!

   The lights come out in the street,

   In the school-room windows;—but cold,

  Solemn, unlighted, austere,

  Through the gathering darkness, arise

  The chapel-walls, in whose bound

  Thou, my father! art laid.

  There thou dost lie, in the gloom

  Of the autumn evening. But ah!

  That word, gloom, to my mind

  Brings thee back, in the light

  Of thy radiant vigour, again;

  In the gloom of November we pass'd

  Days not dark at thy side;

  Seasons impair'd not the ray

  Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.

  Such thou wast! and I stand

  In the autumn evening, and think

  Of bygone autumns with thee.

  Fifteen years have gone round

  Since thou arosest to tread,

  In the summer-morning, the road

  Of death, at a call unforeseen,

  Sudden. For fifteen years,

  We who till then in thy shade

  Rested as under the boughs

  Of a mighty oak, have endured

  Sunshine and rain as we might,

  Bare, unshaded, alone,

  Lacking the shelter of thee.

  O strong soul, by what shore

  Tarriest thou now? For that force,

  Surely, has not been left vain!

  Somewhere, surely afar,

  In the sounding labour-house vast

  Of being, is practised that strength,

  Zealous, beneficent, firm!

  Yes, in some far-shining sphere,

  Conscious or not of the past,

  Still thou performest the word

  Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live—

  Prompt, unwearied, as here!

  Still thou upraisest with zeal

  The humble good from the ground,

  Sternly repressest the bad!

  Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse

  Those who with half-open eyes

  Tread the border-land dim

  'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,

  Succourest!—this was thy work,

  This was thy life upon earth.

  What is the course of the life

  Of mortal men on the earth?—

   Most men eddy about

  Here and there—eat and drink,

  Chatter and love and hate,

  Gather and squander, are raised

  Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust,

  Striving blindly, achieving

  Nothing; and then they die—

  Perish;—and no one asks

  Who or what they have been,

  More than he asks what waves,

  In the moonlit solitudes mild

  Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,

  Foam'd for a moment, and gone.

  And there are some, whom a thirst

  Ardent, unquenchable, fires,

  Not with the crowd to be spent,

  Not without aim to go round

  In an eddy of purposeless dust,

  Effort unmeaning and vain.

  Ah yes! some of us strive

  Not without action to die

  Fruitless, but something to snatch

  From dull oblivion, nor all

  Glut the devouring grave!

  We, we have chosen our path—

  Path to a clear-purposed goal,

  Path of advance!—but it leads

  A long, steep journey, through sunk

  Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.

  Cheerful, with friends, we set forth—

  Then on the height, comes the storm.

  Thunder crashes from rock

  To rock, the cataracts reply,

  Lightnings dazzle our eyes.

  Roaring torrents have breach'd

  The track, the stream-bed descends

  In the place where the wayfarer once

  Planted his footstep—the spray

  Boils o'er its borders! aloft

  The unseen snow-beds dislodge

 Their hanging ruin; alas,

 Havoc is made in our train!

 Friends, who set forth at our side,

 Falter, are lost in the storm.

 We, we only are left!

 With frowning foreheads, with lips

 Sternly compress'd, we strain on,

 On—and at nightfall at last

 Come to the end of our way,

 To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;

 Where the gaunt and taciturn host

 Stands on the threshold, the wind

 Shaking his thin white hairs—

 Holds his lantern to scan

 Our storm-beat figures, and asks:

 Whom in our party we bring?

 Whom we have left in the snow?

 Sadly we answer: We bring

 Only ourselves! we lost

 Sight of the rest in the storm.

 Hardly ourselves we fought through,

 Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.

 Friends, companions, and train,

 The avalanche swept from our side.

 But thou woulds't not alone

 Be saved, my father! alone

 Conquer and come to thy goal,

 Leaving the rest in the wild.

 We were weary, and we

 Fearful, and we in our march

 Fain to drop down and to die.

 Still thou turnedst, and still

 Beckonedst the trembler, and still

 Gavest the weary thy hand.

 If, in the paths of the world,

 Stones might have wounded thy feet,

 Toil or dejection have tried

 Thy spirit, of that we saw

 Nothing—to us thou wage still

 Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!

 Therefore to thee it was given

 Many to save with thyself;

 And, at the end of thy day,

 O faithful shepherd! to come,

 Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

 And through thee I believe

 In the noble and great who are gone;

 Pure souls honour'd and blest

 By former ages, who else—

 Such, so soulless, so poor,

 Is the race of men whom I see—

 Seem'd but a dream of the heart,

 Seem'd but a cry of desire.

 Yes! I believe that there lived

 Others like thee in the past,

 Not like the men of the crowd

 Who all round me to-day

 Bluster or cringe, and make life

 Hideous, and arid, and vile;

 But souls temper'd with fire,

 Fervent, heroic, and good,

 Helpers and friends of mankind.

 Servants of God!—or sons

 Shall I not call you? Because

 Not as servants ye knew

 Your Father's innermost mind,

 His, who unwillingly sees

 One of his little ones lost—

 Yours is the praise, if mankind

 Hath not as yet in its march

 Fainted, and fallen, and died!

 See! In the rocks of the world

 Marches the host of mankind,

 A feeble, wavering line.

 Where are they tending?—A God

 Marshall'd them, gave them their goal.

 Ah, but the way is so long!

 Years they have been in the wild!

 Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks

 Rising all round, overawe;

 Factions divide them, their host

 Threatens to break, to dissolve.

 —Ah, keep, keep them combined!

 Else, of the myriads who fill

 That army, not one shall arrive;

 Sole they shall stray; in the rocks

 Stagger for ever in vain,

 Die one by one in the waste.

 Then, in such hour of need

 Of your fainting, dispirited race,

 Ye, like angels, appear,

 Radiant with ardour divine!

 Beacons of hope, ye appear!

 Languor is not in your heart,

 Weakness is not in your word,

 Weariness not on your brow.

 Ye alight in our van! at your voice,

 Panic, despair, flee away.

 Ye move through the ranks, recall

 The stragglers, refresh the outworn,

 Praise, re-inspire the brave!

 Order, courage, return.

 Eyes rekindling, and prayers,

 Follow your steps as ye go.

 Ye fill up the gaps in our files,

 Strengthen the wavering line,

 Stablish, continue our march,

 On, to the bound of the waste,

 On, to the City of God.

NOTESForm: irregular1. Dr. Thomas Arnold, father of the poet, greatest of English schoolmasters, died very suddenly in June1842, at the age of forty-seven, and was buried in theschool chapel. He is widely known through Tom Brown'sSchooldays. Arnold was impelled to write the poem by anEdinburgh Review article by Virginia Woolf's uncledescribing his father as a "narrow bustling fanatic." 174. Cf. To Marguerite: Continued.