Desire
Thou, who dost dwell alone; Thou, who dost know thine own; Thou, to whom all are known, From the cradle to the grave,-- Save,
O, save! From the world's temptations; From tribulations; From that fierce anguish Wherein we languish; From that torpor deep Wherein we lie asleep, Heavy as death, cold as the grave,-- Save,
O, save! 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
Other author posts
East London
'Twas August, and the fierce sun Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited
The Forsaken Merman
Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow,
To Marguerite continued
Yes in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
The Church Of Brou
HE LE Down the Savoy valleys sounding, Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets Hark what bell for church is toll'd In the bright October morning Savoy's Duke had left his bride