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MATTHEW ARNOLD'S NEW POEMS.
In men, and plants, and stones,
Hath toil perpetually,
And struggles, pants, and moans;
Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength.
This universal God
Alike to any act
Proceeds at any nod,
And quietly declaims the cursings of himself.
Yet he can curse but this.
Harsh Gods and hostile Fates
Are dreams; this only is;
Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf."
Again, we must have comfortable Gods to bless, as well as these discomfortable to curse; "kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries;" we console ourselves for long labour and research and failure by trust in their sole and final and sufficient knowledge. Then comes the majestic stroke of reply to rebuke and confute the feeble follies of inventive hope, the futile forgeries of unprofitable comfort; scornful and solemn as the forces themselves of nature.
He cannot all things view,
Affords no ground to affirm
That there are Gods who do;
Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest."
In like manner, when pleasure-seekers fail of pleasure in this world, they turn their hearts Godward, and thence in the end expect that joy which the world could not give; making sure to find happiness where the foiled student makes sure to find knowledge. Again the re-