There Is No God, The Wicked Sayeth

"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."

"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby."

"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money."

"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."

Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;

Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;

And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.

Arthur Hugh Clough

Arthur Hugh Clough was born on January 1, 1819, in Liverpool, England. He was a prominent Victorian poet known for his thoughtful and somewhat unconventional works. Clough was educated at Rugby School and later at Balliol College, Oxford, where he became closely associated with the intellectual reformist circles of the time. His poetry often explored themes of doubt, faith, and societal conventions. Despite his relatively short life, Clough made a significant impact on English literature and remains a respected figure of the Victorian literary scene. He passed away on November 13, 1861.

Arthur Hugh Clough

With Whom Is No Variableness, Neither Shadow Of Turning

Arthur Hugh Clough, Simple Poetry

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Arthur Hugh Clough, Simple Poetry

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Arthur Hugh Clough, Simple Poetry

English

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There is No God, the Wicked Sayeth

There is no God, the wicked saith,
And truly its a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
Its better only guessing.

There is no God, a youngster thinks,
or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby.

There is no God, or if there is,
The tradesman thinks, twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money.

Whether there be, the rich man says,
It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual.

Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and...

Arthur Hugh Clough

There Is No God.

There is no God? If one should stand at noon
Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays,
Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays
And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon
Gives back the brightness of the heart of June,
And he should say: "There is no sun" - the day's
Fair shew still round him, - should we lose the blaze
And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon?

Nay, there would be one word, one only thought,
"The man is blind!" and throbs of pitying scorn
    Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind.
We feel, and see, and therefore know, - the morn
With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought
    Promise of full-grown day. "The man is blind!"

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

The New Sinai

Lo, here is God, and there is God!
Believe it not, O Man;
In such vain sort to this and that
The ancient heathen ran:
Though old Religion shake her head,
And say in bitter grief,
The day behold, at first foretold,
Of atheist unbelief:
Take better part, with manly heart,
Thine adult spirit can;
Receive it not, believe it not,
Believe it not, O Man!

As men at dead of night awaked
With cries, The king is here,
Rush forth and greet whomeer they meet,
Whoeer shall first appear;
And still repeat, to all the street,
Tis he, the king is here;
The long procession moveth on,
Each nobler form they see,
With changeful suit they still salute,
And cry, Tis he, tis he!

So, even so, when men were young,
And earth and he...

Arthur Hugh Clough

Wen Gott betrügt, ist wohl betrogen.

Is it true, ye gods, who treat us
As the gambling fool is treated;
O ye, who ever cheat us,
And let us feel were cheated!
Is it true that poetical power,
The gift of heaven, the dower
Of Apollo and the Nine,
The inborn sense, the vision and the faculty divine,
All we glorify and bless
In our rapturous exaltation,
All invention, and creation,
Exuberance of fancy, and sublime imagination,
All a poets fame is built on,
The fame of Shakespeare, Milton,
Of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley,
Is in reasons grave precision,
Nothing more, nothing less,
Than a peculiar conformation,
Constitution, and condition
Of the brain and of the belly?
Is it true, ye gods who cheat us?
And that s the way ye treat us?

Oh say it, all who think it,

Arthur Hugh Clough

An Imperfect Revolution

They crowded weeping from the teachers house,
Crying aloud their fear at what he taught,
Old men and young men, wives and maids unwed,
And children screaming in the crowds unsought:
Some to their temples with accustomed feet
Bent-as the oxen go beneath the rod,
To fling themselves before some pictured saint,
Alas!    God help us if there is no God.

Some to the bed-side of their dying kind
To clasp with arms afraid to loose their hold;
Some to a church-yard falling on a grave
To kiss the carven name with lips as cold.
Some watched from break of day into the night.
The flash of birds, the bloom of flower and tree,
The whirling worlds that glimmer in the dark,
All said: God help us if no God there be.

Some hid in caves and chattered mad with fear...

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Easter Day

Naples, 1849


Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,
With fiercer heat than flamed above my head
My heart was hot within me; till at last
My brain was lightened, when my tongue had said
Christ is not risen!

Christ is not risen, no,
He lies and moulders low;
Christ is not risen.

What though the stone were rolled away, and though
The grave found empty there?
If not there, then elsewhere;
If not where Joseph laid Him first, why then
Where other men
Translaid Him after; in some humbler clay
Long ere to-day
Corruption that sad perfect work hath done,
Which here she scarcely, lightly had begun.
The foul engendered worm
Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form
Of our most Holy and Anointed One.
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Arthur Hugh Clough