.0 0, 
 
SELECT POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 EDITED WITH IN-TRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT HALE, Jr. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGUSH 
 rs UNION COLLEGE 
 
 BOSTON, U.S.A., AND LONDON 
 
 D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 1908 
 
ILIBhXRY of O0NG R &SS 
 iwo Uooies riecutveti 
 
 SEP 18 lyoa 
 
 05J\i» C^ AAc. Kj, 
 
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 I ^ 3 3 'a 
 
 COFYKIGHT, 1908, BY D. C. HEATH & CO. 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
^. Contents! 
 
 w 
 
 BIOGRAPHY . V 
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 POEMS OF THE PERSONAL LIFE 
 
 A Memory-Picture i 
 
 Longing. • . . . . 4 
 
 Isolation . 4 
 
 To Marguerite 6 
 
 The Terrace at Berne 7 
 
 The New Sirens 10 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND THOUGHT 
 
 Resignation 22 
 
 Bacchanalia, or The New Age 32 
 
 The Youth of Nature 37 
 
 Dover Beach 42 
 
 Philomela 44 
 
 POEMS CHIEFLY OF THOUGHT 
 
 Quiet Work 46 
 
 Shakspeare 47 
 
 In Emerson's Essays 48 
 
 East London 48 
 
 Immortality . . . , 49 
 
 Requiescat 50 
 
 The Last Word 51 
 
 Self -Dependence 52 
 
 A Wish 53 
 
 The Future 56 
 
iv Contmtflf 
 
 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Rugby Chapel 60 
 
 Memorial Verses 68 
 
 The Scholar-Gipsy 71 
 
 Thyrsis 84 
 
 Heine's Grave 96 
 
 Geisf s Grave 105 
 
 NARRATIVE AND DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 The Strayed Reveller 1 09 
 
 The Forsaken Merman 121 
 
 Sohrab and Rustum 127 
 
 Tristram and Iseult ; Part Three . . . .165 
 
 NOTES 175 
 
 APPENDIX 199 
 
15ioq,mpt)V 
 
 Matthew Arnold was born at Laleham, on the 
 Thames, in the county of Middlesex, December 24, 1822. 
 He was the son of Thomas Arnold, who had begun prac- 
 tical life, as we may call it, on leaving Oxford, by taking 
 private pupils. The father is famous now as Headmaster 
 of Rugby, a man of most powerful and influential life in 
 education, and in religion as well, whom his son always 
 remembered with affection, though he followed a life or 
 (more important) a line of thought very different from 
 Thomas Arnold's. He was one of a large family who 
 were closely bound together by great affection through 
 life, so that the real view we have of Arnold's personal life 
 is gained almost entirely from letters either to his mother, 
 or his sisters, and, of course, to his wife. The influence 
 of childhood amounted to much with Arnold, for, though 
 the family soon left Laleham for Rugby (which is not a 
 very attractive place), yet vacations were spent at Fox How 
 in Westmoreland, of which Dr. Arnold was devotedly 
 fond, where Matthew learned to know the Lake Country 
 and Wordsworth — two very strong elements in forming 
 his life and his poetry. 
 
 He went to school first at Winchester, where his father 
 had been, but remained for a year only, when he returned 
 to Rugby. He continued there four years and in 1841 
 went to Oxford. He had won an open scholarship at 
 Balliol College, where he remained until he took his de- 
 gree in 1845^ ^^d was shortly elected Fellow of Oriel 
 College, as his father had been before him, but he soon 
 left the university for Rugby, where for a time he taught 
 
vi )15iograpt)^ 
 
 the classics. He was, however, all his life distinctively an 
 Oxford man, not merely because for a time he held a 
 fellowship, nor because he was for ten years Professor of 
 Poetry, nor even because he was devotedly fond of the 
 University, but because he was always a striking example 
 of that literary scholarship or scholarly literature that is 
 properly associated with the great English university. No 
 matter how much he might interest himself in Tubingen 
 theories, for instance, he was never like a German stu- 
 dent. No matter how much he might absorb himself in 
 poetry, whether of nature or of passion, he never seems 
 to have the free artistic feeling — of Keats, let us say. 
 His affection for the university never left him, and two 
 of his finest pieces of prose and verse — the end of the 
 Preface to Essays in Criticism and The Scholar Gipsy — 
 were inspired by a deep love of her. Yet he lived in Ox- 
 ford little in later life, for he was far too much a man of 
 the world to be satisfied with the narrowness of academic 
 life, and was by no means partial in his estimate of her. 
 But the blended learning, devotion, beauty of the town 
 and university were typical to him of the mental attitude 
 which he admired more than any other. 
 
 In 1847 he became private secretary to Lord Lands- 
 downe, then President of the Privy Council, by whom in 
 1 8 5 1 he was appointed to be an Inspector of Schools, a 
 position which he held until almost the end of his life. 
 He was shortly afterward married to Miss Frances Lucy 
 Wightman. His educational work and his family became 
 now, as far as time and interest were concerned, the main 
 factors in his life. He became deeply interested in ques- 
 tions of Education, even if the actual work of inspecting 
 was often too like drudgery, and he gave his position an 
 immense amount of time and thought. And he was, as 
 has been indicated, a man extremely fond of his family 
 
Biograpl)^ vii 
 
 and family life. In 1849, however, he had appeared in 
 an aspect in which he is far more widely known, and most 
 interesting to us just now, by the publication of his first 
 volume of verse, called The Strayed Reseller and Other 
 Poems. It was not published with his own name but as by 
 A. More properly we should have dated his commence- 
 ment as poet with the Rugby prize poem Alaric at Romey 
 and the Newdigate prize poem Cromivell, at Oxford. 
 
 The actual relation of Matthew Arnold' s poetry to his 
 life is a matter that is rather puzzling. Just how much of 
 his emotional life found expression in his verse, is a question 
 that is touched upon in pages xii-xv. Just how much 
 part his poetry had in his everyday existence is unknown, 
 to the public at least. In the Letters^ the only thing in the 
 way of authoritative biography, there is not very much 
 allusion to his poetry. What there is gives me the notion 
 that his poetry was something rather apart and separate 
 from his everyday life. It may have been so : certainly the 
 idea that was formed of him by the reviewers when his 
 poems first appeared, as a misanthropic Timon, a selfish 
 quietist, was very unlike what he generally seemed to his 
 friends. 
 
 The external facts of Matthew Arnold's poetic life 
 may be easily told. The first volume, published in 1849, 
 was very soon withdrawn from circulation. A second, 
 Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems , published in 1852 
 under the name of A, was also soon withdrawn. In 1853 
 and 1855 most of the poems in these volumes were re- 
 issued, with a number of other poems, among them some 
 of his best, as Sohrah and Rustum and The Scholar Gipsy. 
 There were several editions of these volumes, differing 
 from each other by the omission or inclusion of one or 
 another poem. Empedocles on Etna had not been repub- 
 lished, but in 1858 he published another tragedy after the 
 
viii llBiograp^^ 
 
 Greek, called Merope. In 1867 he published a volume 
 of Neiv Poems, containing beside Empedocles some others 
 of the first volume, and also about forty poems that had 
 never appeared in book form before, though a few had 
 appeared in magazines. After this he wrote but little 
 poetry. 
 
 By this time, however, he had laid the foundation for 
 what was during his later life his chief reputation. In 
 1857 he had been elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford. 
 He was at this time known chiefly as a poet. The duties 
 of the position were not very heavy: they consisted of the 
 delivery of a certain number of lectures. In 1 860 he took 
 for his subject the question of translating Homer, and 
 afterward published his lectures in a volume. This proved 
 the beginning of a line of activity and achievement in 
 which he has had more influence than in any other. His 
 poetry has appealed to compara tively few . His practical 
 vvoiTT as Educational~llTsrpector~touched a great number 
 of people, but not in such a way as to make his personal 
 influence very important. As a critic, however, his in- 
 fluence was very wide and very considerable In 1863 he 
 began to publish in the magazines essays on literary sub- 
 jects, and in 1865 he gathered them together in Essays in 
 Criticism. In 1869 he published Culture and Anarchy i 
 in 1873 Literature and Dogma, 
 
 These are by no means all of Arnold's prose writings, 
 but it is well to mention them together because they are 
 typical. The first is literary criticism, the second is criti- 
 cism of social ideas and aims, the third is criticism of 
 religion. They show us Matthew Arnold, not as a pro- 
 fessor of poetry only, a man (shall we say ?) who sits and 
 reads books in his study, and then delivers academic lec- 
 tures upon them, but rather as a man with ideas on litera- 
 ture and its relation to the life of his own time, ideas that 
 
IBiograp^^ ix 
 
 led him to have very clear-cut opinions on social life, on 
 politics, on religion, as well as on books. Education in a 
 large sense, that was the work of Matthew Arnold's life. 
 He carried on the daily routine of inspecting schools; 
 several times he made trips to France or Germany to study 
 the educational systems of those countries; he held an aca- 
 demic position in one of the great universities of the world; 
 and he was widely looked up to by very many among the 
 English-speaking nations as a guide, or even master, in 
 the intellectual life. Such a man can hardly, it would seem, 
 remain a poet : at any rate, Arnold did not. 
 
 His other writings were as follows: Celtic Literature 
 (1867) is a series of Oxford lectures. St. Paul and Protes- 
 tantism (1870) is an interpretation of Paul's true doctrine. 
 Friendship'' s G<3:r/fl«^ (18 71) is a humorous trifle, but dedi- 
 cated to a criticism of current ideas. God and the Bible is 
 further criticism of religious ideas, and so are Last Esssays 
 on Church and Religion (1877). Mixed Essays (1879) ^r^ 
 chiefly on literary subjects, Irish Essays (1882) are politi- 
 cal. Discourses in America (1885) were given in a lecture- 
 tour in the United States. A second series of Essays in 
 Criticism, which was published after his death, gathered 
 up his later writings on literary subjects. A number of his 
 magazine articles have not been reprinted. 
 
 This is not the place to attempt an estimate of Matthew 
 Arnold as a critic of literature, religion, life. It must be 
 enough to say that he was a critic on a grand scale (to 
 parody one of his own phrases), a critic who did not so 
 much give opinions and judgments on the particular works 
 of art that appeared in his day, but expressed generally, 
 and by particular instances chosen from a wide range of 
 reading, a view of literature, and of the life in which 
 literature was taken at its true worth. His conception of 
 that life may be shortly stated: it was a life in which one 
 
X ll5iograpl)p 
 
 sought guidance from the best ideas to be attained in re- 
 ligion, in literature of one's own nation or of others, and 
 in everyday affairs. Literature he viewed (theoretically) 
 as a moral influence, a power in lifej religion he regarded 
 as an influence, also, without any supernatural elements; 
 and life he considered chiefly as a question of doing the 
 right thing. A very practical philosophy, one might say, 
 practical at least in its aims, and certainly practical in its 
 influence, which has been very great. 
 
 He was at the height of that influence, when he died 
 suddenly of an attack of the heart, April 15, i888. 
 
gintrotiurtfon 
 
 Matthew Arnold was always writing, but it was 
 in the earlier years of his active life that he wrote po- 
 etry. In 1 86 1, when he was thirty-eight years old, he 
 wrote to his mother that he wanted to finish off his 
 critical writings so as to give the next ten years ear- 
 nestly to poetry. **It is not a bad ten years of one's 
 life for poetry," he writes, **if one resolutely uses it, 
 but it is a time in which if one does not use it, one 
 dries up and becomes prosaic altogether." ^ We need 
 not say that Matthew Arnold dried up or became pro- 
 saic. But he had practically finished his work as a poet 
 at the time he wrote those words. It is true that he 
 wrote some beautiful poetry afterward, but not much, 
 and none that does more than deepen impressions made 
 by earlier writings. ^ By 1861 Matthew Arnold had 
 almost settled down to the non-poetic ways of helping 
 the world that he followed during the rest of his life. 
 He had already made his definite place in the work of 
 education, both by specific inspection of particular 
 schools and by broader views of national questions both 
 in England and on the continent. He had begun his 
 work as Professor of Poetry at Oxford, a position 
 
 ^ Letters, i, 165. 
 
 * A number of the best known of the poems of the volume of 
 1867 had been written before this time, for instance Rugby Chapel^ 
 Stanzas from the Grand Chartreuse, A Southern Night, as well as 
 Empedocles and several that had been published with it in 1852. 
 
xii 31ntroDuction 
 
 which gave him a chance to speak to a select but in- 
 fluential audience on subjects concerning education in 
 its larger sense. And more and more, beside these two 
 agencies and the diiFerent interests and activities that 
 they suggested, he was expressing himself in that long 
 series of prose writings in which he was neither edu- 
 cator nor scholar, precisely, but a critic of life in a 
 very broad sense, as he has generally been thought of 
 since. At the close of his life in 1888, he was almost 
 universally so known and thought of: by this present 
 time his poetical reputation has increased, but not so 
 far as to have eclipsed the former view. 
 
 We may, therefore, look upon Matthew Arnold's 
 poetry as but a part, and that an early part, of his whole 
 activity. It was the form in which the energies of his 
 early life expressed themselves. 
 
 One would hke to interpret this poetry by its rela- 
 tion to his life. But there is a difficulty in the way: 
 we know but little about the real connection of his 
 poetry with his life. If we attempt to go beyond gen- 
 eralizations we must do it without obvious foundation. 
 We do not know the facts in the case: not much is 
 generally known of his earlier Hfe, for one thing, and, 
 for another, not much is known of the exact time of 
 composition of his poems. They were published in 
 several collections, it is true, but they were rarely pub- 
 lished at the very time of writing, and they were so re- 
 published and rearranged in the course of his life, their 
 interrelation is so changed and their connection with 
 what is known of his life is so slight, that it is impossi- 
 ble to think that they were written in the order of pub- 
 
31ntroUuctton xiii 
 
 lication, or to feel sure of any other order. In i 849 
 he published a volume, in 1852 another. In 1853 ^^ 
 published a selection from the two, with nine poems 
 that were new. In 1855 (really late in 1854) he pub- 
 lished a second series, including poems of the volumes 
 of 1849 and 1852 that had not already been repub- 
 lished and two new poems. In 1867 he published a 
 volume of new poems, which also included several 
 poems of the volume of 1852 which had not been re- 
 published. In 1869 he rearranged all his poems in 
 two volumes, omitting a number that had already ap- 
 peared and changing the names of others. With all 
 these rearrangements, we have very few facts which 
 connect a given poem closely with a given event. A few 
 examples will sh'^w the conditions of any criticism that 
 seeks to base itself securely on the facts of the poet's life. 
 
 In 1 8 8 1 appeared in his collected works a poem 
 entitled The Lord'' s Messengers. It will probably re- 
 mind the reader of Rugby Chapely written according 
 to its definite date twenty-four years before. What 
 should we suppose ? That it was written about the 
 same time ? Such is probably the case, for it was origi- 
 nally published in a magazine in the year i860, seven 
 years before Rugby Chapel appeared in print and 
 three years after that poem was written. Yet it is only 
 by accident that in other cases we can thus come any- 
 where near surety, for few of the poems are dated, 
 and few were published in magazines. 
 
 In 1867 were published Stanzas from the Grande 
 Chartreuse. It may occur to the reader that they were 
 written about the same time as the Stanzas to the 
 
xiv 31ntroUuction 
 
 Author of Obermanriy published in 1852, fifteen years 
 before. But we could hardly justify such an impression 
 except that the Grande Chartreuse was originally pub- 
 lished in ** Eraser's " in 1855. That brings the poem 
 back twelve years. But the Stanzas on Obermann, it 
 appears from a chance date, were written three years 
 before they were published, which increases the years 
 between the poems that we had previously reduced. 
 
 In the present editions there occurs, among the 
 Early Poems, a poem called A Dream that is in itself 
 rather a puzzle. But it is addressed to Marguerite and 
 may therefore be connected with Switzerland, which 
 is not among the Earl;^ Poems. It does not seem much 
 like the best-known poem of that series entitled To 
 Marguerite. But it appears from a study of editions 
 that the two were grouped together in the Switzerland 
 poems of 1853, ^"*^ ^^^^ really To Marguerite was 
 published first. And when we look at the Switzerland 
 series in the edition of 1853, we see that it begins 
 with A Memory Picture, which was published in 1 849. 
 In the absence of particular facts, we may be much 
 puzzled as to just when any of these Switzerland poems 
 may have been written. 
 
 Any attempt, then, really to interpret the poems of 
 Matthew Arnold by their relation to the events of his 
 life must clearly rest upon a far larger knowledge of the 
 facts in the case than is at present at the control of the 
 general student. It is well known that the greater num- 
 ber of Matthew Arnold's poems appeared within a 
 period of six years. He may have written many be- 
 fore that period; it is certainly not improbable, con- 
 
31ntroDuction xv 
 
 sidering that his first volume was published at the age 
 of twenty-seven, and that he afterwards in various cases 
 kept poems for years before printing them. He cer- 
 tainly wrote a good number of poems after that period, 
 but except for a few cases his Letters have very little 
 connection with them. It is hardly possible even to 
 attempt a careful chronological criticism that should 
 show the actual development of his poetic ideas. 
 
 But though we cannot in Matthew Arnold's poems 
 perceive any real development in harmony with the 
 events of his life, yet we may perceive something that 
 will be of value to us. We may be able to discern 
 phases or stages of poetic power or development which 
 will give us substantial truth, though not the exactness 
 of biography. A poet presumably does not develop 
 with the regularity of a tree or an animal. Like any 
 other person, he passes from phase to phase with irreg- 
 ularity, with anticipations and reversions, so that often 
 particular facts, if they were known, might seem to 
 contradict the main movement. The matter of impor- 
 tance to the student of poetry is not so much biographic 
 fact as it is truth to poetic principle. 
 
 Looking at the poems, then, from rather a general 
 standpoint, but correcting our impressions wherever it 
 is possible by the facts at hand, we may note, first, a 
 series of poems that seem the expression of an actual 
 experience of life. There are twenty poems which 
 seem to present to us feelings, ideas, thoughts arising 
 from the poet's relations with Marguerite.^ Of this 
 
 ^ A more specific criticism of these poems, showing reasons for 
 regarding them as one group, will be found in the Appendix, p. 199. 
 
xvi BlntroDuction 
 
 lady, I believe there is no trace, nor is it necessary that 
 there should be for our purposes. We do not desire to 
 ascertain the facts of Matthew Arnold's life: we want 
 to know his poetry as poetry, and although there may 
 doubtless be an error or two in our proceeding with- 
 out the substantiation of actual fact, yet if our criticism 
 is borne out by the qualities of the poetry, we may feel 
 that it is substantially well based. One point, it is true, 
 is of importance. Can these poems be purely imagina- 
 tive ? Can such a poem as A Memory- Picture^ for in- 
 stance, be written without any real person, any real 
 situation in mind? If it could be so, we should get a 
 somewhat different idea of the poet from what we 
 would have if we were sure that the poem had been 
 suggested by definite circumstances. But some of these 
 poems seem as though they must have basis in fact and 
 in the same fact. It would seem that A Memory-Pk- 
 turCy On the Rhiney and The Terrace at Berne must 
 be, almost without a doubt, written with an actual per- 
 son in mind and that the same person. If we may pro- 
 ceed from them to the diiFerent poems that are connected 
 with them, we shall have sufficient basis of fact for our 
 further proceeding. 
 
 This group of poems is marked by one circumstance, 
 namely, that it contains very little that is thought of as 
 characteristic of the author, nothing, save a line or so, 
 that has been thought by anybody to be a part of his best 
 work. Whatever the inspiration of these poems, whether 
 one inspiration or many, it did not have the effect of 
 stirring him to his best. The reviewers of his time did 
 not understand these poems or did not like them: later 
 
31ntroDuction xvii 
 
 critics have admired one or two, but have given no 
 place to their general idea or spirit in their criticism of 
 Matthew Arnold. Yet they are not hard to understand 
 if we read them altogether, nor is their general idea 
 one that we should neglect in an attempt to get the 
 full spirit of his poetry. 
 
 The greater number of these poems were published in 
 1 8 5 2 in Empe docks on Etna, They were printed there in 
 what seems, as one reads it, rather a natural chronolo- 
 gical order (which the author broke up later), but with 
 no indication that they formed a definite series, or that 
 they were expressive of any real episode of life. If they 
 were so expressive, I believe that they were written 
 some time before their pubHshing in 1852, even before 
 Matthew Arnold's first volume of 1849. The chief 
 reason for this belief is that at the time of publishing 
 these poems Matthew Arnold had been for some time 
 happily married to a lady whom he had known several 
 years before marriage. It seems too absurd to suppose 
 that these poems of an unhappy and unsuccessful love 
 could have been written during the progress of what was 
 a very happy and successful love. If they were founded 
 on fact, the thing is impossible; if not founded on fact, 
 it seems ridiculous. So these poems, which Matthew 
 Arnold wrote under the inspiration of Marguerite, we 
 may put, I believe, among his first written poems. I 
 should say among his earliest, but that point is not of 
 vital importance. If they are not chronologically first, 
 it will appear that they are, as we may say, poetically 
 first. 
 
 These poems are poetically first, because as a group 
 
xviii 31ntroDuctton 
 
 they come most directly from life with the least admix- 
 ture of reflection. A poem like Resignation comes from 
 life too; there are actual people and actual places that 
 gave rise to it. But these people, places, events, are in 
 reality only a means by which the poet expresses many 
 ideas which he has formed otherwise without any con- 
 nection with them. The Marguerite poems are not 
 such. They are, as a rule, the expression of mood or 
 fancy directly caused by some event. Thus A Dream 
 is pretty clearly based on some fact to us unknown. 
 Not that we must think that the poet ever had any 
 such dream, but we can hardly beHeve that Martin, 
 Olivia, Marguerite, the Swiss scenery, were all the 
 product of imagination for the purposes of a dramatic 
 lyric. These poems are without much doubt expressive 
 of the poet's feelings during an episode that lasted some 
 little time, but came to no happy end, unless to remain 
 free were such. What is their general idea, mood, 
 quality ? 
 
 It is the insistence on the idea of separation. That 
 is the thought that finds expression in the one well- 
 known line in the whole series. People in this world, 
 he says, -are like isles separated by 
 
 "The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea." 
 
 The poet stood apart from Marguerite: they could not 
 somehow get together. She was sweet, charming, affec- 
 tionate', friendly, and yet they stood apart. Why? As 
 the poems go on we have all sorts of answers. At first 
 (^Euphrosyne^ he thinks it is because neither he nor any 
 other man is worthy of her. Then (Urania') it is be- 
 
31ntroDuction xix 
 
 cause she has no need of love. Then {^Too Late) they 
 might have got together had it not been too late, or 
 {Parting) had it not been for their different past. Then 
 (^Farewell) he thinks it is because she will not under- 
 stand her true self. Finally in Isolation he sees that 
 everybody is alone, though all do not realize it; in To 
 Marguerite i that people are separated in life, as surely 
 as islands by the sea; in Human Life, that it is idle to 
 stop for friends to whom one has no natural right; in 
 The Terrace at Berne that people meet and pass each 
 other like driftwood on the ocean. In Despondency he 
 fancies that no one can know for what he is really 
 meant in life. 
 
 Such is the thought or mood of these poems. It is 
 not very importa^^t whether we call it thought or mood, 
 for it is plain there is no clear, consistent, definite 
 thought at all. There are only ideas or fancies called 
 up by special causes, real or imaginary. Whether the 
 poems are based on a real episode or not is not of first 
 importance here, for the main point is that here are a 
 dozen explanations for the separation of two souls. 
 That is the dominant note: separation, from one who 
 is loved. That feeling impressed itself on the poet's 
 thought, or wrung out of him expression. Whether it 
 were an idea natural to his thinking and feeling, or 
 aroused simply by unhappy fact, we can hardly say, 
 and it would be the task of the biographer to determine. 
 The fact for the critic and the student is that in these 
 poems — say one-sixth of all, in number at least — 
 we have the lyric expression of the sentiment of sep- 
 aration. 
 
XX JlntroHuction 
 
 So far as these poems, at least, are concerned, it 
 would seem that the poet came to his intense apprecia- 
 tion of this sentiment by an experience in that field in 
 which most young men gain experience, namely the 
 field of Love. Now there is a poem in the first collec- 
 tion which indicates to us that as a poet Matthew Ar- 
 nold did not consider this field his own proper element. 
 The New Sirens was pronounced by Blackwood to be 
 ** utterly without meaning.'* Read without introduc- 
 tion, the poem certainly has some dark sayings, which 
 are not all enlightened by what the poet otherwise wrote. 
 But if we read The New Sirens with the idea of a poet 
 who has had an unhappy love-experience, and feels that 
 it came about through venturing out of his own domain 
 into another where he never was at home, we shall see 
 that a meaning is not very far to seek. 
 
 In the surroundings and circumstance of The New 
 Sirens we see very soon that the poet has left the up- 
 land valleys, the sacred glens, the fountains and springs 
 of knowledge, where he used to watch the white east 
 for the morning rays and the rose-flush on the moun- 
 tain-peaks, — he has left all that for the charming crea- 
 tures who live in lower palaces and ceiled chambers, 
 with enchanted lawns and statued alleys, whose thrones 
 are heaped with myrtle and whose feasts are bright with 
 scent and song and light and flowers. Surely it is not 
 very hard to read that imagery, even if it be not always 
 easy to see just what each turn of thought is meant to 
 express. We need not say that Marguerite was a New 
 Siren, but it seems obvious — as we turn from the love 
 poetry where the poet has found only the sad sense of 
 
^Introduction xxi 
 
 separation and temptation — that, however charming 
 she and those like her may have been, the poet was 
 never quite at home with her, that her world of emo- 
 tion was not his, that he never quite forgot the upland 
 valley and the mountain glen where he had left his 
 laurel crown among the shepherds of that pastoral realm 
 that was more truly his home. 
 
 If we then ask whether we have any poems of that 
 other realm, the poet's home country, in Matthew Ar- 
 nold's earlier writing, we have only to look to find. 
 In Resignation we have undoubtedly a poem of the up- 
 land and the mountain. 
 
 " And now, in front, behold outspread 
 Those upper regions we must tread! 
 Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, 
 The cheerful silence of the fells. 
 Some two hours' march with serious air, 
 Through the deep noontide heats we farej 
 The red-grouse springing at our sound, 
 Skims, now and then, the shining ground} 
 No life, save his and ours, intrudes 
 Upon these breathless solitudes." 
 
 This poem introduces us to another group, which, 
 though they may not be the outcome of any personal 
 episode, or even the product of one given time, yet 
 seem very clearly to present one poetic phase. If one 
 will read at the same time, and in this order. Resigna- 
 tion (1849 J, Epilogue to Lessing* s Laocobn (1867), 
 Bacchanalia (1867), A Summer Night (1852), The 
 Youth of Man (1852), Lines written in Kensington 
 Gardens (1852), The Youth of Nature ( i 8 5 2 ) , one 
 will observe that they agree in two respects. One is 
 
xxii ^Introduction 
 
 that each poem iS suggested by some actual event or 
 some actual scene: the poet has walked with Fausta 
 over well-remembered ground; he strolls with a friend 
 in Hyde Park; he walks in the country at twilight; one 
 evening in the city as the moon appears over the house- 
 tops he is reminded of a night in the past on the sea- 
 shore by the mountains; he stands with friends on 
 Richmond Hill overlooking the Thames; he lies at ease 
 on the grass in a quiet spot in Kensington Gardens; he 
 rows on Grasmere under Rydal and Fairfield on a clear 
 June night, — in each case the friend, the scene, the 
 event gives the starting-point, suggests the poem. In- 
 deed, it does more: it gives a body, as we may say, to 
 the poem, a body into which the poet breathes a cer- 
 tain spirit, a certain thought even. For, secondly, in 
 none of these poems is the friend, the scene, the event, 
 more than the starting-point for the idea: the idea itself 
 must have been otherwise formed; it is the outcome of 
 long meditation, of thinking stimulated by a thousand 
 things now forgotten. 
 
 Thus in Resignation he tells Fausta of his view of 
 the functions of the poet. The poet, he beHeves, .con- 
 templates life and appreciates it, but somehow he is above 
 it; one not so fortunate may content himself if he 
 ** tread at ease life's uncheered ways " without deliv- 
 ering himself up to the turbulence and excitement aroiyid 
 him. The Epilogue and Bacchanalia^ written presuma- 
 bly some time afterward, but in the same manner and 
 mood, emphasize the position of the poet in the world: 
 a spectator and chronicler of its emotions and motives, 
 and yet often sickened by its meaningless clatter. In 
 
JlntroDuction xxiii 
 
 A Summer Night he is reminded of a feeling of older 
 days when the calm serenity of the heavens had seemed 
 to show him a possible way of life that was neither a 
 deadened rest after toil nor a fierce participation in life. 
 In The Youth of Man his thoughts turn to somewhat 
 the same idea, the calm of nature as superior to the fu- 
 tile struggles of man. So, also, in Kensington Gardens 
 the same thought comes to mind. And in The Youth 
 of Nature the thought of Wordsworth, lately dead, 
 arouses questions as to the real power of nature, which 
 he feels are answered by the wonderful largeness of 
 nature, of which no poet can do more than reveal a 
 little. 
 
 These are not many poems, but they are enough to 
 show a very clear difference from the poems which we 
 considered first. I'he poems to Marguerite were direct 
 expressions of life: however faint (he called some of 
 them Faded Leaves^, they come directly from life. 
 The poet felt intensely, we may be sure, and expressed 
 his feeling in verse: whatever thought, ideas, philoso- 
 phy may be found in those poems is accidental, a mat- 
 ter of chance almost, often only a fancy. They would 
 generally be better if there were no thought at all: thus 
 Longing impresses me as the most poetic of the series, 
 and Parti7ig so impresses others, both poems of emotion 
 rather than thought. But the poems of the second group 
 are different: they give generally a somewhat more de- 
 finite (if also more objective) conception of the circum- 
 stances which gave rise to them, but it is clear that the 
 circumstances, the roadside inn at Wythburn, the view 
 from Richmond Hill — these are but the means of touch- 
 
xxiv 3lntroDuctwn 
 
 ing a great reserved store of thought and feeling. They 
 give occasion, it is true, but occasion for saying what 
 has long been in the mind, perhaps, and what might 
 have come to voice in other circumstances. This is 
 clearly a different kind of poetry from the preceding. 
 Let us, before comparing with the others, turn to a third 
 group of the poems. 
 
 It must be enough merely to suggest the third phase 
 of poetic production which we may observe in Mat- 
 thew Arnold's poetry. If we have, first, poems in- 
 spired by life itself, then poems in which life sug- 
 gests a thought, we may naturally suppose that there 
 will be also poems of thought alone, as we may call 
 them. And such is the case. There are a number of 
 Matthew Arnold's poems in which the idea (always 
 as poetically expressed, but still the idea) is the only 
 matter of importance. Take, for instance, the sonnet 
 entitled ^iet Work. It was doubtless suggested by 
 something, but that something was not important to 
 the poet. The idea of the poem is not exacdy the 
 same as that of A Summer Night but it is near enough 
 to make a comparison, and as soon as we make it, how 
 great the difference. One gives us the idea almost in 
 concrete form, almost as it came to the poet: which 
 is best remembered, the ** deserted, moon-blanched 
 street," the headlands standing out in the moonlit 
 deep, ** the blue haze-cradled mountains," or the idea 
 that nature shows us how boundless may be our soul's 
 horizons ? But the sonnet gives us the thought distilled 
 into beautiful, permanent poetic form. It is not always 
 so with the sonnets: often, especially in the sonnet 
 
3|ntroi)ttctwn xxv 
 
 called East London, the circumstance that aroused the 
 thought is perfectly clear and as important as the 
 thought itself. But there are in Matthew Arnold's 
 poems as a whole a number in which we have only 
 the idea: The Second Best, for instance. Growing Old, 
 Pis Aller, The Last Word, Self-Dependence, A Wish, 
 The Future ; and others will readily be found by turn- 
 ing to the poems. 
 
 Such discriminations remind one of an early criticism 
 of Matthew Arnold's poetry. In the North British 
 Review for August, 1854, was an article that the poet 
 read with interest. In it occurs the following: ** In- 
 deed, as a general rule, it might be said that there are 
 but two kinds of lyrics which are really valuable. The 
 one, wherein the poet, having felt more deeply, has 
 expressed more happily than ever before was done 
 some thought, sentiment, or emotion, in which all men 
 share. The other, in which some original and thought- 
 ful man, in the solitary strength of his own genius, goes 
 forth to explore new paths of meditative feeling. To 
 neither of these good kinds do Mr. Arnold's lyrics 
 belong." 
 
 As examples of the two kinds of lyric poets the re- 
 viewer mentioned Burns and Wordsworth. The dis- 
 crimination is not precisely the same as that which we 
 have made between Matthew Arnold's poems of Ufe 
 only, and poems of thought only, but it would seem to 
 point to somewhat the same division in development. 
 Matthew Arnold was certainly not a lyric poet like 
 Burns, and the poems of the first group show clearly 
 that he was not. The review that we have quoted re- 
 
xxvi KlntroDuction 
 
 marks of the lyrics grouped under the head of Switzer- 
 landy that, ** in spite of their frequent felicity of expres- 
 sion," they are **like faded violets, so pale their 
 colour, so languid the passion. If indeed passion was 
 ever there," it continues, <*it has been held up so 
 long, and contemplated so steadily by the intellect that 
 it has wholly evaporated." Without entirely agreeing 
 with the last idea, we shall see truth in the general 
 position: Matthew Arnold is by no means a poet of 
 the personal life. There are among his poems a few 
 very beautiful lyrics which give us a wonderful appre- 
 ciation of the intensity of a poetic moment. But they 
 are very few. Such is Philomela ; such is Longing ; 
 such, though not so fine, is The Voice ; it is hard to 
 find others. It is by no means with Burns that we can 
 think of Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Nor shall we be nearer the truth if we try to think 
 of him as particularly a poet of thought: if we summon 
 up those poems which we remember because they ex- 
 press an idea and express it so fully and well. We 
 need not speak of Wordsworth here, for he was not a 
 poet of thought alone, nor indeed can we find any 
 poet whose poetry as a whole, or whose typical poems, 
 present to us such independent and definite embodi- 
 ments of an idea as do those mentioned above and a 
 number more. Not Wordsworth, certainly; but per- 
 haps Emerson comes nearer to such a character. There 
 may be expressions of the idea, with hardly an admix- 
 ture of cu-cumstance, — The Last Word appeals to me 
 as the best example of such poetry, — yet collect as 
 many such as we may from Matthew Arnold, we shall 
 
3|ntroDuction xxvii 
 
 never be able to pronounce him a poet of thought, of 
 idea, of philosophy alone, — if indeed there can be 
 such a one who still remains a poet. 
 
 No; Matthew Arnold is evidently best represented 
 — in so far as we have reviewed his work — by the 
 poems which we placed in the second group, poems 
 arising from some intensely-conceived experience and 
 expressing some long-meditated thought. We may 
 join to the poems that we have mentioned some other 
 of Arnold's best known: Dover Beach for instance. 
 East London among the sonnets. The Buried Life. If 
 we had made a complete survey of his poems, we 
 should pause here to characterize his genius. 
 
 But there is another group of poems which many will 
 think the most rharacteristic things which he wrote, 
 namely those which he grouped under the name of Ele- 
 giac Poems. In these poems, as a rule, Matthew Arnold 
 considers the Hfe and work of one whom he has loved 
 and admired, now dead. A man of thought will natu- 
 rally, on such occasions, turn over in his mind the es- 
 pecial things for which that friend stood. So in Rugby 
 Chapel Arnold defines the especial power of his father, 
 in Memorial Verses the especial power of Wordsworth. 
 In the same spirit is Thyrsis, an elegy on the death of 
 A. H. Clough. In the same spirit, also, are some poems 
 not exactly personal in character, as Stanzas to the 
 Memory of the Author of **Obermann^''^ and Obermann 
 Once More ; not exactly elegies on Senancour, they are, 
 at least, commentaries upon that book that was so po- 
 tent an influence in molding the poet's thought. Such 
 also are Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse y and such 
 
xxviii 31ntrotiuction 
 
 also is The Scholar Gipsy which, though suggested by 
 a pure fiction, is also a criticism, or an ideal of life. 
 
 The last-named poem shows us how close is the con- 
 nection of these elegies with those poems of Arnold's 
 which we grouped together as most characteristically 
 his. All of these elegies are full of the spirit of place; 
 the poet is always led to express his thoughts of one or 
 another by the suggestion of place. Rugby Chapel, 
 Montmartre, Haworth Churchyard; the Cumner 
 country, the road from the Gemmi to the Rhone, the 
 home of the Carthusians among the eternal snows, these 
 are not to the readers of these poems mere names, they 
 are poetic necessities. The poems would not be them- 
 selves without them. Yet as before, each poem has its 
 matter of thought otherwise formed, its definite idea, 
 indeed in each the matter of thought may seem the 
 essential thing. 
 
 The Scholar Gipsy is the best- known of these poems. 
 The figure of the man of letters and the study, and yet 
 of the world also, and of the woods and fields, the 
 depth of the life of thought, and the broad freedom of 
 the life of action, the union of culture and nature, has 
 for many centuries delighted the world. We have the 
 ideal in the Scholares vagantiy in Villon, in Lavengro, 
 in Bayard Taylor, in Stevenson and his donkey; such 
 figures have long been fascinating. But the Scholar 
 Gipsy is not one of them; his charm is not the charm 
 of the book of nature and the book of man; we do not 
 have in Matthew Arnold's embodiment of the old story 
 from Glanvil one more of those conceptions with which 
 the world has long been familiar. The main idea of the 
 
31ntroDuction xxix 
 
 poem is quite different: the love of books is there and 
 the love of nature, but the Scholar Gipsy is not merely 
 a lover of nature and a lover of books. He is one of 
 those who in an older time and early in life decided 
 upon one aim and one desire, instead of the vague and 
 uncertain fluctuation from one thing to another that is 
 common in the hurried and distracted change and haste 
 of modern life. He is the man of firm purpose, of clear 
 aim, of unconquerable hope. What is his purpose, his 
 aim, his hope we are not told; he is shy, elusive, an 
 a voider of those who might desire his secret. He has 
 what modern life has not, a clear and definite ideal, and 
 so he is fresh, free, and firm. And so he is fascinating 
 to the poet who, when he looks to the life of his time, 
 sees it to be languid, weary, fluctuating, baffled, idle, 
 without purpose, without aim, without hope, because 
 without ideal. That is the Scholar Gipsy. The garb of 
 scholarship and nature is lovely and the poet loves it, 
 the background of Oxford and the charming country 
 around gives a sentiment to the poems that to many is 
 the most charming thing about it. But these are not the 
 essential: the Scholar Gipsy might have been some one 
 quite difi^erent in these respects from what he was, if 
 only he had *'one aim, one business, one desire.*' 
 That was the thing that made him immortal, that made 
 him live in the mind of Matthew Arnold. 
 
 So, turning to ThyrsiSy when he thought of his friend 
 Clough, he thought of him as one who could not keep 
 in touch with such an ideal. He could not remain in 
 the charming country of The Scholar Gipsy, for he could 
 not rid himself of his knowledge of *' some life of men 
 
XXX 31ntro0uctton 
 
 unblessed." His piping took a troubled sound, the 
 music of his rustic flute took on a stormy note of the 
 contentions of men, and their groanings, even though 
 far away. Yet even though he wandered till he died, 
 he kept the notion of a fixed ideal, he was sure that the 
 light they sought was burning still. 
 
 Something of the same thing may be seen in the 
 Memorial Verses. Byron showed us the strife of pas- 
 sion, Goethe the heights of wisdom, but Wordsworth 
 brings us back from doubts, distinctions, disputes, to 
 nature, to the freshness of the early world, to a perma- 
 nence that is calm amidst distractions, peaceful amid 
 strife, unchanging amid change. 
 
 In every one of the Elegiac Verses we should find 
 some echo or variation of this thought. Whatever else 
 there is, there is always this feeling, this desire for some- 
 thing fixed and firm amid the vaguenesses, the varia- 
 tions, the trivialities of modern life. Sometimes, as in A 
 Southern Nighty it is only the thought that the peaceful 
 graves by the Mediterranean, by the ancient hills of 
 India are hardly true resting-places for those who were 
 spent with this workaday age. In Haworth Church- 
 yard he has little other wish for Charlotte Bronte than 
 that she shall sleep peacefully, even though he feels the 
 impossibility of his wish. In Rugby Chapel he thinks 
 of his father as 
 
 " Not like the men of the crowd, 
 Who all around me to-day 
 Bluster and cringe and make vile," 
 
 and as one who not merely marches right on in the 
 journey to the City of God, but helps others thither. 
 
31ntroDuction xxxi 
 
 And when he thinks of Heine as the sardonic smile of 
 the spirit of the world, he hopes that for himself will 
 be a mood of that spirit more serene, with more of the 
 rapture of peace. In the naked austerity of the Grande 
 Chartreuse, though the voices of earlier masters whis- 
 per, ** What dost thou in this Hving tomb ? " yet still 
 the monastery is a refuge for the moment for his soul 
 from the chafings of hourly false control of the world. 
 And though he does not believe in the silence, yet it 
 is better than the outcry which he has left behind. 
 The author of Obermann is one of the few of the cen- 
 tury who attained to see as did Goethe and Words- 
 worth. He saw the tangle of the age and had, at least, 
 the power to withdraw himself from it, even if in a 
 sort of cold despair; to take himself out of the world to 
 those whose one bond is that they are unspotted by the 
 world. And even after many years he still feels the 
 mournful calm of his sad, tranquil lore. 
 
 With all the variations the same note is to be heard 
 throughout, the desire for rest, peace, calm, in a world of 
 unguided and misguided activity. Over and over again, 
 in a hundred different ways, he gives us his impression 
 of the blustering, dazzling, working, hurried, tangled, 
 uncertain, stormy, fluctuating time in which he lived. 
 It is not that there is effort and strife: he would him- 
 self strive and use his powers. It is not that there are 
 troubles and difficulties: he understands that life is not 
 a mere wayside inn for rest or carouse. But there is a 
 lack of aim, of object, of ideal; everyone is busy doing, 
 but no one knows what they are doing or why they are 
 doing it; it is every man for himself, each man doing 
 
xxxii ^Introduction 
 
 as he likes, without any true knowledge of goodness or 
 right. Matthew Arnold *♦ longs for a repose that ever 
 is the same.'* 
 
 In spirit these elegiac poems are very representative 
 of all Matthew Arnold's lyric poetry. There is hardly 
 one of his poems — excepting the purely personal 
 poems, and the narrative and dramatic poems to be 
 mentioned later — which will not be read more appre- 
 ciatively, understood better, if one begins it with the 
 thought of its author as a man who would gladly stand 
 aloof from a world that he cannot love, cannot under- 
 stand, cannot endure. It may be that that attitude 
 will not always connect itself with the thought of the 
 poem, but it will almost always be in harmony with 
 the mood. 
 
 Nor was this tendency, in the earlier poems at 
 least, unperceived at the time. Blackwood* s Magazine, 
 which reviewed the first volume rather unsympatheti- 
 cally, says that the poet cannot look for sympathy so 
 long as he appeals neither to the heart, nor the affec- 
 tions, nor the passions of mankind, but prefers appear- 
 ing in the ridiculous guise of a misanthrope. ♦*He 
 would fain persuade us that he is a sort ofTimon, 
 who, despairing of the tendency of the age, wishes to 
 wrap himself up in the mantle /Wf necessity, and takes 
 no part whatever in the vulgar concerns of existence." 
 And the North British Review, in an article of more 
 friendly tone, notes what it calls **an indolent selfish 
 quietism," and says that **less of aversion to action in 
 all its forms, greater sympathy with the wants of the 
 present generation, will endear him to many who 
 
3IntroDttCtion xxxiii 
 
 would now turn away contemptuously from the self- 
 complacent reverie and refined indolence which too 
 often disfigure its pages.*' 
 
 And, if it does not prolong too much this presenta- 
 tion of what may be quite obvious, let us further note 
 his own words in his letters of about this time. Writ- 
 ing to his mother of the events in Paris of 1848, he 
 speaks of an article by Carlyle in the Examiner. 
 ** How deeply restful it comes upon one amidst the 
 hot dizzy trash that one reads about these changes 
 everywhere." That anything by Carlyle should be 
 restful may seem strange, but we get the reason in a 
 few lines. **The source of repose in Carlyle' s article 
 is that he alone puts aside the din and whirl and bru- 
 tality which envelop a movement of the masses, to fix 
 his thoughts on its ideal character." It is with some 
 such idea that Arnold does not think England livable- 
 in just yet (March 7th, 1848), and somewhat later 
 retires more and more ** from the modern world and 
 modern literature." Nature is an unfailing resource, 
 and one can always gain help and power from her, but 
 otherwise the lesson — if we look for a lesson — is but 
 a negative one. Fix one's thoughts on an ideal, is a 
 good enough thing to say; but when we look at the 
 poems to find what sort of ideal, what sort of aim in 
 life, what purpose Matthew Arnold has gained either 
 by meditation or by a study of those who have in- 
 spired him, we get very slight answer. His father, as 
 well as others, was on the march to the City of God, 
 but the poet gives us no hint of where any such city 
 may be, nor who the God may be who created it (so 
 
xxxlv 3!ntroDuction 
 
 far off) as his abiding-place. Wordsworth certainly 
 had healing power, but the poet makes no attempt to 
 define it, as he did long afterward in prose. Clough, 
 Heine, Charlotte Bronte, even de Senancour, offer no 
 guide in life, nor is any indicated in these poems, save 
 slightly here and there, unless we call one a guide in 
 life who would avoid it altogether and live to himself 
 with nature and the great minds of the past. 
 
 If we turn, however, from the lyric poetry to that 
 which is narrative and dramatic, we shall be conscious 
 of a considerable difference. We certainly do not find 
 in the subject, at least, of the narrative poems, any- 
 thing that particularly reminds us of the view of Hfe 
 that has been seen in the lyric poems. The story of 
 the father who unwittingly kills his son, the story of 
 the hunter and harper and his ill-fated love, the story 
 of the God of love and beauty killed by the malice of 
 the hidden enemy, these topics seem to have nothing 
 at all to do with the ideas of which we have been 
 speaking. In fact, we have to do with something else, 
 — all of them are examples of tragedy through fate. 
 Now Matthew Arnold was not a fatalist, so far as we 
 know; he had no real conception of tragedy through 
 fate as a definite element in life. Familiar with the idea, 
 as he was, in the classics which he loved, or in the 
 romantic legends from which he usually took his narra- 
 tive subjects, he had no idea, so far as is now known, 
 of fate as a tragic element in life. Perhaps his mind 
 may have been attracted by such subjects from the idea 
 of the struggle with the circumstances of modern Hfe 
 being like the struggle with mere fate. But he cer- 
 
iflntroUuction xxxv 
 
 tainly did not take very striking analogies. He did not 
 do as Mr. Pater did some time afterward, who in 
 thinking of a subject for imaginative expression, chose 
 Marius the Epicurean, as a young man living in an age 
 of transition not very different in essentials from the 
 age in which he himself lived. Once Matthew Arnold 
 did that. Empedocles was **one of the last of the 
 Greek religious philosophers, one of the family of Or- 
 pheus and Musaeus, having survived his fellows, living 
 on into a time when the habits of Greek thought and 
 feeling had begun fast to change, character to dwindle, 
 the influence of the Sophists to prevail. Into the feel- 
 ings of a man so situated there entered much that we 
 are accustomed to consider as exclusively modern. ' * But 
 this poem practically the one of his dramatic or narra- 
 tive poems that reflects, in subject at least, the view 
 of life of which we have been speaking — Matthew 
 Arnold omitted from his published poetry, and later he 
 restored it; but, in both cases for reasons quite uncon- 
 nected with these matters. And the narrative poems 
 which he did retain and publish certainly do not re- 
 echo the view of life that we cannot avoid in the lyric 
 poetry, except in so far as they give us the idea of en- 
 during a vast power that we cannot overcome. How can 
 we understand that they are written by the same man ? 
 For one thing they are narrative and dramatic, and 
 the other poems are lyric. And the chief and great 
 difference between these kinds of poetry is that while - 
 the lyric poet makes his poetry out of the thoughts, 
 feelings, emotions, views of life within his own heart 
 and head, the narrative poet or the dramatist is im- 
 
xxxvi 31ntrol>uction 
 
 mensely impressed by something in the world without 
 and makes that the subject of his work. Nor will that 
 something in the world without have any close relation, 
 in Matthew Arnold's opinion at least, to his lyric emo- 
 tion. In his preface of 1857 he scoffs at those who 
 think that the finest thing in the way of poetry is * * a 
 true allegory of the state of one's own mind in a repre- 
 sentative history. " ** No, assuredly it is not (he says), 
 it never can be so: no great poetical work has ever been 
 produced with such an aim ! ' ' 
 
 We need not be surprised, then, at finding that 
 Sohrab and Rust urn, Tristram and Iseulty The Strayed 
 Reveller, seem to have little connection with the Mat- 
 thew Arnold of The Scholar Gipsy, the Memorial 
 Verses, and Requiescat. Yet we may wonder a little 
 at the contradiction, or at least the diiFerence, and we 
 may desire to know how it may be that a man who 
 in some of his best poems is so much in pain at the 
 confusion and flux of his own day, can interest himself 
 calmly in a medieval romance that betrays no sign of 
 mental struggle, confusion, disturbance, or, indeed, even 
 of any intellectual life at all. It is probably for this very 
 reason that these themes appealed to the poet. This 
 very thing is quite apparent, too, in the style and treat- 
 ment as well as in the action, and, in a way, the style 
 and treatment are the most important things about them. 
 It is true that Matthew Arnold himself seems to tell us 
 the reverse in his preface of 1857, where he lays so 
 much stress on the action and considers the expression 
 as something of little moment. But there he has in 
 mind particularities of expression: these he rightly says 
 
3|ntroDuction xxxvii 
 
 are of little moment when compared with the action as 
 designed and molded and formed in the poet's mind. 
 It is not thought merely that he has in mind in that 
 preface: it is thought-in-form, as we may say, total 
 impression, as he says himself. The great poetic power 
 is '* the power of execution which creates, forms, and 
 constitutes; not the profoundness of single thoughts, 
 not the richness of imagery, not the abundance of illus- 
 tration." But whatever be his critical expressions, 
 there can be no doubt that Matthew Arnold took great 
 pains with the poetic form of these poems. He had 
 in mind a very clear ideal of poetic form, and that ideal 
 is of great importance to the student of his poetry and 
 
 his thought. 
 
 And that ideal, it need hardly be said, is the ideal 
 of classic art, the ideal of clear, definite, absolute 
 beauty, that beauty of which distinction and repose are 
 the unfailing charm. We are not carried away here 
 by the power of passion as in Byron, by the brilliancy 
 and richness as in Keats, by the exhilarated imagina- 
 tion as in Shelley. Here we have clearly conceived 
 figures presented in clear-cut outlines. It is not that 
 there is absence of imagination, of detail of feeling; 
 there is as a rule more and it is more like life than in 
 Byron, Keat?, or Shelley. Let us take a few ex- 
 amples. 
 
 " Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, 
 Watching her children play; their little hands 
 Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 
 Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams 
 Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound 
 Among the holly-clumps, and broken ground, 
 
xxxviii 31ntroDuction 
 
 Racing full speed, and startling in their rush 
 
 The fell-fares and the speckled missel- thrush 
 
 Out of their glossy coverts ; but when now 
 
 Their cheeks were flush' d and over each hot brow, 
 
 Under the feather' d hats of the sweet pair. 
 
 In blinding masses shower' d the golden hair — 
 
 Then Iseult called them to her, and the three 
 
 Clustered under the holly -screen, and she 
 
 Told them an old-world Breton history. ' ' 
 
 It is certainly Iseult of the medieval story, Iseult of 
 the fair hands, the second Iseult, and yet how classic 
 the manner. How fully, how clearly, even how 
 definitely it is stated. A single line or two may give 
 a whole picture. Let us take another instance, the 
 figure of Vivian from the same poem. 
 
 '* Blowing between the stems, the forest air 
 Had loosen' d the brown locks of Vivian's hair, 
 Which played on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes 
 Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 
 Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 
 For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. 
 A briar in that tangled wilderness 
 Had scored her white right hand, which she allows 
 To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress j 
 The other warded off the drooping boughs. 
 But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes 
 Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. 
 Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace. 
 The spirit of the woods was in her face. 
 She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 
 Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight ; 
 And he grew fond, and eager to obey 
 His mistress, use her empire as she may." 
 
 This is perhaps a better example of Matthew Ar- 
 nold's style, for our purposes, because it is one that we 
 
3!ntroDuction xxxix 
 
 may readily compare with a figure done at almost the 
 same time by a master of a very different style. Ten- 
 nyson in the idyll now called Merlin and Vivien gives 
 a very different picture of the enchantress. 
 
 '< He spoke in words part heard, in whisp^s part, 
 Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
 And many-wintered fleece of throat and chin. 
 But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood. 
 And hearing ' hirlot * mutter' d twice or thrice, 
 Leapt from her session in his lap, and stood 
 Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight. 
 How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
 Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death ! 
 White was her cheek j sharp breaths of anger puff'd 
 Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half clinch' d 
 Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, 
 And feeling ; had she found a dagger there 
 (For in a wink the false love turns to hate) 
 She would have stabb'd him ; but she found it not : 
 His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
 To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
 A long, long weeping, not consolable.** 
 
 We need not decide, nor attempt to decide which 
 of the two is better, but it is certainly not hard to see 
 what is the difference between them. 
 
 Clearness of outline, perfection of detail where 
 there is any, these are classic qualities, and there is one 
 quality more, — its universality. These figures are 
 human and so are living ; Iseult might be a widow and 
 her children by the seashore to-day : Vivian might 
 be a modern coquette.^ But they are not particularly 
 modern either : they belong to any time you choose. 
 
 ^ Her hair and eyes, and her mocking charm remind one of 
 Marguerite. 
 
xl 3Introi3uction 
 
 These clear-cut figures are easy to perceive in the 
 creative poetry as we may call it, whether narrative or 
 descriptive. It is not that they are characters of a classic 
 age, like Empedocles and Callicles, Circe and Ulysses: 
 that is but an accident ; some are of classic time and 
 some are not. But all when they are described are de- 
 scribed in the same way, and that way characteristic 
 of classic poetry. Whatever else we have, here are the 
 figures as they actually are, without emotion on the 
 part of the poet to blind us or accessory to distract us. 
 Costume and circumstance are of interest, but only in 
 making more clear, more particular, more definite the 
 human emotion that is the main thing. **The calm, 
 the cheerfulness, the disinterested objectivity ' ' — those 
 qualities which Matthew Arnold himself sees in '*the 
 great monuments of early Greek genius " — are to be 
 seen to a varying degree in his own poetry, because 
 he loved those qualities and desired his readers to feel 
 them as he had felt them. But he felt their power be- 
 cause by them he felt that he could best present the 
 universal emotion, feeling, that appealed to him. In 
 Empedocles on Etna he saw not merely the story of 
 *'a Sicilian Greek born between two and three thou- 
 sand years ago," but in this Greek's feelings he recog- 
 nized much that many thought exclusively modern, 
 much in other words that belonged to the human spirit 
 itself and not to Sicily or England, to the fifth century 
 before Christ or the nineteenth century after. The par- 
 ticular time of his story therefore mattered as little to 
 Matthew Arnold as it did to Shakespeare. It might 
 come from antiquity, it might come from medievalism. 
 
3(introUuction xli 
 
 and from the medievalism of the North or the East, 
 quite as well as the more familiar land of Arthurian 
 romance. Only Arnold living at a scientific period of 
 the world's development preferred to be historically 
 accurate ^ as far as he could be without making his work 
 dry and painstaking. Shakespeare, whose characters 
 were presented by actors clad in the costume of his 
 own day, was quite indifferent to historic accuracy in 
 costume or circumstance, and had the Athenian clowns 
 put new ribbons in their pumps, or Brutus put a book 
 in his pocket, or Cleopatra go and play billiards, with- 
 out the slightest compunction. Arnold will at times be 
 more accurate as when Iseult wraps herself in her mantle 
 of rich fur brought by Venetian ships from Egypt, but 
 he will also be content with the circumstance and back- 
 ground that belong to one time as well as another, the 
 birds, the flowers, the trees and all the constantly 
 changing and changeless paraphernalia of Nature. 
 
 That one should have an action and present it in its 
 essentials, — that, he said himself, was the great thing. 
 In essentials a human action in classic antiquity or in 
 Gothic medievalism is all one, or whether in Bokhara 
 or Scandinavia. **The terrible old mythic story," he 
 wrote, *♦ on which the drama was founded stood, before 
 he entered the theatre, traced in its bare outlines upon 
 the spectator's mind; it stood in his memory, as a group 
 of statuary, faintly seen, at the end of a long and dark 
 
 ^ Col. Yule spoke to him of the sugared mulberries of Sohrab 
 and Rustum, and told him that in talking of them to some Indians, 
 they had told him that the more usual thing to keep in the mouth 
 was a garlic plant. Matthew Arnold, however, had an authority 
 all ready. Letters, ii, 146. 
 
xlii 31ntroliuction 
 
 vista: then came the Poety embodying out lines y develop- 
 ing situationsy not a word wastedy ?iot a sentiment ca- 
 priciously thrown in; stroke upon stroke y the drama 
 proceeded: the light deepened upon the group; more and 
 more it revealed itself to the rivetted gaze of the spec- 
 tator: until at last, when the final w^ords were spoken, 
 it stood before him in broad sunlight, a model of im- 
 mortal beauty." I have italicized the words which seem 
 to show most clearly Matthew Arnold's own way of 
 dealing with the stories that he presents. ** Immortal 
 beauty " — that was the thing to which one might turn 
 in the hideous jar of current life. That was what the 
 poet should offer to his age, instead of speculations on 
 current topics even when of intense interest to Chartist, 
 Tory, or Whig. That shows the connection these nar- 
 rative and dramatic poems have with the elegiac and 
 the lyric. 
 
 This survey presents to us the chief elements of the 
 view of life expressed in Matthew Arnold's poetry. 
 The confusing and depressing character of the life of 
 our time, the restoring calm of nature, and the perma- 
 nent power of ideal beauty, nobility, excellence, — these 
 are the chief notes which in one combination or an- 
 other are to be heard in almost all the poems. 
 
 Sometimes one will find a poem that seems written 
 under a different impulse. The whole group of the 
 poems to Marguerite may stand aside from this charac- 
 terization. They are poems of personal feeling, of a 
 particular feeling so intense as to dull any other emo- 
 tion for the time. Some other poems, too, have Httle 
 of the ideas which have been presented. A Modern 
 
3IntroDuctfon xiiii 
 
 Sappho appears to be an effort to realize a dramatic 
 moment, a piece of life conceived in and for its own 
 interest, and without element or reminiscence of haunt- 
 ing thoughts and meditations. Mycerinus is a rendering 
 of a story in Herodotus that seems entirely apart from 
 modern life and any speculation on it. And there are 
 several sonnets and slighter poems, generally little bits 
 of morality in which we can trace no one especially of 
 the lines that we have been following. ■— 
 
 But, as a rule, the poetry of Arnold will be found, 
 not merely to present, but to be formed and molded 
 by one or another of the ideas of which we have 
 spoken. Take some of the best known and look them 
 through. In Dover Beach we have first a picture of 
 the calm of naMre, then the thought of the turbid 
 tides of humanity, then the thought of the sad incom- 
 prehensible waning of faith, and then, as with a sud- 
 den pang at heart, he turns to the one beside him as a 
 sort of sole refuge in a confused and ignorant world. 
 Or take the fine piece called Stagirius. Stagirius was a 
 young monk of the fourth century, but we should lose 
 Httle if we took no thought of him, for the poem is 
 really more lyric than it is dramatic, and doubtless has 
 appealed to many because it expressed a conception of 
 the world to-day better than of centuries ago. Take 
 the well-known Requiescat : it tells us that death is a 
 happy release, it is peace after the turning maze of life. 
 Take Self-Deception: the poet, sick of asking himself 
 what he can do, turns to the stars, and finds them 
 calmly pursuing their appointed tasks with indifference 
 to matters that do not concern them. Take Sohrab and 
 
?cliv JIntroUuction 
 
 Rustum, Tristram and Iseult : each ends with the feel- 
 ing of peace after the turmoil of life. There are all 
 sorts of combinations of the three motives; there are 
 combinations with new ideas; but we shall rarely find 
 anything that has no hint of them. 
 
 It may be worth a moment to ask how it came 
 about that Matthew Arnold was under the influence 
 of such ideas. It is not from mere curiosity that one 
 would ask the question, but because the poet's own 
 life — so far as it appeared to the world — was so very 
 different from the picture we might make of him. He 
 was not a misanthropic Timon, nor a selfish quietist 
 who retired from the work of the world to sulk: he 
 was singularly gay and cheerful with his friends and his 
 family; he was a hard worker not merely as a critic 
 and professor of poetry, but as a day-to-day inspector 
 of schools. Blackwood* s in a review of his first poems 
 cries, ** What would he be at?" and advises him, 
 whether Whig, Tory, or Chartist to get to work in 
 politics. At about this time Matthew Arnold accepted 
 a position as Inspector of Schools, that sometimes com- 
 pelled him to work five and six hours together, with 
 ** nothing to eat except a biscuit, which a charitable 
 lady" gave him, and often required of him a daily 
 stint of examination books that came up to ** sixty pages 
 of close writing ' ' to read in addition to other occupa- 
 tions. And this -toilsome occupation he did not take 
 up for a little while, to get a start in life; he held to it 
 for more than thirty years, and was busy at it at a time 
 when he was also writing essays that have become 
 landmarks in criticism, and pursuing studies that to 
 
31ntroiJuctton xiv 
 
 many have been guides in life. Nor can we say that 
 the poetry came first and the work afterward: such was 
 the case, doubtless, in a large way. But about the time 
 of writing The Scholar Gipsy y for instance, he was also 
 writing to his wife, as follows: — **I did not arrive 
 here till just two, as the train was late; went to the 
 school, and found there were three of them. About 
 four o'clock I found myself so exhausted, having had 
 nothing since breakfast, that I sent out for a bun, and 
 ate it before the astonished school. Since then I have 
 had a very good extempore dinner on mutton chops 
 and bread pudding, all the Quaker household having 
 dined early, and now I am in for the pupil teachers till 
 ten o'clock." Of course the working attitude was the 
 one that lasted^ but the worker and the poet existed for 
 years in the same person. 
 
 We may do something to find the origin of these ideas 
 that give such a special quality to his poetry. The 
 conception of the world as a jarring maze, continually 
 confusing itself and everybody else, this idea doubtless 
 resulted in part from Arnold's losing older conceptions 
 of life and religion, and his forming new ones. But 
 especially, I do not doubt, did Arnold pick up such 
 ideas from his father. At first thought no two people 
 would seem farther apart than the author of Baccha- 
 nalia and o^ Dover Beach y for instance, and the power- 
 ful and inspiring master of Rugby. But Thomas Ar- 
 nold with all his power and all his inspiration had his 
 share and more than his share of the feeling of pained 
 repulsion that his son shows in his poems. Of religious 
 affairs in 1839 he wrote, <* It is so sad that if I were 
 
xlvi 31ntroDuction 
 
 to allow myself to dwell much upon them, I think it 
 would utterly paralyze me." Of public affairs, at about 
 the same time: **I feel the state of public affairs so 
 deeply that I cannot bear either to read, or hear, or 
 speak, or write about them; '* and again, ** It is more 
 painful than enough to read of evils which one can 
 neither cure nor palliate." Nor was this feeling merely 
 for something in which he was not deeply concerned: 
 of education he wrote, that ** a great school can never 
 present images of rest and peace; and when the spring 
 and activity of youth is altogether unsanctified by any- 
 thing pure and elevated in its desires, it becomes a 
 spectacle that is as dizzying and almost more morally 
 distressing than the shouts and gambols of a set of luna- 
 tics." It is hard to imagine that the son at a most im- 
 pressionable time of his life should not have been deeply 
 influenced by these views of his father. It is possible, 
 of course, that he knew nothing of them, but this, 
 when we consider the close bonds between them and 
 Thomas Arnold's well-known habit of treating even 
 boys as intelligent agents, does not seem very likely. 
 
 From his father, too, Matthew Arnold doubtless 
 learned much of his thought on nature, though here, 
 doubtless, was a great element of influence from Words- 
 worth, as needs hardly to be said to one who reads his 
 poetry and his prose. But Thomas Arnold was quite 
 as devoted to nature as his son, possibly even more so, 
 and devoted to those especial spots in nature which in- 
 spired his son. Thus the country about Cumner was 
 his favorite. '* I am going with Walrond to-day to 
 explore the Cumner country," wrote Matthew Arnold 
 
^Introduction xivii 
 
 in October, 1854, ** ^^^ °" Thursday I got up alone 
 into one of the Httle coombs that papa was so fond of, 
 and which I had in my mind in the Gipsy Scholar, 
 and felt the peculiar sentiment of the country and 
 neighbourhood as deeply as ever." And Thomas 
 Arnold near the end oi his life looked forward to go- 
 ing to Oxford, because ( among other things ) it would 
 give him a chance to take his children walking in Bag- 
 ley wood. The Lake Country, of course, Matthew 
 Arnold came to know and love, because his father had 
 known and loved it before him. 
 
 Nor need we go far to discover the source of Mat- 
 thew Arnold's love for the classics and his feeling that 
 in the permanance of classic beauty is to be found 
 something that will outlast the fluctuations and eddy- 
 ings of a thousand days of the present. 
 
 It is not very hard, indeed, to imagine to ourselves 
 how the poet's thought developed. Nor need we 
 wonder that the view which it presented was not more 
 permanent. Like his father, Matthew Arnold recog- 
 nized that however unpcaceful and restless was the 
 world, he could do something for it. Like his father, 
 too, he never allowed his delight in nature to change 
 from a power to recreate into an anodyne which should 
 deaden. He did not have his father's loving devotion 
 to Jesus Christ nor the power that came from it, but 
 he did have at bottom his father's sense of responsibility 
 and sense of power. So he, like his father, kept on 
 one side his doubts as to the sad incomprehensible 
 world, and used only where it could be useful the im- 
 measurable power and charm of nature, while he 
 
xlviii 31ntrouuction 
 
 did the work that as time went on he found himself 
 able to do. 
 
 One thing he never put aside, — the feeling for the 
 satisfying beauty of the ideal. It is true that the 
 especial power of poetic beauty no longer satisfied 
 him as the .years passed. But more and more it be- 
 came an ideal of intellectual beauty which was as classic 
 and as enduring as the other. And if at the end of 
 those ten years he had meant to devote to poetry, he 
 found his poetic productions still few, yet he must have 
 had the feeling that the same powers that had produced 
 the best of his poems were still dominant. Purged of 
 some of the intensity and short-sightedness of earlier 
 days, he had lost nothing of powder of conception or of 
 expression, and he could go on in the new medium of 
 which he found himself a greater master than of the 
 old, with full assurance that he was putting the whole 
 force of his character where it would count most. 
 
 We shall want, perhaps, before leaving Matthew 
 Arnold, to formulate our idea as to his position in re- 
 lation to others of his time. While he was writing, 
 his poetry was often compared with that of Tennyson, 
 and, as a rule, unfavorably. Later his work found 
 many admirers among those who did not find Tenny- 
 son intellectual enough, but these people commonly 
 found in Browning a poet more attractive to their in- 
 tellectualizing propensities. Still a third class to whom 
 he had made his strongest appeal at first — those prac- 
 tically of the Pre-RaphaeHte way of looking at things — 
 very soon went off on a line of interest in which they 
 strayed very far away from Arnold. It is eminently 
 
3|ntroDuctton xlix 
 
 characteristic that Michael Rossetti and Swinburne both 
 admired exceedingly The New Sirens, a poem which 
 stands quite alone, in its most characteristic qualities, 
 in the poet's work. 
 
 Our preceding studies have shown us where to look 
 for Matthew Arnold's chief quality. He is not great 
 as a poet of the personal life, in spite of the charm of 
 some of the poems of Faded Leaves and Switxerland. 
 Nor is he great as a poet of ideas, in spite of the satis- 
 faction that many who look sadly or impatiently on life 
 take in thinking his thoughts. And if we compare him 
 with Tennyson or Browning, we recognize at once 
 that he has not the breadth and the sense of beauty of 
 one, nor the depth and the sense of life of the other. 
 We cannot measure him with either on their own 
 ground any more than we can measure either of them 
 with the other. Nor can we compare him with 
 Swinburne because he wrote The Nezv Sirens, nor with 
 Mrs. Browning because he wrote A Modern Sappho. 
 No : Matthew Arnold's greatness as a poet is not seen 
 from such standpoints. He is a great poet because 
 he is the author of Dover Beach and Bacchanalia, of 
 The Scholar Gipsy and Rugby Chapel, of the Forsaken 
 Merman and Sohrab and Rustum. The author of 
 these poems stands alone among English poets, because 
 there is no one who so feels and so expresses the ques- 
 tion as to the meaning of life, the recreating charm of 
 nature, and the power of classic beauty. Wordsworth 
 will be thought of, and without a doubt Tin tern Ab- 
 bey is a finer poem than Resignation. But it is finer 
 chiefly because it is truer and more profound in its 
 
1 3(liiti^oUuction 
 
 ideas. Shelley may be thought of, and Adonais is (to 
 my mind) finer than Thyrsis, but not for the things 
 that make Thyrsis fine, not for the sense of the spirit 
 of place. Adonais is fine because Shelley feels the 
 wonderful things of life so intensely and expresses them 
 so happily. We shall come nearer Matthew Arnold 
 if we think of Keats, — the Keats of the Grecia?i Urrty 
 the Autumn^ the Nighti/igaky the beginning of Hy- 
 perion y the Lamia. And there, if we are thinking of 
 poetic power, we must think of the opportunities of the 
 two. Matthew Arnold had been from his birth under 
 the inspiration of Oxford and Westmoreland. But 
 Keats did what he did with little more knowledge of 
 nature than he could gain from Hampstead Heath, and 
 what feeling for the classics he could gain by reading 
 Lempriere's Dictionary. He was the man for poetic 
 power. Yet he lacked something that Matthew Ar- 
 nold had. The charm of nature he felt, the power 
 of classic beauty, but as to life itself he was still in con- 
 fusion. Matthew Arnold was the clearer thinker, per- 
 haps too clear a thinker to be a perfect poet, perhaps 
 the more he thought the less he imagined. However 
 that may be, there was a time with him when imagina- 
 tion and thought mingled, neither for the time over- 
 weighing the other, and then he produced beautiful 
 poetry, poetry which in its particular qualities no other 
 of the many poets of England has ever equaled. 
 
of 
 
Select ^oemjs of ifttatti^etp arnolD 
 
 POEMS OF THE PERSONAL 
 LIFE 
 
 A MEMORY-PICTURE 
 
 Laugh, my friends, and without blame 
 
 Lightly quit what lightly came ; 
 
 Rich to-morrow as to-day. 
 
 Spend as madly as you may! 
 
 I, with little land to stir, 
 
 Am the exacter labourer. 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 Once I said : ' A face is gone 
 
 If too hotly mused upon ; 
 
 And our best impressions are 
 
 Those that do themselves repair/ 
 
 Many a face I so let flee. 
 
 Ah ! is faded utterly. 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by. 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
Select l^oemflf of ^atttjeto amolD 
 
 Marguerite says : ' As last year went, 
 So the coming year '11 be spent j 
 Some day next year, I shall be, 
 Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee.* 
 Ah, I hope ! — yet, once away. 
 What may chain us, who can say ? 
 Ere the parting hour go by. 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 Paint that lilac kerchief, bound 
 Her soft face, her hair around ; 
 Tied under the archest chin 
 Mockery ever ambush'd in. 
 Let the fluttering fringes streak 
 All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. 
 Ere the parting hour go by. 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 Paint that figure's pliant grace 
 As she toward me lean'd her face, 
 Half refus'd and half resign'd. 
 Murmuring : ' Art thou still unkind f ' 
 Many a broken promise then 
 Was new made — to break again. 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, 
 Eager tell-tales of her mind ; 
 
Paint, with their impetuous stress 
 
 Of enquiring tenderness, 
 
 Those frank eyes, where deep I see 
 
 An angehc gravity. 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 What, my friends, these feeble lines 
 Shew, you say, my love declines ? 
 To paint ill as I have done, 
 Proves forgetfulness begun ? 
 Time's gay minions, pleased you see. 
 Time, your master, governs me ; 
 Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry 
 ' Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! ' 
 
 Ah, too true ! Time's current strong 
 Leaves us fixt to nothing long. 
 Yet, if little stays with man, 
 Ah, retain we all we can ! 
 If the clear impression dies, 
 Ah, the dim remembrance prize ! 
 Ere the parting hour go by. 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
4 Select )^oem0 of ^attljetD ^rnolD 
 
 LONGING 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then 
 By day I shall be well again ! 
 For then the night will more than pay 
 The hopeless longing of the day. 
 
 Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
 A messenger from radiant climes. 
 And smile on thy new world, and be 
 As kind to others as to me ! 
 
 Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth. 
 Come now, and let me dream it truth ; 
 And part my hair, and kiss my brow. 
 And say : My love ! why sufferest thou ? 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then 
 By day I shall be well again ! 
 For then the night will more than pay 
 The hopeless longing of the day. 
 
 ISOLATION 
 
 We were apart ; yet, day by day, 
 I bade my heart more constant be. 
 
I bade it keep the world away. 
 And grow a home for only thee ; 
 Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, 
 Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. 
 
 The fault was grave ! I might have known, 
 What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd — 
 The heart can bind itself alone. 
 And faith may oft be unreturnM. 
 Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — 
 Thou lov'st no more ; — Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! — and thou, thou lonely heart. 
 
 Which never yet without remorse 
 
 Even for a moment didst depart 
 
 From thy remote and sphered course 
 
 To haunt the place where passions reign — 
 
 Back to thy solitude again ! 
 
 Back ! with the conscious thrill of shame 
 Which Luna felt, that summer-night. 
 Flash through her pure immortal frame. 
 When she forsook the starry height 
 To hang over Endymion's sleep 
 Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. 
 
 Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved 
 How vain a thing is mortal love. 
 
6 g>elect poentflf of ^attijeto amolu 
 
 Wandering in Heaven, far removed. 
 But thou hast long had place to prove 
 This truth — to prove, and make thine own : 
 'Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.* 
 
 Or, if not quite alone, yet they 
 Which touch thee are unmating things — 
 Ocean and clouds and night and day ; 
 Lorn autumns and triumphant springs ; 
 And life, and others' joy and pain. 
 And love, if love, of happier men. 
 
 Of happier men — for they, at least. 
 
 Have dreamed two human hearts might blend 
 
 In one, and were through faith released 
 
 From isolation without end 
 
 Prolong'd ; nor knew, although not less 
 
 Alone than thou, their loneliness. 
 
 TO MARGUERITE 
 
 Yes ! in the sea of life enisled. 
 
 With echoing straits between us thrown. 
 
 Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
 
 We mortal millions live alone. 
 
 The islands feel the enclasping flow. 
 
 And then their endless bounds they know. 
 
XE^t tE^ttmtt at Berne 
 
 But when the moon their hollows lights, 
 And they are swept by balms of spring, 
 And in their glens, on starry nights, 
 The nightingales divinely sing; 
 And lovely notes, from shore to shore. 
 Across the sounds and channels pour — 
 
 Oh ! then a longing like despair 
 
 Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 
 
 For surely once, they feel, we were 
 
 Parts of a single continent ! 
 
 Now round us spreads the watery plain - 
 
 Oh might our marges meet again ! 
 
 Who order'd, that their longing *s fire 
 Should be, as soon as kindled, coolM ? 
 Who renders vain their deep desire ? — 
 A God, a God their severance ruled ! 
 And bade betwixt their shores to be 
 The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 
 
 THE TERRACE AT BERNE 
 
 (composed ten years after the preceding) 
 
 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 
 Once more the roofs of Berne appear ; 
 
8 Select potm^ of ^att^eto SimolD 
 
 The rocky banks, the terrace high, 
 The stream ! — and do I linger here ? 
 
 The clouds are on the Oberland, 
 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; 
 But bright are those green fields at hand. 
 And through those fields comes down the Aar, 
 
 And from the blue twin-lakes it comes. 
 Flows by the town, the church-yard fair ; 
 And 'neath the garden-walk it hums. 
 The house ! — and is my Marguerite there ? 
 
 Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush 
 Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, 
 Quick through the oleanders brush. 
 And clap thy hands, and cry: 'Tis thou! 
 
 Or hast thou long since wander'd back. 
 Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; 
 And flitted down the flowery track 
 Where feet like thine too lightly come ? 
 
 Doth riotous laughter now replace 
 Thy smile ; and rouge, with stony glare. 
 Thy cheek's soft hue ; and fluttering lace 
 The kerchief that enwound thy hair ? 
 
®l)e terrace at llBeme 
 
 Or is it over ? — art thou dead ? — 
 Dead ! — and no warning shiver ran 
 Across my heart, to say thy thread 
 Of life was cut, and closed thy span ! 
 
 Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
 Be lost, and I not feel *t was so ? 
 Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
 Fail from earth's air, and I not know ? 
 
 Or shall I find thee still, but changed. 
 But not the Marguerite of thy prime ? 
 With all thy being re-arranged, — 
 Pass'd through the crucible of time; 
 
 With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned, 
 And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 
 A gesture — - anything — retained 
 Of all that was my Marguerite's own ? 
 
 I will not know! For wherefore try. 
 To things by mortal course that live, 
 A shadowy durability, 
 For which they were not meant, to give ? 
 
 Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass 
 Upon the boundless ocean-plain, 
 
10 ^tlttt poems? of ^attlietD airnolD 
 
 So on the sea of life, alas ! 
 
 Man meets man — meets, and quits again. 
 
 I knew it when my life was young; 
 I feel it still now youth is o'er. 
 
 — The mists are on the mountain hung. 
 And Marguerite I shall see no more. 
 
 THE NEW SIRENS 
 
 In the cedar shadow sleeping, 
 Where cool grass and fragrant glooms 
 Late at eve had lured me, creeping 
 From your darkened palace rooms — 
 I, who in your train at morning 
 Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind. 
 Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning ; 
 Saw the hoarse boughs labour in the wind. 
 
 Who are they, O pensive Graces, 
 
 — For I dream'd they wore your forms — 
 Who on shores and sea-wash'd places 
 Scoop the shelves and fret the storms ? 
 Who, when ships are that way tending. 
 Troop across the flushing sands. 
 
 To all reefs and narrows wending. 
 With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands ? 
 
Yet I see, the howling levels 
 Of the deep are not your lair ; 
 And your tragic-vaunted revels 
 Are less lonely than they were. 
 Like those Kings with treasure steering 
 From the jewell'd lands of dawn, 
 Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing, 
 Stream all day through your enchanted lawn. 
 
 And we too, from upland valleys. 
 Where some Muse with half-curved frown 
 Leans her ear to your mad sallies 
 Which the charm'd winds never drown ; 
 By faint niusic guided, ranging 
 The scared glens, we wander*d on, 
 Left our awful laurels hanging. 
 And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne. 
 
 From the dragon-warder'd fountains 
 Where the springs of knowledge are, 
 From the watchers on the mountains, 
 And the bright and morning star; 
 We are exiles, we are falling. 
 We have lost them at your call — 
 O ye false ones, at your calling 
 Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall ! 
 
 Are the accents of your luring 
 More melodious than of yore ? 
 
12 g>elect |aoettt0 of ^pattljeto amoto 
 
 Are those frail forms more enduring 
 Than the charms Ulysses bore? 
 That we sought you with rejoicings, 
 Till at evening we descry 
 At a pause of Siren voicings 
 These vext branches and this howling sky ? . 
 
 Oh, your pardon ! The uncouthness 
 Of that primal age is gone. 
 And the skin of dazzling smoothness 
 Screens not now a heart of stone. 
 Love has flush'd those cruel faces ; 
 And those slacken'd arms forgo 
 The delight of death-embraces. 
 And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow. 
 
 ' Ah,* you say ; ' the large appearance 
 Of man's labour is but vain. 
 And we plead as staunch adherence 
 Due to pleasure as to pain.' 
 Pointing to earth's careworn creatures, 
 ' Come,' you murmur with a sigh : 
 ' Ah ! we own diviner features. 
 Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye. 
 
 ' Come,' you say, ' the hours were dreary ; 
 Dull did life in torpor fade ; 
 
®t)e j^etD ^ixm& 13 
 
 Time is tame, and we grow weary 
 In the slumbrous cedarn shade. 
 Round our hearts with long caresses. 
 With low sighings, Silence stole, 
 And her load of steaming tresses 
 Weigh'd, like Ossa, on the aery soul. 
 
 ' Come,' you say, ' the soul is fainting 
 Till she search and learn her own, 
 And the wisdom of man's painting 
 Leaves her riddle half unknown. 
 Come,' you say, ' the brain is seeking. 
 While the sovran heart is dead ; 
 Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking, 
 Rarer secrets than the toiling head. 
 
 ' Come,' you say, ' opinion trembles. 
 Judgment shifts, convictions go ; 
 Life dries up, the heart dissembles — 
 Only, what we feel, we know. 
 Hath your wisdom known emotions ? 
 Will it weep our burning tears ? 
 Hath it drunk of our love-potions 
 Crowning moments with the weight of years .? * 
 
 I am dumb. Alas, too soon all 
 Man's grave reasons disappear ! 
 Yet, I think, at God's tribunal 
 
14 &tltct ^otxnsi of ^atttietD amoUi 
 
 Some large answer you shall hear. 
 But for me, my thoughts are straying 
 Where at sunrise, through your vines, 
 On these lawns I saw you playing. 
 Hanging garlands on your odorous pines ; 
 
 When your showering looks enwound you, 
 And your heavenly eyes shone through; 
 When the pine-boughs yielded round you. 
 And your brows were starr'd with dew ; 
 And immortal forms, to meet you, 
 Down the statued alleys came. 
 And through golden horns, to greet you, 
 Blew such music as a God may frame. 
 
 Yes, I muse ! And if the dawning 
 Into daylight never grew. 
 If the glistering wings of morning 
 On the dry noon shook their dew, 
 If the fits of joy were longer. 
 Or the day were sooner done. 
 Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger, 
 No weak nursling of an earthly sun . . . 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, 
 Dusk the hall with yew ! 
 
 For a bound was set to meetings. 
 And the sombre day dragg'd on; 
 
tirtie jI^ftD &ixtn& 15 
 
 And the burst of joyful greetings, 
 And the joyful dawn, were gone. 
 For the eye grows fill'd with gazing, 
 And on raptures follow calms ; 
 And those warm locks men were praising, 
 DroopM, unbraided, on your listless arms. 
 
 Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys, 
 And made all your cedars frown ; 
 Leaves were whirling in the alleys 
 Which your lovers wander'd down. 
 — Sitting cheerless in your bowers. 
 The hands propping the sunk head, 
 Do thev gall you, the long hours. 
 And the hungry thought, that must be fed ? 
 
 Is the pleasure that is tasted 
 Patient of a long review ? 
 Will the fire joy hath wasted, 
 Mused on, warm the heart anew ? 
 — Or, are those old thoughts returning, 
 Guests the dull sense never knew. 
 Stars, set deep, yet inly burning. 
 Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew ? 
 
 Once, like us, you took your station 
 Watchers for a purer fire ; 
 But you droop'd in expectation. 
 And you wearied in desire. 
 
1 6 Select laoems; of ^attliefco atmolD 
 
 When the first rose flush was steeping 
 All the frore peak's awful crown, 
 Shepherds say, they found you sleeping 
 In some windless valley, farther down. 
 
 Then you wept, and slowly raising 
 Your dozed eyelids, sought again. 
 Half in doubt, they say, and gazing 
 Sadly back, the seats of men — 
 Snatch'd a turbid inspiration 
 From some transient earthly sun. 
 And proclaimed your vain ovation 
 For those mimic raptures you had won. , , 
 
 With a sad, majestic motion, 
 With a stately, slow surprise. 
 From their earthward-bound devotion 
 Lifting up your languid eyes — 
 Would you freeze my louder boldness, 
 Dumbly smiling as you go. 
 One faint frown of distant coldness 
 Flitting fast across each marble brow? 
 
 Do I brighten at your sorrow, 
 O sweet Pleaders ? — doth my lot 
 Find assurance in to-morrow 
 Of one joy, which you have not ? 
 
gpije il^etD &ittm 17 
 
 O, speak once, and shame my sadness ! 
 Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain, 
 Mock'd and baffled by your gladness, 
 Mar the music of your feasts in vain ! 
 
 Scent, and song, and light, and flowers ! 
 Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow — 
 Come, bind up those ringlet showers ! 
 Roses for that dreaming brow ! 
 Come, once more that ancient lightness, 
 Glancing feet, and eager eyes ! 
 Let your broad lamps flash the brightness 
 Which the sorrow-stricken day denies ! 
 
 Through black depths of serried shadows, 
 Up cold aisles of buried glade ; 
 In the mist of river-meadows 
 Where the looming kine are laid ; 
 From your dazzled windows streaming, 
 From your humming festal room. 
 Deep and far, a broken gleaming 
 Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom. 
 
 Where I stand, the grass is glowing ; 
 Doubtless you are passing fair ! 
 But I hear the north wind blowing. 
 And I feel the cold night-air. 
 
1 8 ^tltct poem0 of ^atttjeto amoto 
 
 Can I look on your sweet faces, 
 And your proud heads backward thrown, 
 From this dusk of leaf-strewn places 
 With the dumb woods and the night alone ? 
 
 Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses — 
 Mad delight, and frozen calms — 
 Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses, 
 And to-morrow — folded palms ; 
 Is this all ? this balanced measure ? 
 Could life run no happier way ? 
 Joyous, at the height of pleasure, 
 Passive, at the nadir of dismay ? 
 
 But indeed, this proud possession. 
 This far-reaching, magic chain. 
 Linking in a mad succession 
 Fits of joy and fits of pain — 
 Have you seen it at the closing ? 
 Have you tracked its clouded ways ? 
 Can your eyes, while fools are dozing. 
 Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days ? 
 
 When a dreary light is wading 
 Through this waste of sunless greens. 
 When the flashing lights are fading 
 On the peerless cheek of queens. 
 
tE^lfte jlieto ^itma 19 
 
 When the mean shall no more sorrow, 
 And the proudest no more smile ; 
 As old age, youth's fatal morrow 
 Spreads its cold light wider all that while ? 
 
 Then, when change itself is over. 
 When the slow tide sets one way. 
 Shall you find the radiant lover. 
 Even by moments, of to-day ? 
 The eye wanders, faith is failing — 
 O, loose hands, and let it be ! 
 Proudly, like a king bewailing, 
 O, let fall one tear, and set us free ! 
 
 All true speech and large avowal 
 Which the jealous soul concedes ; 
 All man's heart which brooks bestowal, 
 All frank faith which passion breeds — 
 These we had, and we gave truly ; 
 Doubt not, what we had, we gave ! 
 False we were not, nor unruly ; 
 Lodgers in the forest and the cave. 
 
 Long we wanderM with you, feeding 
 Our rapt souls on your replies, 
 In a wistful silence reading 
 All the meaning of your eyes. 
 
20 g)elect ^otm^ of ^attliriD amolu 
 
 By moss-border'd statues sitting, 
 By well-heads, in summer days. 
 But we turn, our eyes are flitting — 
 See, the white east, and the morning-rays ! 
 
 And you too, O worshipped Graces, 
 Sylvan Gods of this fair shade ! 
 Is there doubt on divine faces ? 
 Are the blessed Gods dismay'd ? 
 Can men worship the wan features, 
 The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, 
 Of unsphered, discrowned creatures. 
 Souls as little godlike as their own ? 
 
 Come, loose hands ! The winged fleetness 
 Of immortal feet is gone ; 
 And your scents have shed their sweetness, 
 And your flowers are overblown. 
 And your jewell'd gauds surrender 
 Half their glories to the day ; 
 Freely did they flash their splendour, 
 Freely gave it — but it dies away. 
 
 In the pines the thrush is waking — 
 
 Lo, yon orient hill in flames ! 
 
 Scores of true love knots are breaking 
 
 At divorce which it proclaims. 
 
 When the lamps are paled at morning. 
 
tir^e ilietD &itm& 21 
 
 Heart quits heart and hand quits hand, 
 Cold in that unlovely dawning, 
 Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand ! 
 
 Pluck no more red roses, maidens. 
 Leave the lilies in their dew — 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens. 
 Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew ! 
 — Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, 
 Her I loved at eventide ? 
 Shall I ask, what faded mourner 
 Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side ? . . . 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens ! 
 Dusk the hall with yew ! 
 
POEMS OF NATURE AND 
 THOUGHT 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 TO FAUSTA 
 
 To die be given us^ or attain f 
 
 Fierce work it were^ to do again. 
 
 So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd 
 
 At burning noon ; so warriors said, 
 
 Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles 
 
 Of dust which wreathed their struggling files 
 
 Down Lydian mountains ; so, when snows 
 
 Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose. 
 
 The Goth, bound Rome-wards ; so the Hun, 
 
 Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun 
 
 Went lurid down o'er flooded plains 
 
 Through which the groaning Danube strains 
 
 To the drear Euxine ; — so pray all. 
 
 Whom labours, self-ordainM, enthrall ; 
 
 Because they to themselves propose 
 
 On this side the all-common close 
 
 A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. 
 
 So pray they ; and to stand again 
 
designation 23 
 
 Where they stood once, to them were pain ; 
 
 Pain to thread back and to renew 
 
 Past straits, and currents long steerM through. 
 
 But milder natures, and more free — . 
 
 Whom an unblamed serenity 
 
 Hath freed from passions, and the state 
 
 Of struggle these necessitate ; 
 
 Whom schooling of the stubborn mind 
 
 Hath made, or birth hath found, resigned — 
 
 These mourn not, that their goings pay 
 
 Obedience to the passing day. 
 
 These claim not every laughing Hour 
 
 For handmaid to their striding power ; 
 
 Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, 
 
 To await their march ; and when appeared, 
 
 Through the cold gloom, with measured race. 
 
 To usher for a destined space 
 
 (Her own sweet errands all foregone) 
 
 The too imperious traveller on. 
 
 These, Fausta, ask not this ; nor thou, 
 
 Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now ! 
 
 We left, just ten years since, you say. 
 That wayside inn we left to-day. 
 Our jovial host, as forth we fare, 
 Shouts greeting from his easy chair. 
 High on a bank our leader stands, 
 
24 &tlta ponns; of ^attljeto arnolo 
 
 Reviews and ranks his motley bands, 
 
 Makes clear our goal to every eye — 
 
 The valley's western boundary. 
 
 A gate swings to ! our tide hath flow'd 
 
 Already from the silent road. 
 
 The valley-pastures, one by one. 
 
 Are threaded, quiet in the sun ; 
 
 And now beyond the rude stone bridge 
 
 Slopes gracious up the western ridge. 
 
 Its woody border, and the last 
 
 Of its dark upland farms is past ; 
 
 Cool farms, with open-lying stores. 
 
 Under their burnish'd sycamores — 
 
 All past ! and through the trees we glide 
 
 Emerging on the green hill-side. 
 
 There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, 
 
 Our waving, many-colour'd line ; 
 
 There winds, upstreaming slowly still 
 
 Over the summit of the hill. 
 
 And now, in front, behold outspread 
 
 Those upper regions we must tread ! 
 
 Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells. 
 
 The cheerful silence of the fells. 
 
 Some two hours* march, with serious air, 
 
 Through the deep noontide heats we fare ; 
 
 The red-grouse, springing at our sound. 
 
 Skims, now and then, the shining ground; 
 
 No life, save his and ours, intrudes 
 
Kesftgnation 25 
 
 Upon these breathless solitudes. 
 
 O joy ! again the farms appear. 
 
 Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer ; 
 
 There springs the brook will guide us down, 
 
 Bright comrade, to the noisy town. 
 
 Lingering, we follow down ; we gain 
 
 The town, the highway, and the plain. 
 
 And many a mile of dusty way, 
 
 Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day ; 
 
 But, Fausta, I remember well. 
 
 That as the balmy darkness fell 
 
 We bathed our hands with speechless glee, 
 
 That night, in the wide-glimmering sea. 
 
 Once more we tread this self-same road, 
 Fausta, which ten years since we trod ; 
 Alone we tread it, you and I, 
 Ghosts of that boisterous company. 
 Here, where the brook shines, near its head. 
 In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed ; 
 Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, 
 Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town ; 
 Here sit we, and again unroll. 
 Though slowly, the familiar whole. 
 The solemn wastes of heathy hill 
 Sleep in the July sunshine still ; 
 The self-same shadows now, as then, 
 Play through this grassy upland glen ; 
 
26 Select |Boem0 of ^m^tix) amolD 
 
 The loose dark stones on the green way 
 Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay ; 
 On this mild bank above the stream, 
 (You crush them !) the blue gentians gleam. 
 Still this wild brook, the rushes cool. 
 The sailing foam, the shining pool ! 
 These are not changed; and we, you say. 
 Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they. 
 
 The gipsies, whom we met below^ 
 They, too, have long roam'd to and fro ; 
 They ramble, leaving, where they pass. 
 Their fragments on the cumberM grass. 
 And often to some kindly place 
 Chance guides the migratory race, 
 Where, though long wanderings intervene. 
 They recognise a former scene. 
 The dingy tents are pitch'd ; the fires 
 Give to the wind their wavering spires ; 
 In dark knots crouch round the wild flame 
 Their children, as when first they came ; 
 They see their shackled beasts again 
 Move, browsing, up the grey-wall'd lane. 
 Signs are not wanting, which might raise 
 The ghost in them of former days — 
 Signs are not wanting, if they would ; 
 Suggestions to disquietude. 
 For them, for all, time's busy touch, 
 
designation 27 
 
 While it mends little, troubles much. 
 Their joints grow stifFer — but the year 
 Runs his old round of dubious cheer; 
 Chilly they grow — yet winds in March, 
 Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch ; 
 They must live still — and yet, God knows, 
 Crowded and keen the country grows; 
 It seems as if, in their decay, 
 The law grew stronger every day. 
 So might they reason, so compare, 
 P'austa, times past with times that are; 
 But no ! — they rubb'd through yesterday 
 In their hereditary way. 
 And they will rub through, if they can, 
 To-morrow on the self-same plan, 
 Till death arrive to supersede, 
 For them, vicissitude and need. 
 
 The poet, to whose mighty heart 
 Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, 
 Subdues that energy to scan 
 Not his own course, but that of man. 
 Though he move mountains, though his day 
 Be pass'd on the proud heights of sway. 
 Though he hath loosed a thousand chains. 
 Though he hath borne immortal pains. 
 Action and suffering though he know — 
 He hath not lived, if he lives so. 
 
28 g>elect poems? of ^attlfteto Simolo 
 
 He sees, in some great-historied land, 
 A ruler of the people stand. 
 Sees his strong thought in fiery flood 
 Roll through the heaving multitude, 
 Exults — yet for no moment's space 
 Envies the all-regarded place. 
 Beautiful eyes meet his — and he 
 Bears to admire uncravingly; 
 They pass — he, mingled with the crowd, 
 Is in their far-ofF triumphs proud. 
 From some high station he looks down, 
 At sunset, on a populous town; 
 Surveys each happy group, which fleets. 
 Toil ended, through the shining streets. 
 Each with some errand of its own — 
 And does not say : / am alone. 
 He sees the gentle stir of birth 
 When morning purifies the earth ; 
 He leans upon a gate, and sees 
 The pastures, and the quiet trees. 
 Low, woody hill, with gracious bound, 
 Folds the still valley almost round ; 
 The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn, 
 Is answer'd from the depth of dawn ; 
 In the hedge straggling to the stream. 
 Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam ; 
 But, where the farther side slopes down. 
 He sees the drowsy new-waked clown 
 
Hesfignation 29 
 
 In his white quaint-embroider'd frock 
 
 Make, whistling, toward his mist-wreathed 
 
 flock — 
 Slowly, behind his heavy tread. 
 The wet, flowerM grass heaves up its head. 
 Lean'd on his gate, he gazes — tears 
 Are in his eyes, and in his ears 
 The murmur of a thousand years. 
 Before him he sees life unroll, 
 A placid and continuous whole — 
 That general life, which does not cease, 
 Whose secret is not joy, but peace ; 
 That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd 
 If birth proceeds, if things subsist ; 
 The life of plants, and stones, and rain. 
 The life he craves — if not in vain 
 Fate gave, what chance shall not control. 
 His sad lucidity of soul. 
 
 You listen — but that wandering smile, 
 
 Fausta, betrays you cold the while ! 
 
 Your eyes pursue the bells of foam 
 
 Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. 
 
 Those gipsies^ so your thoughts I scan, 
 
 Are less^ the poet more^ than man. 
 
 They feel not^ though they move and see ; 
 
 Deeper the poet feels ; but he 
 
 Breathes^ when he will, immortal air^ 
 
30 §)elect |0onn0 of ^attl^eto amolo 
 
 Where Orpheus and where Homer are. 
 In the dafs life^ whose iron round 
 Hems us all in^ he is not bounds 
 He leaves his kind^ overleaps their pen^ 
 And fie es the common life of men. 
 He escapes thence^ hut we abide — 
 Not deep the poet sees^ but wide. 
 
 The world in which we live and move 
 
 Outlasts aversion, outlasts love, 
 
 Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, 
 
 Remorse, grief, joy; — and were the scope 
 
 Of these affections wider made, 
 
 Man still would see, and see dismay'd, 
 
 Beyond his passion's widest range, 
 
 Far regions of eternal change. 
 
 Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, 
 
 Finds him with many an unsolved plan. 
 
 With much unknown, and much untried. 
 
 Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried, 
 
 Still gazing on the ever full 
 
 Eternal mundane spectacle — 
 
 This world in which we draw our breath. 
 
 In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. 
 
 Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares 
 Judge vain beforehand human cares ; 
 Whose natural insight can discern 
 
designation 31 
 
 What through experience others learn ; 
 Who needs not love and power, to know 
 Love transient, power an unreal show ; 
 Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways — 
 Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise ! 
 Rather thyself for some aim pray 
 Nobler than this, to fill the day ; 
 Rather that heart, which burns in thee, 
 Ask, not to amuse, but to set free ; 
 Be passionate hopes not ill resign'd 
 For quiet, and a fearless mind. 
 And though fate grudge to thee and me 
 The poet's rapt security, 
 Yet they, beiieve me, who await 
 No gifts from chance, have conquer'd fate. 
 They, winning room to see and hear, 
 And to men's business not too near. 
 Through clouds of individual strife 
 Draw homeward to the general life. 
 Like leaves by suns not yet uncurl'd ; 
 To the wise, foolish ; to the world. 
 Weak ; — yet not weak, I might reply. 
 Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye. 
 To whom each moment in its race. 
 Crowd as we will its neutral space. 
 Is but a quiet watershed 
 
 Whence, equally, the seas of life and death are 
 fed. 
 
32 ^tlttt ^otm^ of ^pattlftetD amolo 
 
 Enough, we live ! — and if a life. 
 
 With large results so little rife, 
 
 Though bearable, seem hardly worth 
 
 This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth ; 
 
 Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread. 
 
 The solemn hills around us spread. 
 
 This stream which falls incessantly. 
 
 The strange-scrawl'd rocks, the lonely sky, 
 
 If I might lend their life a voice. 
 
 Seem to bear rather than rejoice. 
 
 And even could the intemperate prayer 
 
 Man iterates, while these forbear. 
 
 For movement, for an ampler sphere. 
 
 Pierce Fate's impenetrable ear; 
 
 Not milder is the general lot 
 
 Because our spirits have forgot. 
 
 In action's dizzying eddy whirl'd. 
 
 The something that infects the world. 
 
 BACCHANALIA 
 
 OR 
 
 THE NEW AGE 
 
 I 
 
 The evening comes, the fields are still. 
 The tinkle of the thirsty rill. 
 Unheard all day, ascends again ; 
 
115acctianalia, or tETtje ifteto age 33 
 
 Deserted is the half-mown plain, 
 Silent the swaths ! the ringing wain, 
 The mower's cry, the dog's alarms. 
 All housed within the sleeping farms ! 
 The business of the day is done, 
 The last-left haymaker is gone. 
 And from the thyme upon the height. 
 And from the elder-blossom white 
 And pale dog-roses in the hedge. 
 And from the mint-plant in the sedge. 
 In pufFs of balm the night-air blows 
 The perfume which the day forgoes. 
 And on the pure horizon far, 
 See, pulsing with the first-born star. 
 The liquid sky above the hill ! 
 The evening comes, the fields are still. 
 
 Loitering and leaping. 
 With saunter, with bounds — 
 Flickering and circling 
 In files and in rounds — 
 Gaily their pine-stafF green 
 Tossing in air. 
 
 Loose o'er their shoulders white 
 Showering their hair — 
 See ! the wild Maenads 
 Break from the wood. 
 Youth and lacchus 
 
34 Select jaoem0 of ^att^ietD 3imolo 
 
 Maddening their blood. 
 
 See ! through the quiet land 
 
 Rioting they pass — 
 
 Fling the fresh heaps about, 
 
 Trample the grass. 
 
 Tear from the rifled hedge 
 
 Garlands, their prize ; 
 
 Fill with their sports the field. 
 
 Fill with their cries. 
 
 Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 
 
 Shepherd, why mute ? 
 
 Forth with thy joyous song ! 
 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 
 Tempts not the revel blithe? 
 
 Lure not their cries ? 
 
 Glow not their shoulders smooth ? 
 
 Melt not their eyes ? 
 
 Is not, on cheeks like those, 
 
 Lovely the flush ? 
 
 — Ah^ so the quiet was ! 
 
 So was the hush ! 
 
 II 
 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. 
 The age has talk'd and work'd its fill 
 The famous orators have shone. 
 
115accl)analia, or ®t)e jlieto age 35 
 
 The famous poets sung and gone, 
 
 The famous men of war have fought, 
 
 The famous speculators thought. 
 
 The famous players, sculptors, wrought, 
 
 The famous painters fiU'd their wall. 
 
 The famous critics judged it all. 
 
 The combatants are parted now — 
 
 Uphung the spear, unbent the bow. 
 
 The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. 
 
 And in the after-silence sweet, 
 
 Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet. 
 
 Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 
 
 Of this or that down-trodden name, 
 
 Delicate spirits, push'd away 
 
 In the hot press of the noon-day. 
 
 And o'er the plain, where the dead age 
 
 Did its now silent warfare wage — 
 
 O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, 
 
 Where many a splendour finds its tomb, 
 
 Many spent fames and fallen nights — 
 
 The one or two immortal lights 
 
 Rise slowly up into the sky 
 
 To shine there everlastingly. 
 
 Like stars over the bounding hill. 
 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. . 
 
 Thundering and bursting 
 In torrents, in waves — 
 
36 Select poem0 of ^atttieto amolu 
 
 Carolling and shouting 
 
 Over tombs, amid graves — 
 
 See ! on the cumber'd plain 
 
 Clearing a stage, 
 
 Scattering the past about, 
 
 Comes the new age. 
 
 Bards make new poems, 
 
 Thinkers new schools, 
 
 Statesmen new systems. 
 
 Critics new rules. 
 
 All things begin again ; 
 
 Life is their prize ; 
 
 Earth with their deeds they fill, 
 
 Fill with their cries. 
 
 Poet, what ails thee, then ? 
 
 Say, why so mute ? 
 
 Forth with thy praising voice ! 
 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 
 Loiterer ! why sittest thou 
 
 Sunk in thy dream ? 
 
 Tempts not the bright new age .? 
 
 Shines not its stream ? 
 
 Look, ah, what genius. 
 
 Art, science, wit ! 
 
 Soldiers like Caesar, 
 
 Statesmen like Pitt ! 
 
 Sculptors like Phidias, 
 
^f)t goutji of il^ature 37 
 
 Raphaels in shoals, 
 
 Poets like Shakspeare — 
 
 Beautiful souls! 
 
 See, on their glowing cheeks 
 
 Heavenly the flush ! 
 
 — y//>, SO the silence was ! 
 
 So was the hush ! 
 
 The world but feels the present's spell, 
 The poet feels the past as well ; 
 Whatever men have done, might do, 
 Whatever thought, might think it too. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF NATURE 
 
 Raised are the dripping oars. 
 
 Silent the boat ! the lake. 
 
 Lovely and soft as a dream. 
 
 Swims in the sheen of the moon. 
 
 The mountains stand at its head 
 
 Clear in the pure June-night, 
 
 But the valleys are flooded with haze. 
 
 Rydal and Fairfield are there ; 
 
 In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. 
 
 So it is, so it will be for aye. 
 
 Nature is fresh as of old. 
 
 Is lovely ; a mortal is dead. 
 
38 &tltct JDoeiufli of ^att^etD amolD 
 
 The spots which recall him survive, 
 For he lent a new life to these hills. 
 The Pillar still broods o'er the fields 
 Which border Ennerdale Lake, 
 And Egremont sleeps by the sea. 
 The gleam of The Evening Star 
 Twinkles on Grasmere no more. 
 But ruin'd and solemn and grey 
 The sheepfold of Michael survives ; 
 And, far to the south, the heath 
 Still blows in the Quantock coombs. 
 By the favourite waters of Ruth. 
 These survive ! — yet not without pain. 
 Pain and dejection to-night. 
 Can I feel that their poet is gone. 
 
 He grew old in an age he condemned. 
 
 He look'd on the rushing decay 
 
 Of the times which had shelter'd his youth 
 
 Felt the dissolving throes 
 
 Of a social order he loved — 
 
 Outlived his brethren, his peers ; 
 
 And, like the Theban seer. 
 
 Died in his enemies' day. 
 
 Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, 
 Copais lay bright in the moon, 
 Helicon glass'd in the lake 
 
XE^t l^outt) of jliature 39 
 
 Its firs, and afar rose the peaks 
 Of Parnassus, snowily clear ; 
 Thebes was behind him in flames, 
 And the clang of arms in his ear, 
 When his awe-struck captors led 
 The Theban seer to the spring. 
 Tiresias drank and died. 
 Nor did reviving Thebes 
 See such a prophet again. 
 
 Well may we mourn, when the head 
 
 Of a sacred poet lies low 
 
 In an age which can rear them no more! 
 
 The complaining millions of men 
 
 Darken in labour and pain ; 
 
 But he was a priest to us all 
 
 Of the wonder and bloom of the world. 
 
 Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad. 
 
 He is dead, and the fruit-bearmg day 
 
 Of his race is past on the earth ; 
 
 And darkness returns to our eyes. 
 
 For, oh ! is it you, is it ) ou. 
 Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, 
 And mountains, that fill us with joy. 
 Or the poet who sings you so well ? 
 Is it you, O beauty, O grace, 
 O charm, O romance, that we feel, 
 
40 &tlttt ponnfl? of ^attl)fto arnolD 
 
 Or the voice which reveals what you are ? 
 Are ye, like daylight and sun, 
 Shared and rejoiced in by all ? 
 Or are ye immersed in the mass 
 Of matter, and hard to extract. 
 Or sunk at the core of the world 
 Too deep for the most to discern ? 
 Like stars in the deep of the sky. 
 Which arise on the glass of the sage, 
 But are lost when their watcher is gone. 
 
 ' They are here ' — I heard, as men heard 
 In Mysian Ida the voice 
 Of the Mighty Mother, or Crete, 
 The murmur of Nature reply — 
 ' Loveliness, magic, and grace, 
 They are here ! they are set in the world, 
 They abide ; and the finest of souls 
 Hath not been thrill'd by them all. 
 Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. 
 The poet who sings them may die. 
 But they are immortal and live. 
 For they are the life of the world. 
 Will ye not learn it, and know. 
 When ye mourn that a poet is dead. 
 That the singer was less than his themes. 
 Life, and emotion, and I ? 
 
tET^e goutt) of il^ature 41 
 
 ' More than the singer are these. 
 
 Weak is the tremor of pain 
 
 That thrills in his mournfullest chord 
 
 To that which once ran though his soul. 
 
 Cold the elation of joy 
 
 In his gladdest, airiest song. 
 
 To that which of old in his youth 
 
 Fill'd him and made him divine. 
 
 Hardly his voice at its best 
 
 Gives us a sense of the awe, 
 
 The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom 
 
 Of the unlit gulph of himself. 
 
 ' Ye know not yourselves ; and your bards — 
 
 The clearest, the best, who have read 
 
 Most in themselves — have beheld 
 
 Less than they left unreveal'd. 
 
 Ye express not yourselves ; — can ye make 
 
 With marble, with colour, with word. 
 
 What charm'd you in others re-live ? 
 
 Can thy pencil, O artist ! restore 
 
 The figure, the bloom of thy love. 
 
 As she was in her morning of spring ? 
 
 Canst thou paint the ineffable smile 
 
 Of her eyes as they rested on thine ? 
 
 Can the image of life have the glow. 
 
 The motion of life itself? 
 
42 Select poemsf of ^atttieto amolo 
 
 ' Yourselves and your fellows you know not ; 
 
 and me, 
 The mateless, the one, will ye know ? 
 Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell 
 Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, 
 My longing, my sadness, my joy ? 
 Will ye claim for your great ones the gift 
 To have render'd the gleam of my skies, 
 To have echoed the moan of my seas, 
 Utter'd the voice of my hills ? 
 When your great ones depart, will ye say : 
 All things have suffered a loss^ 
 Nature is hid in their grave ? 
 
 ' Race after race, man after man. 
 Have thought that my secret was theirs. 
 Have dreamM that I lived but for them, 
 That they were my glory and joy. 
 — They are dust, they are changed, they are 
 
 gone ! 
 I remain/ 
 
 DOVER BEACH 
 
 The sea is calm to-night. 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the 
 light 
 
SDoDer Wtul) 43 
 
 Gleams and is gone j the clifFs of England stand, 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 
 
 Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! 
 
 Only, from the long line of spray 
 
 Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, 
 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 
 Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling. 
 
 At their return, up the high strand. 
 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 
 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 
 The eternal note of sadness in, 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 
 Heard it on the ifegaean, and it brought 
 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 
 Of human misery ; we 
 
 Find also in the sound a thought. 
 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
 
 The Sea of Faith 
 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 
 
 But now I only hear 
 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
 
 Retreating, to the breath 
 
 Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 
 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 
44 Select l^onttfl? of ^attljeto amolu 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 
 To one another ! for the world, which seems 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams. 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new. 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 
 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 
 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and 
 
 flight. 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night. 
 
 PHILOMELA 
 
 Hark ! ah, the nightingale — 
 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 
 Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 
 
 What triumph ! hark ! — what pain ! 
 
 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
 
 Still, after many years, in distant lands, 
 
 Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world 
 
 pain — 
 Say, will it never heal ? 
 And can this fragrant lawn 
 With its cool trees, and night. 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 
jaijilomela 45 
 
 And moonshine, and the dew. 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 Afford no balm? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold, 
 
 Here, through the moonlight on this English 
 grass, 
 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 
 Dost thou again peruse 
 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 
 
 Dost thou once more assay 
 
 Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
 
 Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
 
 Once more, and once more seem to make re- 
 sound 
 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony. 
 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ? 
 
 Listen, Eugenia — 
 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through 
 the leaves ! 
 
 Again — thou hearest ? 
 
 Eternal passion ! 
 
 Eternal pain ! 
 
POEMS CHIEFLY OF 
 THOUGHT 
 
 QUIET WORK 
 
 One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, 
 One lesson which in every wind is blown, 
 One lesson of two duties kept at one 
 Though the loud world proclaim their enmity — 
 
 Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity! 
 Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows 
 Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose, 
 Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. 
 
 Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, 
 Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil, 
 Still do thy sleepless ministers move on. 
 
 Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting ; 
 Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil. 
 Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone. 
 
^dakB^peare 47 
 
 SHAKSPEARE 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
 We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, 
 Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, 
 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 
 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea. 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling- 
 place. 
 Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
 To the foird searching of mortality ; 
 
 And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams 
 know, 
 
 Self-school'd, self-scann*d, self-honour*d, self- 
 secure, 
 
 Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — Better so ! 
 
 All pains the immortal spirit must endure. 
 All weakness which impairs, all griefs which 
 
 bow. 
 Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 
 
48 ^tltct poem0 of ^attlietD amoto 
 
 IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS 
 
 ' O MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world. 
 That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way ! 
 A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day. 
 To-day a hero's banner is unfurPd ; 
 
 Hast thou no lip for welcome ? '- — So I said. 
 Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by ; 
 A smile of wistful incredulity 
 As though one spake of life unto the dead — 
 
 Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full 
 Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free ; 
 Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful ; 
 
 The seeds of godlike power are in us still ; 
 Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will! — 
 Pumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ? 
 
 EAST LONDON 
 
 'T WAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 
 
^Immortality 49 
 
 I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
 
 ' 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this 
 
 scene ? ' — 
 * Bravely ! * said he ; ' for I of late have been 
 Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living 
 
 bread* 
 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest through the 
 
 night ! 
 Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy 
 
 home. 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn. 
 We leave the brutal world to take its way. 
 And, Patience ! in another life^ we say, 
 The world shall he thrust down^ and we up-borne. 
 
 And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
 The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will 
 they, 
 
50 g>eUct ^otm& of ^atttieto amoto 
 
 Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day. 
 Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 
 
 No, no ! the energy of life may be 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 
 And he u^ho flagg'd not in the earthly strife, 
 
 From strength to strength advancing — only he. 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
 Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 
 
 REQUIESCAT 
 
 Strew on her roses, roses. 
 And never a spray of yew ! 
 
 In quiet she reposes ; 
 
 Ah ! would that I did too. 
 
 Her mirth the world required ; 
 
 She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
 But her heart was tired, tired. 
 
 And now they let her be. 
 
 Her life was turning, turning. 
 In mazes of heat and sound ; 
 
 But for peace her soul was yearning, 
 And now peace laps her round. 
 
grtie Mat MorD 5^ 
 
 Her cabinM, ample spirit, 
 
 It flutter'd and fail'd for breath ; 
 
 To-night it doth inherit 
 The vasty hall of death. 
 
 THE LAST WORD 
 
 Creep into thy narrow bed, 
 Creep, and let no more be said ! 
 Vain thy onset ! all stands fast. 
 Thou thyself must break at last. 
 
 Let the long contention cease ! 
 Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
 Let them have it how they will ! 
 Thou art tired ; best be still. 
 
 They out-talkM thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee ? 
 Better men fared thus before thee ; 
 Fired their ringing shot and passM, 
 Hotly charged — and sank at last. 
 
 Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
 Let the victors, when they come, 
 When the forts of folly fall. 
 Find thy body by the wall ! 
 
52 ^tlttt poem0 of ^attlbfta atrnolD 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
 What I am, and what I ought to be. 
 At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
 Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 
 
 And a look of passionate desire 
 
 O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 
 
 ' Ye who from my childhood up have calm*d me 
 
 Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! 
 
 'Ah, once more,' I cried, 'ye stars, ye waters, 
 On my heart your mighty charm renew ; 
 Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
 Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! * 
 
 From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of 
 
 heaven. 
 Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
 In the rustling night-air came the answer : 
 ' Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live as they. 
 
 ' UnafFrighted by the silence round them, 
 Undistracted by the sights they see. 
 These demand not that the things without them 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 
 
a mii^ 53 
 
 ' And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
 And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll ; 
 For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
 All the fever of some differing soul. 
 
 ' Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
 In what state God's other works may be, 
 In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
 These attain the mighty life you see/ 
 
 O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
 A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
 ' Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he 
 Who finds himself, loses his misery ! ' 
 
 A WISH 
 
 I ASK not that my bed of death 
 From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 
 For these besiege the latest breath 
 Of fortune's favour'd sons, not me. 
 
 I ask not each kind soul to keep 
 Tearless, when of my death he hears. 
 Let those who will, if any, weep ! 
 There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 
 
54 ^tittt jaoemtf of ^att^eto amolD 
 
 I ask but that my death may find 
 The freedom to my life denied ; 
 Ask but the folly of mankind 
 Then, then at last, to quit my side. 
 
 Spare me the whispering, crowded room, 
 The friends who come, and gape, and go; 
 The ceremonious air of gloom — 
 All, which makes death a hideous show ! 
 
 Nor bring, to see me cease to live. 
 Some doctor full of phrase and fame. 
 To shake his sapient head, and give 
 The ill he cannot cure a name. 
 
 Nor fetch, to take the accustomed toll 
 Of the poor sinner bound for death. 
 His brother-doctor of the soul. 
 To canvass with official breath 
 
 The future and its viewless things — 
 
 That undiscovered mystery 
 
 Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 
 
 Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 
 
 Bring none of these ; but let me be. 
 While all around in silence lies. 
 
Moved to the window near, and see 
 Once more, before my dying eyes. 
 
 Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
 The wide aerial landscape spread — 
 The world which was ere I was born. 
 The world which lasts when I am dead ; 
 
 Which never was the friend of one^ 
 Nor promised love it could not give, 
 But lit for all its generous sun. 
 And lived itself, and made us live. 
 
 There let me gaze, till I become 
 In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 
 To feel the universe my home ; 
 To have before my mind — instead 
 
 Of the sick room, the mortal strife. 
 The turmoil for a little breath — 
 The pure eternal course of life. 
 Not human combatings with death ! 
 
 Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
 Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear; 
 Then willing let my spirit go 
 To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 
 
56 g)elfct poem0 of ^att^ietD SimolD 
 
 THE FUTURE 
 
 A WANDERER is man from his birth. 
 
 He was born in a ship 
 
 On the breast of the river of Time ; 
 
 Brimming with wonder and joy 
 
 He spreads out his arms to the light, 
 
 Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 
 
 As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. 
 
 Whether he wakes 
 
 Where the snowy mountainous pass. 
 
 Echoing the screams of the eagles, 
 
 Hems in its gorges the bed 
 
 Of the new-born clear-flowing stream ; 
 
 Whether he first sees light 
 
 Where the river in gleaming rings 
 
 Sluggishly winds through the plain ; 
 
 Whether in sound of the swallowing sea — 
 
 As is the world on the banks. 
 
 So is the mind of the man. 
 
 Vainly does each, as he glides. 
 
 Fable and dream 
 
 Of the lands which the river of Time 
 
 Had left ere he woke on its breast. 
 
 Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. 
 
^\)t iFuture 57 
 
 Only the tract where he sails 
 He wots of; only the thoughts, 
 Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 
 
 Who can see the green earth any more 
 
 As she was by the sources of Time ? 
 
 Who imagines her fields as they lay 
 
 In the sunshine, unworn by the plough ? 
 
 Who thinks as they thought, 
 
 The tribes who then roam'd on her breast, 
 
 Her vigorous, primitive sons ? 
 
 What girl 
 
 Now reads in her bosom as clear 
 
 As Rebekah read, when she sate 
 
 At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 
 
 Who guards in her breast 
 
 As deep, as pellucid a spring 
 
 Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 
 
 What bard, 
 
 At the height of his vision, can deem 
 
 Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
 
 With a plainness as near. 
 
 As flashing as Moses felt, 
 
 When he lay in the night by his flock 
 
 On the starlit Arabian waste ? 
 
 Can rise and obey 
 
 The beck of the Spirit like him ? 
 
58 Select 1^00110 of ^atttiefco amoUj 
 
 This tract which the river of Time 
 
 Now flows through with us, is the plain. 
 
 Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 
 
 BorderM by cities, and hoarse 
 
 With a thousand cries is its stream. 
 
 And we on its breast, our minds 
 
 Are confused as the cries which we hear. 
 
 Changing and shot as the sights which we see. 
 
 And we say that repose has fled 
 
 For ever the course of the river of Time. 
 
 That cities will crowd to its edge 
 
 In a blacker incessanter line ; 
 
 That the din will be more on its banks. 
 
 Denser the trade on its stream. 
 
 Flatter the plain where it flows, 
 
 Fiercer the sun overhead. 
 
 That never will those on its breast 
 
 See an ennobling sight. 
 
 Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 
 
 But what was before us we know not, 
 And we know not what shall succeed. 
 
 Haply, the river of Time — 
 
 As it grows, as the towns on its marge 
 
 Fling their wavering lights 
 
 On a wider, statelier stream — 
 
W^t iFttture 59 
 
 May acquire, if not the calm 
 Of its early mountainous shore, 
 Yet a solemn peace of its own. 
 
 And the width of the waters, the hush 
 
 Of the grey expanse where he floats. 
 
 Freshening its current and spotted with foam 
 
 As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 
 
 Peace to the soul of the man on its breast — 
 
 As the pale waste widens around him, 
 
 As the banks fade dimmer away, 
 
 As the stars come out, and the night-wind 
 
 Brings up the stream 
 
 Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 
 
ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 RUGBY CHAPEL 
 
 NOVEMBER, I 8 57 
 
 Coldly, sadly descends 
 
 The autumn-evening. The field 
 
 Strewn with its dank yellow drifts 
 
 Of witherM 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 
 
Httgb^ Ctiapel 6 1 
 
 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 
 
mugb^ chapel 63 
 
 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 
 
64 ^tittt poems? of ^atttietD amolD 
 
 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. 
 
Mugb^ €\)npt\ 65 
 
 But thou would'st not a/one 
 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 wast 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, 
 
66 ^tlttt poemsf of flpatt^efcD amolD 
 
 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 ! 
 
i^ugb^ Cljapel 67 
 
 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 ; on the rocks 
 Batter for ever in vain, 
 Die one by one in the waste. 
 
 Then, in such hour of need 
 Of yv^ur 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. 
 
68 ^tlttt iBoem0 of ^atttjeto amolD 
 
 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. 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 
 
 APRIL, 1850 
 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 But one such death remain'd to come ; 
 The last poetic voice is dumb — 
 We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 
 
 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
 He taught us little; but our soul 
 Hady>// him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart the strife we saw 
 Of passion with eternal law; 
 And yet with reverential awe 
 We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife. 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, we said: 
 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
 
Memorial t^tt^ts 69 
 
 Physician of the iron age, 
 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 
 He took the suffering human race, 
 
 He read each wound, each weakness clear ; 
 
 And struck his finger on the place, 
 
 And said : Thou ailest here^ and here ! 
 
 He look'd on Europe's dying hour 
 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
 
 His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 
 
 The turmoil of expiring life — 
 
 He said : The end is everywhere^ 
 
 Art still has truth ^ take refuge there! 
 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 
 Causes of things, and far below 
 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 
 Of terror, and insane distress. 
 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth ! — Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice I 
 For never has such soothing voice 
 Been to your shadowy world conveyM, 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
 Wordsworth has gone from us — and ye, 
 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we ! 
 He too upon a wintry clime 
 Had fallen — on this iron time 
 
70 Select |^oem0 of ^att^eto amolD 
 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 He found us when the age had bound 
 Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
 He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
 He laid us as we lay at birth 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth. 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease -, 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 Our youth returned ; for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been dead. 
 Spirits dried up and closely furl'd. 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 
 Ah ! Since dark days still bring to light 
 Man's prudence and rnan's fiery might. 
 Time may restore us in his course 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power? 
 Others will teach us how to dare. 
 And against fear our breast to steel ; 
 Others will strengthen us to bear — 
 But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
 The cloud of mortal destiny. 
 Others will front it fearlessly — 
 But who, like him, will put it by ? 
 
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
 O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 
 
 Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; 
 Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes ! 
 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. 
 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, 
 Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head; 
 But when the fields are still. 
 And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest. 
 And only the white sheep are sometimes 
 
 seen 
 Cross and recross the strips of moon- 
 blanch'd green. 
 Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest ! 
 
 Here, where the reaper was at work of late — 
 In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves 
 His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse. 
 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves. 
 Then here, at noon, comes back his stores 
 to use — 
 Here will I sit ^^^ w^it, 
 
72 Select poem0 of ^attl)elD arnoto 
 
 While to my ear from uplands far away 
 The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, 
 With distant cries of reapers in the corn — 
 
 All the live murmur of a summer's day. 
 
 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd 
 field. 
 And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will I be. 
 Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies 
 peep. 
 And round green roots and yellowing stalks I 
 see 
 Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep ; 
 And air-swept lindens yield 
 Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed 
 showers 
 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid. 
 And bower me from the August-sun with 
 shade ; 
 And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 
 
 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — 
 Come, let me read the oft-read tale again ! 
 The story of that Oxford scholar poor, 
 Of shining parts and quick inventive brain. 
 Who, tired of knocking at preferment's 
 door. 
 One summer-morn forsook 
 
®^e g>cl)olar.-^ipfi;^ 73 
 
 His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore, 
 And roam'd the world with that wild 
 
 brotherhood. 
 And came, as most men deem*d, to little 
 good. 
 But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 
 
 But once, years after, in the country-lanes. 
 Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew. 
 Met him, and of his way of life enquired ; 
 Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew, 
 His mates, had arts to rule as they desired 
 The workings of men's brains. 
 And they can bind them to what thoughts 
 they will. 
 ' And I,' he said, ' the secret of their art. 
 When fully learn'd, will to the world im- 
 part ; 
 But it needs heaven-sent moments for this 
 skill.' 
 
 This said, he left them, and returned no more. — 
 But rumours hung about the country-side. 
 
 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray. 
 Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue- 
 tied. 
 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 
 The same the gipsies wore. 
 
74 Select poem0 of ^atttieto aimolD 
 
 Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; 
 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire 
 
 moors, l 
 On the warm ingle-bench, the smock- 
 frock*d boors 
 Had found him seated at their entering, 
 
 But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. 
 And I myself seem half to know thy looks. 
 And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on thy 
 trace ; 
 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the 
 rooks 
 I ask if thou hast pass*d their quiet place ; 
 Or in my boat I lie 
 Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 
 *Mid wide grass meadows which the sun- 
 shine fills. 
 And watch the warm, green-muffled Cum- 
 ner hills. 
 And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 
 
 For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground ! 
 Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, 
 
 Returning home on summer-nights, have 
 met 
 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock- 
 hithe. 
 
^^t g>c|)olar;;<0i|j0^ 75 
 
 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 
 As the punt*s rope chops round ; 
 And leaning backward in a pensive dream, 
 And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
 Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood 
 bowers. 
 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 
 
 And then they land, and thou art seen no 
 more ! — 
 Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come 
 To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 
 Oft through the darkening fields have seen 
 thee roam, 
 Or cross a stile into the public way ; 
 Oft thou hast given them store 
 Of flowers — the frail-leaf 'd, white anemony. 
 Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of sum- 
 mer eves. 
 And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
 But none hath words she can report of thee ! 
 
 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's 
 here 
 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine 
 flames. 
 Men who through those wide fields of 
 breezy grass. 
 
76 §>elect ^otm& of ^atttieto amolu 
 
 Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the 
 glittering Thames, 
 To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass, 
 Have often pass'd thee near 
 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 
 Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure 
 
 spare. 
 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted 
 air — 
 But, when they came from bathing, thou wast 
 gone! 
 
 At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills. 
 Where at her open door the housewife darns, 
 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 
 To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
 Children, who early range these slopes and 
 late 
 For cresses from the rills. 
 Have known thee eying, all an April-day, 
 The springing pastures and the feeding 
 
 kine ; 
 And mark'd thee, when the stars come out 
 and shine. 
 Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 
 
 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — 
 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 
 
Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush 
 
 you see 
 
 With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of grey, 
 
 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly — 
 
 The blackbird picking food 
 
 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; 
 
 So often has he known thee past him stray| 
 
 Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray. 
 
 And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 
 
 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 
 Where home through flooded fields foot- 
 travellers go. 
 Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden 
 bridge 
 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the 
 snow. 
 Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry 
 ridge ? 
 And thou hast climb'd the hill. 
 And gainM the white brow of the Cumner 
 range; 
 Turn'd once to watch, while thick the 
 
 snow-flakes fall. 
 The line of festal light in Christ-Church 
 hall — 
 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd 
 grange. 
 
78 Select poems? of ^pattljeto amolu 
 
 But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are 
 flown 
 Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, 
 And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
 That thou wert wander'd from the studious 
 walls 
 To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy- 
 tribe. 
 And thou from earth art gone 
 Long since, and in some quiet churchyard 
 laid — 
 Some country-nook, where o'er thy un- 
 known grave 
 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles 
 wave. 
 Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 
 
 — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours ! 
 For what wears out the life of mortal men ? 
 'T is that from change to change their 
 being rolls ; 
 'T is that repeated shocks, again, again. 
 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls. 
 And numb the elastic powers. 
 Till having used our nerves with bliss and 
 teen. 
 And tired upon a thousand schemes our 
 wit, 
 
To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
 Our well-worn life, and are — what we have 
 been. 
 
 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, 
 
 so ? 
 Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire ; 
 Else wert thou long since numbered with 
 the dead ! 
 Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy 
 fire! 
 The generations of thy peers are fled. 
 And we ourselves shall go; 
 But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
 And we imagine thee exempt from age, 
 And living as thou liv'st on GlanviPs page. 
 Because thou hadst — what we, alas ! have 
 not. 
 
 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers 
 Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
 Firm to their mark, not spent on other 
 things ; 
 Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. 
 Which much to have tried, in much been 
 baffled, brings. 
 O life unlike to ours ! 
 Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, 
 
8o g^elect |3oem0 of ^attlietD Simoto 
 
 Of whom each strives, nor knows for 
 
 what he strives, 
 And each half lives a hundred different 
 
 lives ; 
 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 
 
 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven ! and we. 
 Light half-believers of our casual creeds, 
 
 Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, 
 Whose insight never has borne fruit in 
 deeds, 
 Whose vague resolves never have been 
 fulfilled ; 
 For whom each year we see 
 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; 
 Who hesitate and falter life away. 
 And lose to-morrow the ground won to- 
 day — 
 Ah ! do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? 
 
 Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays. 
 
 And then we suffer ! and amongst us one. 
 Who most has sufFer'd, takes dejectedly 
 His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
 And all his store of sad experience he 
 Lays bare of wretched days ; 
 Tells us his misery's birth and growth and 
 signs. 
 
And how the dying spark of hope was fed, 
 And how the breast was soothed, and how 
 the head, 
 And all his hourly varied anodynes. 
 
 This for our wisest ! and we others pine. 
 And wish the long unhappy dream would end, 
 And waive all claim to bliss, and try to 
 bear ; 
 With ciose-lipp'd patience for our only friend, 
 Sad patience, too near neighbour to de- 
 spair — 
 But none has hope like thine ! 
 Thou through the fields and through the woods 
 dost stray, 
 Roaming the country-side, a truant boy. 
 Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. 
 And every doubt long blown by time away. 
 
 O born in days when wits were fresh and clear. 
 And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; 
 Before this strange disease of modern life. 
 With its sick hurry, its divided aims. 
 
 Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was 
 rife — 
 Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
 Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood ! 
 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
 
82 ^tlttt iaoem0 of ^attJetD amolu 
 
 From her false friend's approach in Hades 
 turn, 
 Wave us away, and keep thy solitude ! 
 
 Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
 Still clutching the inviolable shade. 
 
 With a free, onward impulse brushing 
 through. 
 By night, the silver'd branches of the glade — 
 Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue. 
 On some mild pastoral slope 
 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 
 Freshen thy flowers as in former years 
 With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 
 From the dark dingles, to the nightingales ! 
 
 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! 
 For strong the infection of our mental strife. 
 Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils 
 for rest ; 
 And we should win thee from thy own fair 
 life. 
 Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
 Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy 
 powers. 
 And thy clear aims be cross and shifting 
 made; 
 
turtle ^c\)ohtMpsi^ 83 
 
 And then thy glad perennial youth would 
 fade, 
 Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 
 
 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! 
 — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea. 
 
 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
 Lifting the cool-hairM creepers stealthily. 
 The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
 Among the ^Egaean isles ; 
 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 
 Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian 
 
 wine. 
 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in 
 brine — 
 And knew the intruders on his ancient home. 
 
 The young light-hearted masters of the waves — 
 And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more 
 sail. 
 And day and night held on indignantly 
 O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 
 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
 To where the Atlantic raves 
 Outside the western straits, and unbent sails 
 There where down cloudy cliffs, through 
 
 sheets of foam. 
 Shy traflickers, the dark Iberians come ; 
 And on the beach undid his corded bales. 
 
84 Select l^oemsf of ^attiieto SimolD 
 
 THYRSIS 
 
 A Monody, to commemorate the author* s friend, 
 Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at Florence y 1861. 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or 
 fills! 
 In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same ; 
 The village street its haunted mansion 
 lacks, 
 And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, 
 And from the roofs the twisted chimney- 
 stacks — 
 Are ye too changed, ye hills ? 
 See, 't is no foot of unfamiliar men 
 
 To-night from Oxford up your pathway 
 
 strays ! 
 Here came I often, often, in old days — 
 Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. 
 
 Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth 
 Farm, 
 Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree 
 crowns 
 The hill behind whose ridge the sunset 
 flames ? 
 The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 
 
tETtll^Wifif 85 
 
 The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful 
 Thames ? — 
 
 This winter-eve is warm. 
 Humid the air ! leafless, yet soft as spring. 
 The tender purple spray on copse and 
 
 briers ! 
 And that sweet city with her dreaming 
 spires. 
 She needs not June for beauty's heightening. 
 
 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night ! — 
 Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 
 Befalls me wandering through this upland 
 dim. 
 Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour ; 
 Now seldom come I, since I came with 
 him. 
 That single elm-tree bright 
 Against the west — I miss it! is it gone? 
 We prized it dearly ; while it stood, we 
 
 said. 
 Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not 
 dead; 
 While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here. 
 But once I knew each field, each flower, each 
 stick ; 
 
86 gyelect poem0 o( ^attlietD amolD 
 
 And with the country-folk acquaintance 
 made 
 By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 
 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first 
 assay'd. 
 Ah me ! this many a year 
 My pipe is lost, my shepherd's-holiday ! 
 Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy 
 
 heart 
 Into the world and wave of men depart, 
 But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 
 
 It irkM him to be here, he could not rest. 
 He loved each simple joy the country yields, 
 He loved his mates ; but yet he could not 
 keep. 
 For that a shadow lower'd on the fields. 
 Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd 
 his head. 
 He went ; his piping took a troubled sound 
 Of storms that rage outside our happy 
 ground ; 
 He could not wait their passing, he is dead. 
 
 So, some tempestuous morn in early June, 
 When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, 
 
Before the roses and the longest day — 
 When garden-walks, and all the grassy floor, 
 With blossoms red and white of fallen May, 
 And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
 So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry. 
 From the wet field, through the vext gar- 
 den-trees. 
 Come with the volleying rain and tossing 
 breeze : 
 The bloom is gone^ and with the bloom go I ! 
 
 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go ? 
 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come 
 on, 
 Soon will the musk carnations break and 
 swell. 
 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon. 
 Sweet- William with his homely cottage- 
 smell. 
 And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
 Roses that down the alleys shine afar. 
 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices. 
 And groups under the dreaming garden- 
 trees. 
 And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 
 
 He hearkens not ! light comer, he is flown ! 
 What matters it ? next year he will return. 
 
88 Select poemsf of ^attljetD amolu 
 
 And we shall have him in the sweet spring- 
 days, 
 With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling 
 fern. 
 And blue-bells trembling by the forest- 
 ways, 
 And scent of hay new-mown. 
 But Thyrsis never more we swains shall 
 see; 
 See him come back, and cut a smoother 
 
 reed. 
 And blow a strain the world at last shall 
 heed — 
 For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee ! 
 
 Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! — 
 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate. 
 Some good survivor with his flute would 
 
 Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate ; 
 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, 
 And relax Pluto*s brow. 
 And make leap up with joy the beauteous 
 head 
 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 
 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, 
 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the 
 dead. 
 
O easy access to the hearer's grace 
 
 When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! 
 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, 
 She knew each lily white which Enna 
 yields. 
 Each rose with blushing face j 
 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 
 But ah, of our poor Thames she never 
 
 heard ! 
 Her foot the Cumner cowslips never 
 stirr'd ; 
 And we should tease her with our plaint in 
 Yain ! 
 
 Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, 
 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 
 In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd 
 hill! 
 Who, if not I, for questing here hath power ? 
 I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
 I know the Fyfield tree, 
 I know what white, what purple fritillaries 
 The grassy harvest of the river-fields. 
 Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, 
 yields. 
 And what sedged brooks are Thames's tribu- 
 taries ; 
 
90 Select poemsf of ^att^eto amolD 
 
 I know these slopes ; who knows them if not 
 I? — 
 But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, 
 With thorns once studded, old, white-blos- 
 som'd trees. 
 Where thick the cowslips grew, and far de- 
 scried 
 High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises. 
 Hath since our day put by 
 The coronals of that forgotten time ; 
 
 Down each green bank hath gone the 
 
 plough-boy's team. 
 And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
 Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 
 
 Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, 
 Above the locks, above the boating throng, 
 Unmoor'd our skifF when through the 
 Wytham flats. 
 Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet 
 among. 
 And darting swallows and light water-gnats. 
 We track'd the shy Thames shore ? 
 Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 
 Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass. 
 Stood with suspended scythe to see us 
 pass ? — 
 They all are gone, and thou art gone as well 1 
 
®^)^rfififl( 91 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too the night 
 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair 
 sprent with grey ; 
 I feel her finger light 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; — 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning 
 
 dew, 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new. 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring 
 again. 
 
 And long the way appears, which seem*d so 
 short 
 To the less practised eye of sanguine youth ; 
 And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air. 
 The mountain-tops where is the throne of 
 Truth, 
 Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and 
 bare ! 
 Unbreachable the fort 
 Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall ; 
 And strange and vain the earthly turmoil 
 
 grows. 
 And near and real the charm of thy repose, 
 And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 
 
92 ^rtect ^otm& of ^attlietD SimoUj 
 
 But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss 
 
 Of quiet ! — Look, adown the dusk hill-side, 
 
 A troop of Oxford hunters going home, 
 As in old days, jovial and talking, ride ! 
 From hunting with the Berkshire hounds 
 they come. 
 Quick! let me fly, and cross 
 Into yon farther field ! — 'T is done ; and see, 
 Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 
 The orange and pale violet evening-sky, 
 Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! the Tree ! 
 
 I take the omen ! Eve lets down her veil, 
 The white fog creeps from bush to bush about. 
 The west unflushes, the high stars grow 
 bright. 
 And in the scattered farms the lights come out. 
 I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night. 
 Yet, happy omen, hail ! 
 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale 
 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids 
 
 keep 
 The morningless and unawakening sleep 
 Under the flowery oleanders pale). 
 
 Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there ! — 
 Ah, vain ! These English fields, this upland 
 dim. 
 
These brambles pale with mist engar- 
 landed, 
 That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him ; 
 To a boon southern country he is fled, 
 And now in happier air. 
 Wandering with the great Mother's train 
 divine 
 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 
 I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) 
 Within a folding of the Apennine, 
 
 Thou hearest the immortal chants of old ! 
 Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 
 
 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king. 
 For thee the Lityerses-song again 
 
 Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth 
 sing; 
 Sings his Sicilian fold, 
 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — 
 And how a call celestial round him rang. 
 And heavenward from the fountain-brink 
 he sprang, 
 And all the marvel of the golden skies 
 
 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
 Sole in these fields ! yet will I not despair. 
 
 Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
 'Neath the soft canopy of English air 
 
94 Select poemsf of ^aetljeto amolD 
 
 That lonely tree against the western sky. 
 Still, still these slopes, 't is clear. 
 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee ! 
 Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the 
 
 hay. 
 Woods with anemonies in flower till May, 
 Know him a wanderer still ; then why not me ? 
 
 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks. 
 Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 
 
 This does not come with houses or with 
 gold, 
 With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 
 'T is not in the world's market bought and 
 sold — 
 But the smooth-slipping weeks 
 Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired ; 
 Out of the heed of mortals he is gone. 
 He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone ; 
 Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 
 
 Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound ! 
 Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour ! 
 Men gave thee nothing ; but this happy 
 quest. 
 If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power. 
 If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 
 And this rude Cumner ground. 
 
Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, 
 Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful 
 
 time. 
 Here was thine height of strength, thy 
 golden prime ! 
 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 
 
 What though the music of thy rustic flute 
 Kept not for long its happy, country tone ; 
 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired 
 thy throat — 
 It fail'd, and thou wast mute ! 
 Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light. 
 And long with men of care thou couldst 
 
 not stay. 
 And soon thy foot resumed its wandering 
 way. 
 Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here ! 
 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, 
 
 Thyrsis ! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. 
 — Then through the great town's harsh, 
 heart-wearying roar. 
 Let in thy voice a whisper often come. 
 To chase fatigue and fear : 
 
96 Select poem0 of ^attlietD Arnold 
 
 Why faintest thou ? I wander d till I died. 
 Roam on ! The light we sought is shining 
 
 still 
 Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the 
 hill. 
 Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. 
 
 HEINFS GRAVE 
 
 ' Henri Heine * 't is here ! 
 
 The black tombstone, the name 
 
 Carved there — no more ! and the smooth, 
 
 Swarded alleys, the limes 
 
 Touch'd with yellow by hot 
 
 Summer, but under them still, 
 
 In September's bright afternoon, 
 
 Shadow, and verdure, and cool. 
 
 Trim Montmartre ! the faint 
 
 Murmur of Paris outside ; 
 
 Crisp everlasting-flowers. 
 
 Yellow and black, on the graves. 
 
 Half blind, palsied, in pain. 
 Hither to come, from the streets' 
 Uproar, surely not loath 
 Wast thou, Heine ! — to lie 
 Quiet, to ask for closed 
 
l^eine'fif ^rabe 97 
 
 Shutters, and darken'd room, 
 And cool drinks, and an eased 
 Posture, and opium, no more ; 
 Hither to come, and to sleep 
 Under the wings of Renown. 
 
 Ah ! not little, when pain 
 Is most quelling, and man 
 Easily queird, and the fine 
 Temper of genius so soon 
 Thrills at each smart, is the praise. 
 Not to have yielded to pain ! 
 No small boast, for a weak 
 Son of mankind, to the earth 
 Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear 
 His bolt-scathed front to the stars j 
 And, undaunted, retort 
 'Gainst thick-crashing, insane, 
 Tyrannous tempests of bale, 
 Arrowy lightnings of soul. 
 
 Hark ! through the alley resounds 
 Mocking laughter ! A film 
 Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze 
 Ruffles the warm afternoon. 
 Saddens my soul with its chill. 
 Gibing of spirits in scorn 
 Shakes every leaf of the grove, 
 
98 Select jaoentfii of spatttieto amolD 
 
 Mars the benignant repose 
 
 Of this amiable home of the dead. 
 
 Bitter spirits, ye claim 
 
 Heine ? Alas, he is yours ! 
 
 Only a moment I long'd 
 
 Here in the quiet to snatch 
 
 From such mates the outworn 
 
 Poet, and steep him in calm. 
 
 Only a moment ! I knew 
 
 Whose he was who is here 
 
 Buried — I knew he was yours ! 
 
 Ah, I knew that I saw 
 
 Here no sepulchre built 
 
 In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue 
 
 Naples bay, for a sweet 
 
 Tender Virgil ! no tomb 
 
 On Ravenna sands, in the shade 
 
 Of Ravenna pines, for a high 
 
 Austere Dante ! no grave 
 
 By the Avon side, in the bright 
 
 Stratford meadows, for thee, 
 
 Shakspeare ! loveliest of souls, 
 
 Peerless in radiance, in joy ! 
 
 What, then, so harsh and malign, 
 Heine ! distils from thy life ? 
 Poisons the peace of thy grave ? 
 
I chide with thee not, that thy sharp 
 Upbraidings often assail'd 
 England, my country — for we, 
 Heavy and sad, for her sons, 
 Long since, deep in our hearts, 
 Echo the blame of her foes. 
 We, too, sigh that she flags ; 
 We, too, say that she now — 
 Scarce comprehending the voice 
 Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons 
 Of a former age any more — 
 Stupidly travels her round 
 Of mechanic business, and lets 
 Slow die out of her life 
 Glory, and genius, and joy. 
 
 So thou arraign'st her, her foe ; 
 So we arraign her, her sons. 
 
 Yes, we arraign her ! but she, 
 The weary Titan, with deaf 
 Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes, 
 Regarding neither to right 
 Nor left, goes passively by. 
 Staggering on to her goal ; 
 Bearing on shoulders immense, 
 Atlantean, the load, 
 Wellnigh not to be borne. 
 Of the too vast orb of her fate. 
 
100 ^tlM porm0 of ^attiietD ;9moto 
 
 But was it thou — I think 
 Surely it was ! — that bard 
 Unnamed, who, Goethe said, 
 Had every other gift^ but wanted love ; 
 Love, without which the tongue 
 Even of angels sounds amiss ? 
 
 Charm is the glory which makes 
 
 Song of the poet divine. 
 
 Love is the fountain of charm. 
 
 How without charm wilt thou draw. 
 
 Poet ! the world to thy way ? 
 
 Not by the lightnings of wit — 
 
 Not by the thunder of scorn ! 
 
 These to the world, too, are given ; 
 
 Wit it possesses, and scorn — 
 
 Charm is the poet's alone. 
 
 Hollow and dull are the great^ 
 
 And artists envious^ and the mob profane. 
 
 We know all this, we know ! 
 
 Cam'st thou from heaven, O child 
 
 Of light ! but this to declare ? 
 
 Alas, to help us forget 
 
 Such barren knowledge awhile, 
 
 God gave the poet his song ! 
 
 Therefore a secret unrest 
 Tortured thee, brilliant and bold ! 
 
J^eine'flf <Srabe loi 
 
 Therefore triumph itself 
 Tasted amiss to thy soul. 
 Therefore, with blood of thy foes. 
 Trickled in silence thine own. 
 Therefore the victor's heart 
 Broke on the field of his fame. 
 
 Ah ! as of old, from the pomp 
 Of Italian Milan, the fair 
 Flower of marble of white 
 Southern palaces — steps 
 Border'd by statues, and walks 
 Terraced, and orange-bowers 
 Heavy v*ith fragrance — the blond 
 German Kaiser full oft 
 Long'd himself back to the fields, 
 Rivers, and high-roof *d towns 
 Of his native Germany ; so, 
 So, how often ! from hot 
 Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps 
 Blazing, and brilliant crowds. 
 Starred and jewell'd, of men 
 Famous, of women the queens 
 Of dazzling converse — from fumes 
 Of praise,hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain 
 That mount, that madden — how oft 
 Heine's spirit outworn 
 Long'd itself out of the din, 
 
102 ^tltct poem0 of ^att^elD amolo 
 
 Back to the tranquil, the cool 
 Far German home of his youth ! 
 
 See ! in the May-afternoon, 
 
 O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz, 
 
 A youth, with the foot of youth, 
 
 Heine ! thou climbest again ! 
 
 Up, through the tall dark firs 
 
 Warming their heads in the sun. 
 
 Chequering the grass with their shade — 
 
 Up, by the stream, with its huge 
 
 Moss-hung boulders, and thin 
 
 Musical water half-hid — 
 
 Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, 
 
 With the sinking sun, and the air 
 
 Chill, and the shadows now 
 
 Long on the grey hill-side — 
 
 To the stone-roof 'd hut at the top ! 
 
 Or, yet later, in watch 
 
 On the roof of the Brocken-tower 
 
 Thou standest, gazing ! — to see 
 
 The broad red sun, over field, 
 
 Forest, and city, and spire. 
 
 And mist-track'd stream of the wide 
 
 Wide German land, going down 
 
 In a bank of vapours again 
 
 Standest, at nightfall, alone ! 
 
^tinfi (Sratie 103 
 
 Or, next morning, with limbs 
 
 Rested by slumber, and heart 
 
 Freshened and light with the May, 
 
 O'er the gracious spurs coming down 
 
 Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks 
 
 And beechen coverts, and copse 
 
 Of hazels green in whose depth 
 
 Use, the fairy transform'd. 
 
 In a thousand water-breaks light 
 
 Pours her petulant youth — 
 
 Climbing the rock which juts 
 
 O'er the valley — the dizzily perch'd 
 
 Rock— to its iron cross 
 
 Once more thou cling'st ; to the Cross 
 
 Clingest ! with smiles, with a sigh ! 
 
 Goethe, too, had been there. 
 In the long-past winter he came 
 To the frozen Hartz, with his soul 
 Passionate, eager — his youth 
 All in ferment ! — but he 
 Destined to work and to live 
 Left it, and thou, alas ! 
 Only to laugh and to die. 
 
 But something prompts me : Not thus 
 Take leave of Heine ! not thus 
 Speak the last word at his grave ! 
 
104 ^tlttt i^oemsf of ^atttietD Simotti 
 
 Not in pity, and not 
 With half censure — with awe 
 Hail, as it passes from earth 
 Scattering lightnings, that soul ! 
 
 The Spirit of the world, 
 Beholding the absurdity of men — 
 Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile, 
 For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. 
 That smile was Heine ! — for its earthly hour 
 The strange guest sparkled ; now *t is pass'd 
 away. 
 
 That was Heine ! and we. 
 Myriads who live, who have lived, 
 What are we all, but a mood, 
 A single mood, of the life 
 Of the Spirit in whom we exist, 
 Who alone is all things in one ? 
 
 Spirit, who fillest us all ! 
 Spirit, who utterest in each 
 New-coming son of mankind 
 Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt ! 
 O thou, one of whose moods. 
 Bitter and strange, was the life 
 Of Heine — his strange, alas. 
 His bitter life ! — may a life 
 
Other and milder be mine ! 
 May'st thou a mood more serene, 
 Happier, have utterM in mine ! 
 May*st thou the rapture of peace 
 Deep have embreathed at its core; 
 Made it a ray of thy thought, 
 Made it a beat of thy joy ! 
 
 GEIST'S GRAVE 
 
 Four years ! — and didst thou stay above 
 The ground, which hides thee now, but four ? 
 And all th<it life, and all that love, 
 Were crowded, Geist ! into no more ? 
 
 Only four years those winning ways. 
 Which make me for thy presence yearn, 
 Caird us to pet thee or to praise. 
 Dear little friend ! at every turn .? 
 
 That loving heart, that patient soul. 
 Had they indeed no longer span, 
 To run their course, and reach their goal, 
 And read their homily to man ? 
 
 That liquid melancholy eye. 
 
 From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs 
 
io6 Select poem0 of ^atttieto SirnolD 
 
 Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,' 
 The sense of tears in mortal things — 
 
 That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled 
 
 By spirits gloriously gay, 
 
 And temper of heroic mould — 
 
 What, was four years their whole short day ? 
 
 Yes, only four ! — and not the course 
 
 Of all the centuries to come. 
 
 And not the infinite resource 
 
 Of Nature, with her countless sum 
 
 Of figures, with her fulness vast 
 Of new creation evermore. 
 Can ever quite forget the past, 
 Or just thy little self restore. 
 
 Stern law of every mortal lot ! 
 Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear. 
 And builds himself I know not what 
 Of second life I know not where. 
 
 But thou, when struck thy hour to go. 
 On us, who stood despondent by, 
 A meek last glance of love didst throw. 
 And humbly lay thee down to die. 
 
 ' Sunt lacrima rerum ! 
 
(fi^eifift'fif (Srabe 107 
 
 Yet would we keep thee in our heart — 
 Would fix our favourite on the scene, 
 Nor let thee utterly depart 
 And be as if thou ne*er hadst been. 
 
 And so there rise these lines of verse 
 On lips that rarely form them now ; 
 While to each other we rehearse : 
 Such ways^ such arts^ such looks hadst thou ! 
 
 We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 
 We bid thee to thy vacant chair, 
 We greet thee by the window-pane. 
 We hear thy scuffle on the stair. 
 
 We see the flaps of thy large ears 
 Quick raised to ask which way we go ; 
 Crossing the frozen lake, appears 
 Thy small black figure on the snow ! 
 
 Nor to us only art thou dear 
 Who mourn thee in thine English home ; 
 Thou hast thine absent master's tear, 
 Dropt by the far Australian foam. 
 
 Thy memory lasts both here and there, 
 And thou shalt live as long as we. 
 And after that — thou dost not care ! 
 In us was all thy world to thee. 
 
io8 Select JBoentfif of ^attl^etD amolD 
 
 Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, 
 Even to a date beyond our own 
 We strive to carry down thy name. 
 By mounded turf, and graven stone. 
 
 We lay thee, close within our reach. 
 Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, 
 Between the holly and the beech. 
 Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form. 
 
 Asleep, yet lending half an ear 
 To travellers on the Portsmouth road ; — 
 There build we thee, O guardian dear, 
 Marked with a stone, thy last abode. 
 
 Then some, who through this garden pass. 
 When we too, like thyself, are clay. 
 Shall see thy grave upon the grass 
 And stop before the stone and say : 
 
 People who lived here long ago 
 
 Did by this stone^ it seems^ intend 
 
 To name for future times to know 
 
 The dachshound^ Geist^ their little friend. 
 
NARRATIVE AND DRAMATIC 
 POEMS 
 
 THE STRAYED REVELLER 
 
 THE PORTICO OF CIRCE* S PALACE. EVENING. 
 
 A Youth. Circe. 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 Circe, Goddess, 
 
 Let the wild, thronging train. 
 The bright procession 
 Of eddying forms. 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 Thou standest, smiling 
 
 Down on me ! thy right arm, 
 
 Lean'd up against the column there. 
 
 Props thy soft cheek ; 
 
 Thy left holds, hanging loosely. 
 
 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, 
 
 1 held but now. 
 
no Select poenifi? of ^patttieto amolD 
 
 Is it then evening 
 So soon ? I see, the night-dews, 
 Clustered in thick beads, dim 
 The agate brooch-stones 
 On thy white shoulder; 
 The cool night-wind, too. 
 Blows through the portico, 
 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 
 Waves thy white robe ! 
 
 Circe 
 Whence art thou, sleeper ? 
 
 The Youth 
 
 When the white dawn first 
 
 Through the rough fir-planks 
 
 Of my hut, by the chestnuts. 
 
 Up at the valley-head. 
 
 Came breaking. Goddess ! 
 
 I sprang up, I threw round me 
 
 My dappled fawn-skin ; 
 
 Passing out, from the wet turf. 
 
 Where they lay, by the hut door, 
 
 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-stafF, 
 
 All drench'd in dew — 
 
 Came swift down to join 
 
 The rout early gathered 
 
 In the town, round the temple, 
 
3I^^e §>tra^eD Mefaeller m 
 
 lacchus* white fane 
 On yonder hill. 
 
 Quick I passM, following 
 The wood-cutters' cart-track 
 Down the dark valley; — I saw 
 On my left, through the beeches, 
 Thy palace, Goddess, 
 Smokeless, empty ! 
 Trembling, I enter'd ; beheld 
 The court all silent. 
 The lions sleeping. 
 On the altar this bowl. 
 I drank. Goddess ! 
 And sank down here, sleeping, 
 On the steps of thy portico. 
 
 Circe 
 
 Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? 
 
 Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? 
 
 Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows. 
 
 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 
 
 The red, creaming liquor, 
 
 Strown with dark seeds ! 
 
 Drink, then ! I chide thee not. 
 
 Deny thee not my bowl. 
 
 Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so ! 
 
 Drink — drink again ! 
 
112 Select pomtfif of ^atttieto arnolD 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Thanks, gracious one ! 
 Ah, the sweet fumes again ! 
 More soft, ah me. 
 More subtle-winding 
 Than Pan's flute-music ! 
 Faint — faint ! Ah me. 
 Again the sweet sleep ! 
 
 Circe 
 
 Hist ! Thou — within there ! 
 Come forth, Ulysses ! 
 Art tired with hunting ? 
 While we range the woodland. 
 See what the day brings. 
 
 Ulysses 
 
 Ever new magic ! 
 
 Hast thou then lured hither. 
 
 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art. 
 
 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 
 
 lacchus' darling — 
 
 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 
 
 Of Pan and the Nymphs ? 
 
 That he sits, bending downward 
 
 His white, delicate neck 
 
 To the ivy-wreathed marge 
 
®^e ^tta^eD l^etjeller 1 1 3 
 
 Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 
 
 That crown his hair, 
 
 Falling forward, mingling 
 
 With the dark ivy-plants — 
 
 His fawn-skin, half-untied, 
 
 Smear'd with red wine-stains ? Who is he, 
 
 That he sits, overweigh'd 
 
 By fumes of wine and sleep. 
 
 So late, in thy portico ? 
 
 What youth. Goddess, — what guest 
 
 Of Gods or mortals ? 
 
 Circe 
 Hist ! he wakes ! 
 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 
 Nay, ask him ! 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Who speaks ? Ah, who comes forth 
 
 To thy side. Goddess, from within ? 
 
 How shall I name him ? 
 
 This spare, dark-featured, 
 
 Quick-eyed stranger ? 
 
 Ah, and I see too 
 
 His sailor's bonnet. 
 
 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, 
 
 With one arm bare ! — 
 
 Art thou not he, whom fame 
 
114 Select poentfif of ^attl^^tD amoto 
 
 This long time rumours 
 
 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by 
 
 the waves ? 
 Art thou he, stranger ? 
 The wise Ulysses, 
 Laertes' son ? 
 
 Ulysses 
 I am Ulysses. 
 And thou, too, sleeper ? 
 Thy voice is sweet. 
 It may be thou hast followed 
 Through the islands some divine bard. 
 By age taught many things, 
 Age and the Muses ; 
 And heard him delighting 
 The chiefs and people 
 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs 
 Of Gods and Heroes, 
 Of war and arts. 
 And peopled cities, 
 Inland, or built 
 
 By the grey sea — If so, then hail ! 
 I honour and welcome thee. 
 
 The Youth 
 
 The Gods are happy. 
 They turn on all sides 
 
®t)e S)trai?eu Kebeller 115 
 
 Their shining eyes, 
 And see below them 
 The earth and men. 
 
 They see Tiresias 
 Sitting, staff in hand, 
 On the v/arm, grassy 
 Asopus bank. 
 His robe drawn over 
 His old, sightless head, 
 Revolving inly 
 The doom of Thebes. 
 
 They see the Centaurs 
 In the upper glens 
 Of Pelion, in the streams. 
 Where red-berried ashes fringe 
 The clear-brown shallow pools. 
 With streaming flanks, and heads 
 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 
 The mountain wind. 
 
 They see the Indian 
 Drifting, knife in hand. 
 His frail boat moor'd to 
 A floating isle thick-matted 
 With large-leaved, low-creeping 
 melon-plants, 
 
ii6 g>elect J^oems of ^atttjeto atrnolD 
 
 And the dark cucumber. 
 He reaps, and stows them, 
 Drifting — drifting ; — round him, 
 Round his green harvest-plot. 
 Flow the cool lake-waves. 
 The mountains ring them. 
 
 They see the Scythian 
 
 On the wide stepp, unharnessing 
 
 His wheeled house at noon. 
 
 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal — 
 
 Mares' milk, and bread 
 
 Baked on the embers ; — all around 
 
 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, 
 
 thick-starr'd 
 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 
 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 
 Sitting in his cart 
 He makes his meal 5 before him, for long 
 
 miles. 
 Alive with bright green lizards. 
 And the springing bustard-fowl. 
 The track, a straight black line. 
 Furrows the rich soil ; here and there 
 Clusters of lonely mounds 
 Topp'd with rough-hewn. 
 Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 
 The sunny waste. 
 
W'i^t ^tra^eu Hebeller 117 
 
 They see the ferry 
 
 On the broad, clay-laden 
 
 Lone Chorasmian stream ; — thereon, 
 
 With snort and strain. 
 
 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 
 
 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 
 
 To either bow 
 
 Firm-harness'd by the mane ; a chief. 
 
 With shout and shaken spear. 
 
 Stands at the prow, and guides them ; but 
 
 astern 
 The cowering merchants in long robes 
 Sit pale beside their wealth 
 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops. 
 Of gold and ivory. 
 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 
 Jasper and chalcedony. 
 And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. 
 The loaded boat swings groaning 
 In the yellow eddies ; 
 The Gods behold them. 
 
 They see the Heroes 
 
 Sitting in the dark ship 
 
 On the foamless, long-heaving, 
 
 Violet sea, 
 
 At sunset nearing 
 
 The Happy Islands. 
 
ii8 Select poems? of ^attlieto amoto 
 
 These things, Ulysses, 
 The wise bards also 
 Behold and sing. 
 But oh, what labour! 
 O prince, what pain ! 
 
 They too can see 
 Tiresias ; — but the Gods, 
 Who give them vision. 
 Added this law : 
 That they should bear too 
 His groping blindness, 
 His dark foreboding. 
 His scornM white hairs ; 
 Bear Hera's anger 
 Through a life lengthen'd 
 To seven ages. 
 
 They see the Centaurs 
 
 On Pelion ; — then they feel, 
 
 They too, the maddening wine 
 
 Swell their large veins to bursting ; in wild pain 
 
 They feel the biting spears 
 
 Of the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive. 
 
 Drive crashing through their bones ; they feel 
 
 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 
 
 Alcmena's dreadful son 
 
 Ply his bow; — such a price 
 
W^t S)tra^eD Me^eller 119 
 
 The Gods exact for song : 
 To become what we sing. 
 
 They see the Indian 
 
 On his mountain lake ; — but squalls 
 
 Make their skifF reel, and worms 
 
 In the unkind spring have gnawn 
 
 Their melon-harvest to the heart. — They see 
 
 The Scythian ; — but long frosts 
 
 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 
 
 Till they too fade like grass ; they crawl 
 
 Like shadows forth in spring. 
 
 They see the merchants 
 
 On the Oxus stream; — but care 
 
 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 
 
 Whether, through whirling sand, 
 
 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 
 
 Upon their caravan ; or greedy kings. 
 
 In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 
 
 Crush'd them with tolls ; or fever-airs, 
 
 On some g»-eat river's marge. 
 
 Mown them down, far from home. 
 
 They see the Heroes 
 
 Near harbour ; — but they share 
 
 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 
 
 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy ; 
 
120 ^tlttt poem0 of ^atttieiD ^rnolD 
 
 Or where the echoing oars 
 
 Of Argo first 
 
 Startled the unknown sea. 
 
 The old Silenus 
 
 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 
 
 From the dewy forest-coverts. 
 
 This way, at noon. 
 
 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 
 
 Down at the water-side 
 
 Sprinkled and smoothed 
 
 His drooping garland. 
 
 He told me these things. 
 
 But I, Ulysses, 
 Sitting on the warm steps, 
 Looking over the valley. 
 All day long, have seen. 
 Without pain, without labour. 
 Sometimes a wild-hair'd Maenad — 
 Sometimes a Faun with torches — 
 And sometimes, for a moment. 
 Passing through the dark stems 
 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 
 The desired, the divine, 
 Beloved lacchus. 
 
 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! 
 Ah, glimmering water. 
 
W\)t iFor^abm '^rrman 1 2 1 
 
 Fitful earth-murmur, 
 
 Dreaming woods ! 
 
 Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, 
 
 And thou, proved, much enduring, 
 
 Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! 
 
 Who can stand still ? 
 
 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — 
 
 The cup again ! 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 O Circe, Goddess, 
 
 Let the wild, thronging train, 
 
 The bright procession 
 
 Of eddying forms. 
 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 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, 
 Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
 Now the wild white horses play, 
 Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
 Children dear, let us away ! 
 This way, this way ! 
 
122 g)rtect poemfif of ^patttieto amolD 
 
 Call her once before you go — 
 
 Call once yet! 
 
 In a voice that she will know : 
 
 ' Margaret ! Margaret ! ' 
 
 Children's voices should be dear 
 
 (Call once more) to a mother's ear; 
 
 Children's voices, wild with pain — 
 
 Surely she will come again ! 
 
 Call her once and come away ; 
 
 This way, this way ! 
 
 ' Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 
 
 The wild white horses foam and fret/ 
 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! 
 
 Come, dear children, come away down ; 
 
 Call no more ! 
 
 One last look at the white-wall'd town. 
 
 And the little grey church on the windy shore ; 
 
 Then come down ! 
 
 She will not come though you call all day ; 
 
 Come away, come away ! 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 
 We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? 
 
 In the caverns where we lay. 
 
 Through the surf and through the swell, 
 
 The far-ofF sound of a silver bell ? 
 
 Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 
 
tElje ifor^abm German 123 
 
 Where the winds are all asleep; 
 Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, 
 Where the salt weed sways in the stream. 
 Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round. 
 Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 
 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. 
 Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
 Where great whales come sailing by, 
 Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
 Round the world for ever and aye ? 
 When did music come this way ? 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 
 (Call yet once) that she went away ? 
 
 Once she sate with you and me. 
 
 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea. 
 
 And the youngest sate on her knee. 
 
 She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it 
 
 well. 
 When down swung the sound of a far-ofF bell. 
 She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear 
 
 green sea; 
 She said: 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 
 In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 
 'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 
 And I lose my poor soul. Merman ! here with 
 
 thee.' 
 
124 Select porm0 of ^attlietD amolD 
 
 I said : ' Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 
 
 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea- 
 caves ! * 
 
 She smiled, she went up through the surf in the 
 bay. 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, were we long alone ? 
 ' The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 
 Long prayers,' I said, ' in the world they say ; 
 Come ! ' I said ; and we rose through the surf in 
 
 the bay. 
 We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
 Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd 
 
 town; 
 Through the narrow paved streets, where all 
 
 was still. 
 To the little grey church on the windy hill. 
 From the church came a murmur of folk at their 
 
 prayers. 
 But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
 We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn 
 
 with rains. 
 And we gazed up the aisle through the small 
 
 leaded panes. 
 She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear : 
 ' Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 
 Dear heart,' I said, ' we are long alone ; 
 
tE^t ifors^afeen German 125 
 
 The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' 
 But, ah, she gave me never a look. 
 For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! 
 Loud prays the priest j shut stands the door. 
 Come away, children, call no more ! 
 Come away, come down, call no more ! 
 
 Down, down, down ! 
 
 Down to the depths of the sea ! 
 
 She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 
 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 
 Hark what she sings : ' O joy, O joy. 
 
 For the humming street, and the child with its 
 
 toy ! 
 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; 
 For the wheel where I spun. 
 And the blessed light of the sun ! * 
 And so she sings her fill. 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Till the spindle drops from her hand, 
 And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
 She steals to the window, and looks at the sand. 
 And over the sand at the sea ; 
 And her eyes are set in a stare ; 
 And anon there breaks a sigh. 
 And anon there drops a tear. 
 From a sorrow-clouded eye. 
 And a heart sorrow-laden. 
 
126 g^elect poem0 of ^attlietD 3imolo 
 
 A long, long sigh ; 
 
 For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 
 
 And the gleam of her golden hair. 
 
 Come away, away children ; 
 Come children, come down ! 
 The hoarse wind blows colder; 
 Lights shine in the town. 
 She will start from her slumber 
 When gusts shake the doorj 
 She will hear the winds howling, 
 Will hear the waves roar. 
 We shall see, while above us 
 The waves roar and whirl, 
 A ceiling of amber, 
 A pavement of pearl. 
 Singing : ' Here came a mortal, 
 But faithless was she ! 
 And alone dwell for ever 
 The kings of the sea.' 
 
 But, children, at midnight. 
 When soft the winds blow. 
 When clear falls the moonlight, 
 When spring-tides are low; 
 When sweet airs come seaward 
 From heaths starr'd with broom, 
 And high rocks throw mildly 
 
^otirab ani) Husftum 127 
 
 On the blanchM sands a gloom; 
 
 Up the still, glistening beaches, 
 
 Up the creeks we will hie. 
 
 Over banks of bright seaweed 
 
 The ebb-tide leaves dry. 
 
 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 
 
 At the white, sleeping town; 
 
 At the church on the hill-side — 
 
 And then come back down. 
 
 Singing : ' There dwells a loved one. 
 
 But cruel is she ! 
 
 She left lonely for ever 
 
 The kin^s of the sea,' 
 
 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 
 
 ^n Episode 
 
 And the first grey of morning fill'd the east, 
 And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
 But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
 Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in 
 
 sleep; 
 Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night long 
 He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
 But when the grey dawn stole into his tent. 
 He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 
 And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, 
 
128 ^tlttt l^oem^ of ^attl^etD amoUi 
 
 And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 
 Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 
 Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, 
 
 which stood 
 Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
 Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow 
 When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ; 
 Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low 
 
 strand. 
 And to a hillock came, a little back 
 From the stream's brink — the spot where first 
 
 a boat. 
 Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the 
 
 land. 
 The men of former times had crown'd the top 
 With a clay fort ; but that was fall'n, and now 
 The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent 
 A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. 
 And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
 Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent. 
 And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
 Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 
 And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 
 Was dull'd ; for he slept light, an old man's 
 
 sleep; 
 And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — 
 
 ' Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
 Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? ' 
 
S)oljrab atiD Ku0tum 129 
 
 But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : — 
 ' Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. 
 The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
 Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie 
 Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
 For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
 Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
 In Samarcand, before the army march'd ; 
 And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
 Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first 
 I came among the Tartars and bore arms, 
 I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown. 
 At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
 This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on 
 The conquering Tartar ensigns through the 
 
 world. 
 And beat the Persians back on every field, 
 I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
 Rustum, my father ; who I hoped should greet, 
 Should one day greet, upon some well-fought 
 
 field 
 His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
 So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
 Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
 Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
 Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
 To meet me, man to man ; if I prevail, 
 Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
 
130 Select poems; of ^attlfteto arnolD 
 
 Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
 Dim is the rumour of a common fight. 
 Where host meets host, and many names are 
 
 sunk : 
 But of a single combat fame speaks clear.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
 Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and 
 
 said : — 
 ' O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
 Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
 And share the battle's common chance with us 
 Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 
 In single fight incurring single risk. 
 To find a father thou hast never seen ? 
 That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
 Unmurmuring ; in our tents, while it is war. 
 And when 't is truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 
 But, if this one desire indeed rules all. 
 To seek out Rustum — seek him not through 
 
 fight ! 
 Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 
 O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
 But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
 For now it is not as when I was young. 
 When Rustum was in front of every fray : 
 But now he keeps apart, and sits at home. 
 In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 
 Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
 
g>ot)rab anu Hu0tum 131 
 
 Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age ; 
 Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
 There go ! — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart 
 
 forebodes 
 Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
 Fain would I know thee safe and well, though 
 
 lost 
 To us ; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 
 To seek thy father, not seek single fights 
 In vain; — but who can keep the lion's cub 
 From ravening, and who govern Rustum's son ? 
 Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.' 
 
 So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and 
 left 
 His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; 
 And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
 He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet. 
 And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
 In his right hand a ruler's stafF, no sword ; 
 And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap. 
 Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
 And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd 
 His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
 
 The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog 
 From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 
 And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
 Into the open plain ; so Haman bade — 
 Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 
 
132 Select poettt0 of ^patt^ietD 3imolu 
 
 The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
 From their black tents, long files of horse, they 
 
 stream'd ; 
 As when some grey November morn the files. 
 In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes 
 Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 
 Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 
 Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward 
 
 bound 
 For the warm Persian sea-board — so they 
 
 streamed. 
 The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 
 First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long 
 
 spears ; 
 Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara 
 
 come 
 And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 
 Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the 
 
 south. 
 The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 
 And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; 
 Light men and on light steeds, who only drink 
 The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
 And then a swarm of wandering horse, who 
 
 came 
 From far, and a more doubtful service own'd ; 
 The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
 Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
 
^o^ralj and JXn&tnm 133 
 
 And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder 
 
 hordes 
 Who roam o'er Kipchakand the northern waste, 
 Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who 
 
 stray 
 Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
 Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere ; 
 These all filed out from camp into the plain. 
 And on the other side the Persians form'd ; — 
 First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they 
 
 seem'd. 
 The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind, 
 The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
 Marshali'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 
 But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 
 Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front. 
 And with his statF kept back the foremost ranks. 
 And when Ferood,* who led the Persians, saw 
 That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back. 
 He took his spear, and to the front he came. 
 And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them where 
 
 they stood. 
 And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
 Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — 
 ' Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! 
 Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
 But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
 To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.* 
 
134 Select |aonn0 of ^attlietD aimoUi 
 
 As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
 When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
 A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
 So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
 A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
 Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved^ 
 
 But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 
 Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
 That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk 
 
 snow ; 
 Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass 
 Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow. 
 Choked by the air, and scarce can they them- 
 selves 
 Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mul- 
 berries — 
 In single file they move, and stop their breath, 
 For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging 
 
 snows — 
 So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 
 
 And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
 To counsel ; Gudurz and Zoarrah came. 
 And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
 Second, and was the uncle of the King ; 
 These came and counseled, and then Gudurz 
 said : — 
 ' Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up. 
 Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 
 
S)ot)rab auD Eus^tum 135 
 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
 But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits 
 And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart. 
 Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
 The Tartar challenge, and this young man's 
 
 name ; 
 Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
 Stand forth the while, and take their challenge 
 
 up.' 
 So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and 
 
 cried : — 
 ' Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said ! 
 Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.' 
 
 He spake ; and Peran-Wisa turn'd,and strode 
 Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
 But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
 And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and 
 
 reach'd. 
 Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
 Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 
 Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the midst 
 Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. 
 And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 
 Rustum ; his morning meal was done, but still 
 The table stood before him, charged with food — 
 A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. 
 And dark green melons ; and there Rustum sate 
 Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 
 
136 S^elect ponn0 of ^patt^jeto amolD 
 
 And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came and stood 
 Before him; and he look:'d,and saw him stand, 
 And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, 
 And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and 
 
 said : — 
 ' Welcome ! these eyes could see no better 
 
 sight. 
 What news ? but sit down first, and eat and 
 
 drink.' 
 But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and 
 
 said : — 
 ' Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink. 
 But not to-day ; to-day has other needs. 
 The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; 
 For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
 To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
 To fight their champion — and thou know'st his 
 
 name — 
 Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
 O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart ; 
 And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old. 
 Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
 Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose ! ' 
 He spoke; but Rustum answer'd with a 
 
 smile : — 
 ' Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
 Am older; if the young are weak, the King 
 
g)ol)rab anD Hu0tum 137 
 
 Errs strangely ; for the King, for Kai Khosroo 
 Himself is young, and honours younger men, 
 And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
 Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
 The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
 For w^hat care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame? 
 For would that I myself had such a son. 
 And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
 A son so famed, so brave, to send to war. 
 And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
 My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. 
 And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
 And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
 There would I go, and hang my armour up, 
 And with my great name fence that weak old 
 
 man, 
 And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
 And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame. 
 And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings. 
 And with these slaughterous hands draw sword 
 
 no more.' 
 He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made 
 
 reply : — 
 ' What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, 
 When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
 Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 
 Hidest thy face ? Take heed lest men should 
 
 say : 
 
138 §>riect l^onttflf of ^att^ietD arnolD 
 
 Like some old miser ^ Rustum hoards his fame ^ 
 And shuns to -peril it with younger men,* 
 
 And, greatly moved, then Rustum made 
 
 reply : — 
 ' O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such 
 
 words ? 
 Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
 What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, 
 Valiant or craven, young or old, to me ? 
 Are not they mortal, am not I myself? 
 But who for men of nought would do great deeds ? 
 Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his 
 
 fame! 
 But I will light unknown, and in plain arms ; 
 Let not men say of Rustum, he was matchM 
 In single fight with any mortal man.' 
 
 He spoke, and frown'd ; and Gudurz turn'd, 
 
 and ran 
 Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — 
 Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
 But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'd 
 His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
 And clad himself in steel ; the arms he chose 
 Were plain, and on his shield was no device, 
 Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold. 
 And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
 Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. 
 So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse. 
 
S)ol)rab anD Hu0tum 139 
 
 Follow'd him like a faithful hound at heel — 
 Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all 
 
 the earth, 
 The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once 
 Did in Bokhara by the river find 
 A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 
 And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
 Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green 
 Crusted with gold, and on the ground were 
 
 work'd 
 All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters 
 
 know. 
 So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 
 The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. 
 And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
 Haird ; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
 And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
 Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
 By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
 Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night. 
 Having made up his tale of precious pearls. 
 Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
 So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 
 
 And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, 
 And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. 
 And as afield the reapers cut a swath 
 Down through the middle of a rich man's corn. 
 And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
 
140 ^tlttt l^oemflf of ^atttietD arnolo 
 
 And in the midst a stubble, short and bare — 
 So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
 Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
 And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 
 His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 
 Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 
 As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
 Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
 Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her 
 
 fire — 
 At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn. 
 When the frost flowers the whiten'd window- 
 panes — 
 And wonders how she lives, and what the 
 
 thoughts 
 Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum eyed 
 The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 
 Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
 All the most valiant chiefs ; long he perused 
 His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. 
 For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd ; 
 Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 
 
 straight. 
 Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
 Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf. 
 By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
 So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. 
 And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
 
^ol^rab anD Un&tum 141 
 
 As he beheld him coming ; and he stood, 
 
 And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said : — 
 
 ' O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft. 
 And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold ! 
 Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
 Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron. 
 And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
 Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe — 
 Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
 O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? 
 Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and come 
 To Iran, and be as my son to me. 
 And fight beneath my banner till I die ! 
 There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.' 
 
 So he spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his voice, 
 The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 
 His giant figure planted on the sand. 
 Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
 Hath builded on the waste in former years 
 Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, 
 Streak'd with its first grey hairs ; — hope fill'd his 
 
 soul. 
 And he ran forward and embraced his knees. 
 And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said: — 
 
 ' Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! 
 Art thou not Rustum ? speak ! art thou not he ? * 
 
 But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 
 And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul: — 
 
142 §>rtect ^otma of ^attljeto amoUi 
 
 ' Ah me, I muse what this young fox may 
 
 mean 
 
 False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
 For if I now confess this thing he asks. 
 And hide it not, but say : Rustum is here ! 
 He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 
 But he will find some pretext not to fight. 
 And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, 
 A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
 And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall. 
 In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: 
 " I challenged once, when the two armies 
 
 camp'd 
 Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
 To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
 Shrank, only Rustum dared ; then he and I 
 Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away." 
 So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud ; 
 Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through 
 
 me.' 
 
 And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud : — 
 
 ' Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 
 
 Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou hast call'd 
 
 By challenge forth ; make good thy vaunt, or 
 
 yield ! 
 Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
 Rash boy, men look on Rustum*s face and flee! 
 For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
 
^oljrab anti Kufiftum 143 
 
 Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd, 
 There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
 But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
 Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : 
 Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, 
 Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
 Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, 
 Oxus in summer wash them all away.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab answer'd, on his 
 feet : — 
 ' Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so ! 
 I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
 Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
 Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
 But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
 Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread than I, 
 And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — 
 But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. 
 And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
 Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
 For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 
 Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate. 
 Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 
 And whether it will heave us up to land, 
 Or whether it will roll us out to sea, 
 Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death. 
 We know not, and no search will make us know; 
 Only the event will teach us in its hour/ 
 
144 ^tlttt poems: of ^atttietD amolD 
 
 He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but 
 
 hurlM 
 His spear ; down from the shoulder, down it 
 
 came, 
 As on some partridge in the corn a hawk. 
 That long has tower'd in the airy clouds, 
 Drops like a plummet ; Sohrab saw it come. 
 And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear 
 Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand, 
 Which it sent flying wide ; — then Sohrab threw 
 In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield ; sharp 
 
 rang. 
 The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. 
 And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
 Could wield ; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge, 
 Still rough — like those which men in treeless 
 
 plains 
 To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 
 Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
 By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
 Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
 And strewn the channels with torn boughs — 
 
 so huge 
 The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
 One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside. 
 Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
 Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's 
 
 hand. 
 
S^otirab ano Eu^tum 145 
 
 And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 
 To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the 
 
 sand ; 
 And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his 
 
 sword. 
 And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay 
 Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; 
 But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his 
 
 sword, 
 But courteously drew back, and spoke, and 
 
 said : — 
 'Thou strik'st too hard! that club of thine 
 
 will float 
 Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. 
 But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth am I ; 
 No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 
 Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it so ! 
 Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? 
 Boy as I am, I hav^e seen battles too — 
 Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. 
 And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
 But never was my heart thus touch'd before. 
 Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the 
 
 heart ? 
 O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
 Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 
 And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 
 And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 
 
146 g>elect |Boem0 of ^patttieiu amoUj 
 
 And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 
 There are enough foes in the Persian host, 
 Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang j 
 Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
 Mayst fight ; fight them^ when they confront 
 
 thy spear ! 
 But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! ' 
 He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had 
 
 risen. 
 And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his club 
 He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear. 
 Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand 
 Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, 
 The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd 
 His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. 
 His breast heaved, his lips foam'd,and twice his 
 
 voice 
 Was choked with rage; at last these words 
 
 broke way : — 
 ' Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy 
 
 hands ! 
 Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
 Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
 Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
 With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to 
 
 dance ; 
 But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
 Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
 
g>ol)rab and Hus^tum 147 
 
 Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
 Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 
 Remember all thy valour ; try thy feints 
 And cunning ! all the pity I had is gone ; 
 Because thou hast shamed me before both the 
 
 hosts 
 With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's 
 
 wiles/ 
 He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts. 
 And he too drew his sword ; at once they 
 
 rush'd 
 Together, as two eagles on one prey 
 Come rushing down together from the clouds. 
 One from the east, one from the west ; their 
 
 shields 
 Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
 Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
 Make often in the forest's heart at morn. 
 Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows 
 Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
 And you would say that sun and stars took part 
 In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 
 Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun 
 Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 
 Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 
 And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 
 In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they 
 
 alone; 
 
148 Select |aoem0 of ^atttjeto amolD 
 
 For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
 Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
 And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
 But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot 
 
 eyes 
 And labouring breath ; first Rustum struck the 
 
 shield 
 Which Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel-spiked 
 
 spear 
 Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the 
 
 skin. 
 And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. 
 Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's 
 
 helm. 
 Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the 
 
 crest 
 He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume. 
 Never till now defiled, sank to the dust ; 
 And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then the 
 
 gloom 
 Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air. 
 And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, the 
 
 horse. 
 Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry ; — 
 No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 
 Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 
 Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side. 
 And comes at night to die upon the sand. 
 
&o()rab anti Hu^tum 149 
 
 The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for 
 
 fear, 
 And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 
 But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, 
 And struck again ; and again Rustum bow'd 
 His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass, 
 Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm. 
 And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. 
 Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes 
 Glared, and he shook on high his menacing 
 
 spear, 
 And shouted: Rustum! — Sohrab heard that 
 
 shout, 
 And shrank amazed : back he recoil'd one step. 
 And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing 
 
 form ; 
 And then he stood bewildered, and he dropp'd 
 His covering shield, and the spear pierced his 
 
 side. 
 He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the 
 
 ground. 
 And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
 And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
 The cloud ; and the two armies saw the pair; — 
 Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 
 And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 
 
 Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — 
 ' Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
 
150 Select ^otmsi of ^attljett) amolD 
 
 A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
 
 And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
 
 Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
 
 Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
 
 His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
 
 And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
 
 Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame. 
 
 To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
 
 Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
 
 Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be 
 
 Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' 
 
 And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — 
 ' Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is 
 
 vain. 
 Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful 
 
 man ! 
 No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
 For were I match'd with ten such men as thee, 
 And I were that which till to-day I was. 
 They should be lying here, I standing there. 
 But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
 That name, and something, I confess, in thee. 
 Which troubles all my heart, and made my 
 
 shield 
 Fall ; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 
 And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
 But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear ; 
 The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 
 
&o\)uh ano Hu0tum 151 
 
 My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
 He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! * 
 
 As when some hunter in the spring hath 
 found 
 A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 
 Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake. 
 And pierced her with an arrow as she rose. 
 And follow'd her to find her where she fell 
 Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back 
 From hunting, and a great way off descries 
 His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks 
 His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
 Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
 Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
 Lies dying, with the arrow in her side. 
 In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
 A heap of fluttering feathers — never more 
 Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 
 Never the black and dripping precipices 
 Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 
 As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss. 
 So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
 Over his dying son, and knew him not. 
 
 And, with a cold, incredulous voice, he 
 said : — 
 ' What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? 
 The mighty Rustum never had a son.' 
 
 And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — 
 
152 Select ^otm& of ^atttietD arnolD 
 
 ' Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
 Surely the news will one day reach his ear, 
 Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 
 Somewhere, I know not where, but far from 
 
 here; 
 And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
 To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
 Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! 
 What will that grief, what will that vengeance be ? 
 Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen ! 
 Yet him I pity not so much, but her. 
 My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
 With that old king, her father, who grows grey 
 With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
 Her most I pity, who no more will see 
 Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp. 
 With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
 But a dark rumour will be bruited up. 
 From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
 And then will that defenceless woman learn 
 That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; 
 But that in battle with a nameless foe. 
 By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.' 
 
 He spoke ; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, 
 Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
 He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in 
 
 thought. 
 Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
 
&ot)rab anD Hu0tum 153 
 
 Who spoke, although he call'd back names he 
 
 knew; 
 For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
 Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. 
 Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
 So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
 Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. 
 And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, 
 By a false boast, the style of Rustum*s son ; 
 Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
 So deem'd he ; yet he listened, plunged in 
 
 thought ; 
 And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
 Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
 At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his eyes ; 
 For he remember'd his own early youth. 
 And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn. 
 The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 
 A far, bright city, smitten by the sun. 
 Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 
 His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; 
 And that old king, her father, who loved well 
 His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
 With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. 
 They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
 The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
 And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 
 In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 
 
154 Select |aoem0 of ^pattiietD amolD 
 
 Of age and looks to be his own dear son. 
 Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
 Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 
 Of an unskilful gardener has been cut. 
 Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed. 
 And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom. 
 On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, 
 Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
 And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and 
 
 said : — 
 ' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
 Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have 
 
 loved. 
 Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
 Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's 
 
 son. 
 For Rustum had no son ; one child he had — 
 But one — a girl ; who with her mother now 
 Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
 Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.' 
 But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; for now 
 The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 
 And he desired to draw forth the steel. 
 And let the blood flow free, and so to die — 
 But first he would convince his stubborn foe ; 
 And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : — 
 ' Man, who art thou who dost deny my 
 
 words ? 
 
&o|irab anu Hu0tum 155 
 
 Truth sits upon the Hps of dying men, 
 And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
 I tell thee, prickM upon this arm I bear 
 That seal which Rustum to my mother gave. 
 That she might prick it on the babe she bore.* 
 
 He spoke ; and all the blood left Rustum*s 
 cheeks. 
 And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand 
 Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 
 That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud ; 
 And to his heart he press'd the other hand. 
 And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — 
 
 ' Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie ! 
 If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.* 
 
 Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
 His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm. 
 And show*d a sign in faint vermilion points 
 Prick'd ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
 Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, 
 An emperor*s gift — at early morn he paints. 
 And all day long, and, when night comes, the 
 
 lamp 
 Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — 
 So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
 On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. 
 It was that griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, 
 Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
 A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks ; 
 
156 Select poemfiJ of ^pattljetD aimoU) 
 
 Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and 
 
 loved — 
 Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
 And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, 
 And himself scannM it long with mournful eyes. 
 And then he touch'd it with his hand and 
 
 said : — 
 ' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper 
 
 sign 
 Of Rustum*s son, or of some other man's ? ' 
 He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, 
 
 and stood 
 Speechless ; and then he utter'd one sharp cry : 
 O boy — thy father ! — and his voice choked 
 
 there. 
 And then a dark cloud passM before his eyes. 
 And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
 But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast 
 His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips. 
 And with fond faltering fingers stroked his 
 
 cheeks. 
 Trying to call him back to life ; and life 
 Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes. 
 And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized 
 In both his hands the dust which lay around, 
 And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his 
 
 hair, — 
 His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; 
 
&ot)rab anD Mu^tum 157 
 
 And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, 
 And his sobs choked him ; and he clutch'd his 
 
 svi^ord, 
 To draw it, and for ever let life out. 
 But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, 
 And with a soothing voice he spake, and said : — 
 
 ' Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
 The doom which at my birth was written down 
 In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious 
 
 hand. 
 Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 
 When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, 
 I know it ! but fate trod those promptings down 
 Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 
 The strife, aiid hurl'd me on my father's spear. 
 But let us speak no more of this ! I find 
 My father, let me feel that I have found ! 
 Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
 My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks. 
 And wash them with thy tears, and say : Afy son ! 
 Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my sands of 
 
 life, 
 And swift ; for like the lightning to this field 
 I came, and like the wind I go away — 
 Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind ; 
 But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.* 
 
 So said he, and his voice released the heart 
 Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
 
158 §)elrct poemsf of ^attljeto 3lnxolD 
 
 His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
 And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts. 
 When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the 
 
 horse. 
 With his head bowing to the ground and mane 
 Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 
 First to the one then to the other moved 
 His head, as if enquiring what their grief 
 Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate 
 
 eyes. 
 The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked the 
 
 sand. 
 But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and 
 
 said : — 
 ' Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, 
 
 thy feet 
 Should then have rotted on their nimble joints, 
 When first they bore thy master to this field ! * 
 But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said : — 
 ' Is this, then, Ruksh ? How often, in past days, 
 My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, 
 My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said. 
 That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
 Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane ! 
 O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
 For thou hast gone where I shall never go. 
 And snufF'd the breezes of my father's home. 
 And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
 
g)ot)rab anD IXn&tnnt 159 
 
 And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake 
 Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
 Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 
 Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, 
 And said: O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well! — 
 
 but I 
 Have never known my grandsire's furrowM face. 
 Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
 Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund 
 
 stream ; 
 But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 
 Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
 Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
 And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk 
 The desert risers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
 Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep. 
 The northern Sir ; and this great Oxus stream. 
 The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' 
 
 Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum be- 
 wailed : — 
 ' Oh, that its waves were flowing over me ! 
 Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
 Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! ' 
 
 But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab re- 
 plied : — 
 ' Desire not that, my father ! thou must live. 
 For some are born to do great deeds, and live, 
 As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
 
i6o g^elect ponn0 of ^attlietD amolD 
 
 Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 
 And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
 Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
 But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
 Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these ! 
 Let me intreat for them ; what have they done ? 
 They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
 But me thou must bear hence, not send with 
 
 them. 
 But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
 And place me on a bed, and mourn for me. 
 Thou, and the snow-hairM Zal, and all thy 
 
 friends. 
 And thou must lay me in that lovely earth. 
 And heap a stately mound above my bones. 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
 That so the passing horseman on the waste 
 May see my tomb a great way off, and cry : 
 Sohrab^ the mighty RustunCs son^ lies there^ 
 Whom his great father did in ignorance kill I 
 And I be not forgotten in my grave.' 
 
 And, with a mournful voice, Rustum re- 
 plied : — 
 ' Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 
 So shall it be; for I will burn my tents. 
 And quit the host, and bear thee hence with 
 me. 
 
g)ol)rab auD Eu0tum i6i 
 
 And carry thee away to Seistan, 
 And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
 With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
 And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
 And heap a stately mound above thy bones, 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
 And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
 And I will spare thy host ; yea, let them go ! 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace ! 
 What should I do with slaying any more ? 
 For would that all whom I have ever slain 
 Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 
 And they who were call'd champions in their 
 
 time, 
 And through whose death I won that fame I 
 
 have — 
 And I were nothing but a common man, 
 A poor, mean soldier, and without renown. 
 So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! 
 Or rather would that I, even I myself. 
 Might now be lying on this bloody sand. 
 Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, 
 Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou ; 
 And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan j 
 And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; 
 And say : O son^ I weep thee not too sore^ 
 For ivillingly^ I know^ thou met' st thine end I 
 But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
 
1 62 Select poem0 of ^attljefco airnolD 
 
 And full of blood and battles is my age, 
 And I shall never end this life of blood.' 
 
 Then, at the point of death, Sohrab re- 
 plied : — 
 ' A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
 But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now. 
 Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that day. 
 When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. 
 Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 
 Returning home over the salt blue sea. 
 From laying thy dear master in his grave.* 
 And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and 
 said : — 
 ' Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
 Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.' 
 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, and 
 took 
 The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
 His wound's imperious anguish ; but the blood 
 Came welling from the open gash, and life 
 Flow'd with the stream; — all down his cold 
 
 white side 
 The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, 
 Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 
 Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank. 
 By children whom their nurses call with haste 
 Indoors from the sun's eyej his head droop'd 
 low. 
 
g>olirab anu Jftusftum 163 
 
 His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he 
 
 lay — 
 White, with eyes closed; only when heavy 
 
 gasps, 
 Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his 
 
 frame. 
 Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them, 
 And fix'd them feebly on his father's face ; 
 Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his 
 
 limbs 
 Unv/illingly the spirit fled away, 
 Regretting the warm mansion which it left. 
 And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 
 
 So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead ; 
 And the great Rustum drew his horseman's 
 
 cloak 
 Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
 As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 
 By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
 His house, now mid their broken flights of steps 
 Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — 
 So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 
 
 And night came down over the solemn waste, 
 And the tv/o gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
 And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with night. 
 Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
 As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
 Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 
 
1 64 g^elect poemfif of ^atttjeto 3lrnolu 
 
 Both armies moved to camp, and took their 
 
 meal ; 
 The Persians took it on the open sands 
 Southward, the Tartars by the river marge; 
 And Rustum and his son were left alone. 
 
 But the majestic river floated on, 
 Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
 Into the frosty starlight, and there moved. 
 Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste, 
 Under the solitary moon ; — he flowed 
 Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
 Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands 
 
 begin 
 To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. 
 And split his currents ; that for many a league 
 The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along 
 Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
 Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
 In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, 
 A foil'd circuitous wanderer — till at last 
 The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
 His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
 And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed 
 
 stars 
 Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 
 
tE^ri^tram anti i(|0eult: part ®t)ree 165 
 
 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT : PART 
 THREE 
 
 IsEULT OF Brittany 
 
 A YEAR had flown, and o'er the sea away, 
 In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay ; 
 In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old — 
 There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. 
 
 The young surviving Iseult, one bright day. 
 Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play 
 In a green circular hollow in the heath 
 Which borders the sea-shore — a country path 
 Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. 
 The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined. 
 And to one standing on them, far and near 
 The lone unbroken view spreads bright and 
 
 clear 
 Over the waste. This cirque of open ground 
 Is light and green j the heather, which all round 
 Creeps thickly, grows not here ; but the pale 
 
 grass 
 Is strewn with rocks and many a shiver'd mass 
 Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and 
 
 there 
 Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. 
 
1 66 g>elect ponns? of ^attljeto amolD 
 
 In the smooth centre of the opening stood 
 Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, 
 Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green 
 With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. 
 Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, 
 Watching her children play ; their little hands 
 Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 
 Of stagshorn for their hats ; anon, with screams 
 Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound 
 Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, 
 Racing full speed, and startling in their rush 
 The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 
 Out of their glossy coverts ; — but when now 
 Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot 
 
 brow. 
 Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair. 
 In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair — 
 Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three 
 Clustered under the holly-screen, and she 
 Told them an old-world Breton history. 
 
 Warm in their mantles wrapt, the three stood 
 
 there. 
 Under the hollies, in the clear still air — 
 Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 
 Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. 
 Long they stay'd still — then, pacing at their 
 
 ease, 
 
tEPrifiitram anD 3l0mlt: |Bart tETljree 167 
 
 Moved up and down under the glossy trees ; 
 But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, 
 From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd. 
 And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes 
 Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise ; 
 Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side. 
 Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and 
 
 wide. 
 Nor to the snow, which, though 't was all away 
 From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, 
 Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams 
 Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams. 
 Swooping to landward ; nor to where, quite clear. 
 The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 
 And they would still have listen'd, till dark night 
 Came keen and chill down on the heather bright ; 
 But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold. 
 And the grey turrets of the castle old 
 Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air. 
 Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair. 
 And brought her tale to an end, and found the 
 
 path 
 And led them home over the darkening heath. 
 
 And is she happy ? Does she see unmoved 
 The days in which she might have lived and 
 
 loved 
 Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, 
 
1 68 ^tlttt poemsf of ^att^etD amolu 
 
 One after one, to-morrow like to-day ? 
 
 Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will — 
 
 Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, 
 
 Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 
 
 So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet 
 
 Her children's ? She moves slow ; her voice 
 
 alone 
 Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, 
 But even that comes languidly ; in truth. 
 She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 
 And now she will go home, and softly lay 
 Her laughing children in their beds, and play 
 Awhile with them before they sleep ; and then 
 She *11 light her silver lamp, which fishermen 
 Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, 
 Along this iron coast, know like a star. 
 And take her broidery-frame, and there she '11 sit 
 Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it ; 
 Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind 
 Her children, or to listen to the wind. 
 And when the clock peals midnight, she will 
 
 move 
 Her work away, and let her fingers rove 
 Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound 
 "Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; 
 Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 
 Fix'd, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap ; then 
 
 rise. 
 
^vimnm and 3l0mlt: ^^art tD^tiree 169 
 
 And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told 
 Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold ; 
 Then to her soft sleep — and to-morrow '11 be 
 To-day's exact repeated effigy. 
 
 Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. 
 The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal. 
 Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound. 
 Are there the sole companions to be found. 
 But these she loves ; and noisier life than this 
 She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. 
 She has her children, too, and night and day 
 Is with them ; and the wide heaths where they 
 
 play. 
 The hollies, and the clifF, and the sea-shore, 
 The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails. 
 These are to her dear as to them ; the tales 
 With which this day the children she beguiled 
 She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a 
 
 child. 
 In every hut along this sea-coast wild ; 
 She herself loves them still, and, when they are 
 
 told. 
 Can forget all to hear them, as of old. 
 
 Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear. 
 Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear 
 To all that has delighted them before, 
 
1 70 ^tlttt potma of ^attljetD amolD 
 
 And lets us be what we were once no more. 
 No, we may sufFer deeply, yet retain 
 Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, 
 By what of old pleased us, and will again. 
 No, 't is the gradual furnace of the world. 
 In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd 
 Until they crumble, or else grow like steel — 
 Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the 
 
 spring — 
 Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, 
 But takes away the power — this can avail. 
 By drying up our joy in everything. 
 To make our former pleasures all seem stale. 
 This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit 
 Of passion, which subdues our souls to it. 
 Till for its sake alone we live and move — 
 Call it ambition, or remorse, or love — 
 This too can change us wholly, and make seem 
 All which we did before, shadow and dream. 
 
 And yet, I swear, it angers me to see 
 How this fool passion gulls men potently ; 
 Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest. 
 And an unnatural overheat at best. 
 How they are full of languor and distress 
 Not having it ; which when they do possess. 
 They straightway are burnt up with fume and 
 care, 
 
^timrni anu Jl^eult: part ®^ree 171 
 
 And spend their lives in posting here and there 
 Where this plague drives them; and have little 
 
 ease, 
 Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. 
 Like that bold Caesar, the famed Roman wight, 
 Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight 
 Who made a name at younger years than he ; 
 Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, 
 Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son, 
 Who carried the great war from Macedon 
 Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on 
 To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 
 
 What tale did Iseult to the children say. 
 Under the hollies, that bright winter's day ? 
 
 She told them of the fairy-haunted land 
 Away the other side of Brittany, 
 Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea ; 
 Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, 
 Through whose green boughs the golden sun- 
 shine creeps. 
 Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree 
 
 sleeps. 
 For here he came with the fay Vivian, 
 One April, when the warm days first began. 
 He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend. 
 On her white palfrey ; here he met his end, 
 
172 g>riect poems? of ^atttjeto amolD 
 
 In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. 
 
 This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay 
 
 Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought 
 
 clear 
 Before the children's fancy him and her. 
 
 Blowing between the stems, the forest-air 
 Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, 
 Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue 
 
 eyes 
 Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 
 Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in 
 
 sweat, 
 For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. 
 A briar in that tangled wilderness 
 Had scored her white right hand, which she 
 
 allows 
 To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress ; 
 The other warded off the drooping boughs. 
 But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes 
 Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. 
 Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear 
 
 grace. 
 The spirit of the woods was in her face ; 
 She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 
 Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight. 
 And he grew fond, and eager to obey 
 His mistress, use her empire as she may. 
 
tlTrisitram anD a^mlt: |aart tE^^ree 173 
 
 They came to where the brushwood ceased, and 
 
 day 
 Peer'd 'twixt the stems ; and the ground broke 
 
 away, 
 In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook. 
 And up as high as where they stood to look 
 On the brook's farther side was clear ; but then 
 The underwood and trees began again. 
 This open glen was studded thick with thorns 
 Then white with blossom ; and you saw the 
 
 horns, 
 Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer 
 Who come at noon down to the water here. 
 You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 
 Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong 
 The blackbird whistled from the dingles near. 
 And the weird chipping of the woodpecker 
 Rang lonelily and sharp ; the sky was fair. 
 And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 
 Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow. 
 To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough 
 Which glistering plays all round them, lone and 
 
 mild. 
 As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. 
 Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here 
 The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear 
 Across the hollow ; white anemonies 
 Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses 
 
174 Select ^otm& of ^pattlietD arnolu 
 
 Ran out from the dark underwood behind. 
 No fairer resting-place a man could find. 
 ' Here let us halt,' said Merlin then ; and she 
 Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. 
 
 They sate them down together, and a sleep 
 Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. 
 Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose. 
 And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple 
 
 throws, 
 And takes it in her hand, and waves it over 
 The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. 
 Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple 
 
 round. 
 And made a little plot of magic ground. 
 And in that daisied circle, as men say, 
 Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day ; 
 But she herself whither she will can rove — 
 For she was passing weary of his love. 
 
0Ott$ 
 
 A Memory Picture 
 
 This poem was originally printed, with the name To My Friends^ 
 in the volume of 1849: then in 1853 it was given its present 
 name and was made No. i in the series of poems called Sivitzer- 
 land, which consisted otherwise of poems that had not been pub- 
 lished until 1852. It is selected here, not so much for its own 
 poetic charm or quality, as because it is a good example of the group 
 of lyric poems spoken of in pages xv-xxi of the Introduction. Note 
 particularly its picture of Marguerite in the fourth, fifth, and sixth 
 stanzas. Those who would like a little casuistry on minor matters 
 of poetic art may consult Swinburne's review of Ne-w Poems in 
 the Fortnightly for October, 1867. 
 
 Longing 
 
 This poem was originally printed in the volume of 1852: it 
 was not republished the next year, but in 1 855 was included in Faded 
 Leat'es^ where it now stands. It is one of the few of these per- 
 sonal poems that gives me, at least, something of real lyric feeling : 
 it makes one remember how wretchedly people really feel in such 
 positions. 
 
 Isolation. To Marguerite 
 
 This poem was first printed in 1 857, with the name To Marguerite. 
 It will be easily apprehended if it be remembered that only the first 
 two stanzas are addressed to Marguerite. The others are addressed 
 to his own " lonely heart." 
 
 Which never yet, etc. The idea of leaving his own "re- 
 mote and sphered course to haunt the place where passions reign " 
 will explain and be explained by The Ne%v Sirens. 
 
 Have dream'd two, etc. People never really get to- 
 gether, says the poet : but some are fortunate enough to think they 
 do. 
 
176 0Ott& 
 
 To Marguerite — Continued 
 
 This poem, though it is called a continuation of the preceding, 
 was printed before it, in 1852. The next year it was included in 
 the Switzerland group. It is probable enough, however, that they 
 were written about the same time. The preceding poem hardly 
 could have been written sincerely by a man in the first years of a 
 happy married life : see p. xvii. 
 
 When originally published this poem had appended to the title 
 these words: " In returning a volume of The Letters of Ortis.^^ 
 This book (by Ugo Foscolo, 1807) I have not read, but find 
 Ortis described as a *' political Werther," <* an undeceived Italian 
 patriot." It does not seem to have made a lasting impression on 
 Arnold, as did Senancour's Obermann. 
 
 The last line of the poem is often quoted as a fine example of 
 perfect epithet and pregnant expression. 
 
 The Terrace at Berne 
 
 This poem was first published by itself in the volume of 1867: 
 in 1869 it was placed at the end of the Sivit-zerland series, where 
 it now stands, and to which it gives a very satisfactory conclusion. 
 The recollection of Marguerite is most charming, but, after all, it 
 is best that that page of life should be fastened down forever, — torn 
 out, perhaps we should say, and forgotten. 
 
 A final speculation as to date may be pardoned. The poem was 
 "composed ten years after the preceding," mme\y y^bsence first 
 published in 1852. If '* ten years " be dependable, the poem was 
 written at least by the year 1862. The Introduction offers some 
 reasons for supposing that '* the preceding poem " and the others of 
 the same group were written at least a while before the poet's mar- 
 riage. That would push this poem still farther back, and make 
 it one of those many of Matthew Arnold's poems that were writ- 
 ten a good while before publishing. 
 
 The New Sirens 
 
 This poem was pubhshed in 1849. It was said in the review in 
 Blackivood" s for May of that year to be an imitation of Mrs. Brown- 
 
i^Otf0 177 
 
 ing and utterly without meaning. In the Introduction (pp. xx, xxi) 
 will be found some comment, based on biographic and bibliographic 
 studies, which gives the idea of the poem and shows it to be not 
 utterly meaningless after all. Such is often the advantage of mi- 
 nute investigations, but it should be remarked that real poetic in- 
 sight will be apt to find its way without their help. Mr. Swinburne 
 even as a boy caught the spirit of the poem without explanation ; 
 William Michael Rossetti thought it "perhaps the most perfect 
 and elevated in tone " of all the volume. The Germ, No. 2. In- 
 deed, when we do get at the meaning of the poem we shall not 
 really appreciate it until we feel its poetic quality, that indefinable 
 something that made Blackwood'' s think of Mrs. Browning, that 
 made Swinburne remember it for its ** music and colour and its bright 
 sadness," that made the young Pre-Raphaelite critic value it for its 
 ** tone." It is not Matthew Arnold's usual quality : perhaps that 
 makes it the more worth noting. 
 
 In the cedarn shadow. This is a" place where passions 
 reign," as the poet says in Isolation^ or just now where they have 
 reigned. The poet has crept out of the darkened palace rooms, 
 and is dozing in «-he cool shadow of the cedars. In his restless slum- 
 bers he sees the form.s of the sirens of the old days, looking 
 strangely like the pensive Graces with whom he has just been enjoying 
 himself. So he compares the old sirens in his mind with the new. 
 
 Heard the hoarse . . . wind. Note the effect of the 
 
 longer line at the end of the stanza. It is something like the effect 
 of the Alexandrine at the end of the Spenserian stanza. 
 
 less lonely than they were. They means the old-time 
 sirens. 
 
 from upland valleys. This gives us the realistic note, and 
 reminds us of Westmoreland. Notice the contrast later in the 
 stanza between the poetic laurel and the myrtle of love. 
 
 Are the accents, etc. The modern siren has all the charm 
 of love : the stanzas following tell how she makes her appeal ; 
 " you say" means the New Sirens say. They say it is not worth 
 while to toil painfully, it was tedious ; the soul longed for some- 
 thing more than intellectual answers to the riddle of existence, after 
 all there is no agreement in opinion j the pleasure of k)ve, however, 
 is ultimate and cannot be confuted. 
 
1 78 iI5ote0 
 
 I am dumb. The poet can think of no answer to such argu- 
 ments, although he is sure there is one. 
 
 For a bound was set. Here, and in the following stanzas, 
 we have the answer of Fact to all such arguings, or rather pleadings. 
 
 Scent, and song, etc. The poet, as he feels the mountain 
 wind, asks his charming friends what answer they can give to his 
 questions. Have they no further ideal than to be joyous at the 
 height of pleasure, passive at the nadir of dismay ? Suppose we take 
 frankly what the New Sirens can give, what does it amount to ? 
 Better loose hands. 
 
 Resignation 
 
 For the point of view in reading this poem, published in the first 
 collection, see the Introduction, p. xxii. The reader will wish to have 
 clearly before him two things : the place and the philosophy. Of 
 the former the poet himself writes, in a note to this poem : *' Those 
 who have been long familiar with the English Lake Country will 
 find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the 
 roadside inn at Wythburn on the descent from Dunmail Raise to- 
 wards Keswick ; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago, and the 
 passage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath." Most of us 
 cannot do that. If one has a desire for topography, the course from 
 Wythburn to Watendlath can be traced without much difficulty on 
 a fair map of the Lake Country, as for instance the map of Cum- 
 berland in the Encyclopedia Britannica, to name the most easily 
 found. Just what was '* the wide-glimmering sea " which they 
 were so glad to reach by dark, I cannot say, but suppose it to have 
 been Derwentwater near Keswick. But topography is not in itself 
 of great poetic value. We want to get a realized sense of the 
 scenery which the poet has in mind, and this is not easy for us in 
 America, because the scenery of the Lake Country is entirely differ- 
 ent from any part of America. There are numbers of expressions 
 in this poem that cannot convey to us the idea that they conveyed 
 to the poet. "The rude stone bridge," the upper regions of 
 " wild hollows and clear heathy swells," the fells themselves, the 
 ** grassy upland glens," these are things that, as they exist in Cum- 
 berland, are hardly seen in America. But though we cannot get 
 an idea of the precise scenery that the poet described, we can be 
 
il^otefif 179 
 
 familiar with the general features. The best books easily accessible 
 are The English Lakes by W. T. Palmer, with illustrations in 
 color by A. Heaton Cooper 5 Highivays and Byways in the Lake 
 District by Arthur G. Bradley, with illustrations in line by Joseph 
 Pennell, and Through the Wordsivorth Country by William Knight, 
 with drawings by Harry Goodwin. From these books one can 
 form something of an idea of the place that will serve, as it were, 
 as the web on which the poem is embroidered. 
 
 As for the idea of the poem, in view of all that has been said in 
 the Introduction of the thought of this and other poems, it will not 
 be obtrusive to present rather a bald analysis of the subject-matter 
 section by section. The idea of a poem is by no means the only 
 thing, often not the best thing, but if there is one it is worth know- 
 ing what it is. "To find in the poem," writes Walter Pater, 
 **amid the flowers, the allusions, the mixed perspectives, of Lyci- 
 das for instance, the thought, the logical structure ; — how whole- 
 some ! how delightful ! " 
 
 I. a. Those inspired with a passionate desire to accomplish one 
 purpose wish to do and have done with. They are not willing to 
 go over ground once trodden. 
 
 b. More serene natures do not feel so. 
 
 II. a. We made an excursion ten years ago, and were glad 
 when we came to an end. 
 
 b. Now we make it again. 
 
 III. a. As we make it we see the gipsies. They rub on 
 through life without complaint. 
 
 b. The poet-nature experiences life, but is able also to contem- 
 plate it. 
 
 IV. a. Fausta feels herself neither gipsy nor poet. 
 
 b. The writer tells her that to withdraw from passions and pains 
 is to conquer fate. 
 
 We ought also to spend a moment on the metrical structure. 
 The poem is written in rhymed octosyllabics, rather freely handled. 
 Matthew Arnold used the same metre in part of Bacchanalia^ in 
 Memorial Verses^ and elsewhere, but he seemed constantly attracted 
 by the idea of greater freedom, as in A Summer Night, where 
 though he retains rhyme he frequently varies the place of accent and 
 
i8o jl5ote0 
 
 the number of syllables in the line. Then in a good many poems 
 he adopts a very loose rhythm, as in Rugby Chapel, which seems 
 to please him rather better. There have been different opinions on 
 the subject (cf. note on The Youth of Nature^ and we shall want 
 to form an idea of how good each metre is for its purpose, and how 
 well it is handled. 
 
 Bacchanalia 
 
 This poem, too, is full of the spirit of place, but not, if we may 
 say so, of any particular place. It might be almost any quiet 
 meadow in the twilight. The idea does not need explanation or 
 interpretation, for the analogy it presents is obviously put forward in 
 the alternative title and suggested in the comparative structure 
 of the poem. The quatrain at the end is to be considered, also, 
 though it does not give us just the same idea as the poem : it is a 
 sort of appended remark. The reader will notice especially the 
 rhythmical effects and their harmony with the idea. First the lines 
 with four accents coming with almost regular alternation, giving the 
 notion of calm and peace ; then the lines of two accents, with fre- 
 quent additional syllables, often irregular, indicating the dash and 
 movement of the exhilarated present. 
 
 The Youth of Nature 
 
 This poem was published in 1852, in the same volume as Me- 
 morial Verses, p. xxx. Like Resignation, it has much of the spirit 
 of place, and we may refer to the note on that poem for some com- 
 ment on the Lake Country. One unfamiliar with the ground may 
 be pardoned I hope, for not knowing the precise spot where the 
 poet writes. Perhaps he is on Grasmere, whence may be seen the 
 fells of Rydal, and Fairfield which is no field but a mountain. Mr. 
 Palmer, a thorough lover of the Lakes, speaks of the country as 
 "another haunt of the shepherd, a land bleak and wild — the ra- 
 vines of Rydal Head and the great crags of Fairfield, fit home for 
 the red deer." Wordsworth is buried in Grasmere churchyard. 
 
 The thought of the poem is not recondite and may be easily 
 stated somewhat after the fashion of the note on Resignation. 
 
 The metre of the poem calls for a word. Arnold seems to have 
 felt that it was a form in which he had freedom to express his best. 
 
i^Otfflf i8i 
 
 He uses it in Rugby Chapel, Memorial Verses, and other of his well- 
 known poems. General feeling is to the effect that it is not a suc- 
 cessful experiment, and we may well ask why. We have here 
 unrhymed three-accent lines, with a number of syllables, varying 
 from six to nine. Such a form allows great freedom for varying 
 effects. We may have short lines, 
 
 "Silent the boat! the lake," 
 
 and long, quickly moving lines 
 
 " They are dust, they are changed, they are gone ! " 
 
 and we may have several variations between. The particular 
 poetic effect of the metre would seem to lie chiefly in the various 
 effects that can be given to a line by having more or fewer of the 
 extra syllables that are possible. Without attempting a criticism on 
 the metre, we may note one point in which the poet does not seem 
 fully successful. The particular opportunity of this metre lies in the 
 different number of unaccented syllables that may be introduced, 
 after the principle that Coleridge made current in Christabel. But, 
 though rules on ^Iiat subject are lacking, it seems that such unac- 
 cented syllables should be comparatively light, short, easily pro- 
 nounced. If they contain many consonants, for instance, they 
 seem to impede the flow of the line. Thus of the lines — 
 
 But the val'leys are flood'ed with haze' — 
 
 For he lent' a new life' to those hills' — 
 
 By the fav'orite wa'ters of Ruth' — 
 
 Of the times' which had sheltered his youth' — 
 
 In an age' which can rear' them no more' — 
 
 only the third, to my ear, runs easily. Such combinations as But 
 the, Hvhich had, ivhich can, etc., are not pronounced easily enough 
 to make the line run smoothly : it is stiff and heavy. So these 
 lines and others like them are stiff : — 
 
 And Eg'remont sleeps' by the sea — 
 These survive' yet not' without pain — 
 Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa — 
 
 The spots which recall, etc. The reader of Wordsworth 
 will recognize these places : others will do well to turn to the poet. 
 The Pillar is a mountain pinnacle of which one may read in The 
 
1 82 JliOtf0 
 
 Brother:. Egremont is Sir Eustace of that name in The Horn 
 of Egremont Castle. The Evening Star and the Sheepfold in 
 Greenhead Ghyll come from Michael. The Quantoclc Hills, 
 where Wordsworth and Coleridge walked and planned the Lyrical 
 Ballads^ are far to the south in Somersetshire. 
 
 He grew old. Wordsworth, though an enthusiast for liberty, 
 and in his youth a great republican, became as he grew older more 
 and more conservative. 
 
 For, oh ! is it you. The poet propounds his subject : Is it 
 Nature or the Poetic Mind that brings poetic joy to men ? Nature 
 herself gives an answer. 
 
 Dover Beach 
 
 For a slight comment on this very beautiful expression of mingled 
 emotion and thought, see the Introduction, p. xliii. 
 
 19. a thought. Not the thought of Sophocles : Matthew 
 Arnold was not much given to the consideration of human misery. 
 His thought is on the decline of faith in his own day. 
 
 21. The Sea of Faith. One may read in connection with 
 this poem the *' Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse, "noting par- 
 ticularly — 
 
 " For rigorous teachers seized my youtli. 
 And purged its faitii, and trimmed its fire, 
 Show'd me tiie high, white star of Truth, 
 There bade me gaze, and there aspire. 
 Even now their whispers pierce the gloom 
 ff^hat dost thou in this living tomb? " 
 
 28. Ah, love. Human constancy the one firm standby in a 
 dissolving world ! 
 
 Philomela 
 
 This poem does not really belong in the group in which it is 
 placed, for it is a lyric of pure emotion, the finest, indeed almost 
 the only one of its kind to be found in Arnold's poetry : see the 
 Introduction, p. xxvi. 
 
^otti 183 
 
 Quiet Work 
 
 This sonnet was first published in 1849, and canae at the begin- 
 ning of the volume — not among the other sonnets — as a sort of 
 motto. It sounds the importance of tranquillity and repose. Work, 
 of course, but not work like that of many men, — work that is 
 loud and noisy, hasty and competitive, done in a thousand discords, 
 in fitful uproar, in vain turmoil. Mr. Paul in his Mattheiv Ar- 
 nold {^. 22) says that the poem was "suggested by Goethe's 
 famous * Ohne Hast, ohne Rast.' " This may well be, although 
 the idea is not uncommon with Arnold : see Introduction, p, xxxi. 
 
 Shakespeare 
 
 Shakespeare's spirit was far above the pains, weaknesses, griefs 
 which generally bow down the immortal spirit on earth. Yet he 
 knew those things and could speak for those who have no voice. 
 
 Written in Emerson's Essays 
 
 The world — monstrous, dead, unprofitable, smiling, wistful, in- 
 credulous, scornful, strange, full of bitter knowledge — pays no 
 attention to a mind like Emerson's. Yet all his possibilities are 
 within ourselves. Mr. Paul (p. 23) says of the last line, '* What is 
 the use of asking dumb judges to answer } " But it hardly seems 
 necessary to think of the word dumb with physical literalness. 
 
 East London 
 
 This poem was first published in 1867, about the time that 
 William Booth was beginning the work in East London that in the 
 later form of the Salvation Army has spread over all the world. 
 But Matthew Arnold seems to refer meiely to any religious worker 
 in that desolate field. Spitalfields and Bethnal Green are two 
 districts in East London, of which one may gain some idea from 
 Walter Besant's All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 
 It may be remarked that Matthew Arnold interprets the preacher 
 in terms of his own thought : he is one who can escape from the 
 turmoil of this world (p. xxxii) to a sphere of peaceful ideality. The 
 preacher himself, presumably, thought of Christ as a living power 
 in the midst of the turmoij. 
 
184 iliote^ 
 
 Immortality 
 
 One of the later sonnets. The possibility of a future life cannot 
 make us supine as to the present. We must prepare for it. 
 
 Requiescat 
 
 One of Arnold's most familiar poems. A beautiful expression 
 of the world-weariness so often spoken of. 
 
 The Last Word 
 
 This is one of Matthew Arnold's later poems, and gives us the 
 characteristic idea of fighting in the very advance guard of the army 
 of liberation, even if unsupported and left to oneself. Mr. Paul 
 (p. 102), whose poetic insight has been observed already, says of 
 the last stanza : ' ' The natural meaning of these words would 
 be that the person addressed had been engaged in defending the forts 
 of folly, which, it need hardly be said, is the precise opposite of 
 what Mr, Arnold intended." Mr. Paul seems to suggest an un- 
 natural meaning : the lines seem clearly addressed to one who is 
 making a charge on the forts of folly, a charge which in itself may 
 not be successful, which may result in destruction to the assailant. 
 Still when victory does come, even long afterward, the victors will 
 find, close up by the walls of the fort, those who perished in the 
 earlier attacks. 
 
 Self-Dependence 
 
 This poem, which seems mature in comparison with some others, 
 was published in 1852. Its chief notes are : weariness, said to be 
 of self, but more probably of those around him and the world in 
 general ,• the appeal to Nature ; Nature's answer that one must put 
 one's life into one's work without regard toothers. One will com- 
 pare it with S^uiet Work. 
 
 A Wish 
 
 This is one of those lyrics of idea, as we may call them, which 
 give a notion of the poet's attitude towards the world and nature. 
 
ipote0 185 
 
 The Future 
 
 In this poem Arnold presents to us Life under the extended 
 figure of a river, a figure otherwise used in the end of Sohrab and 
 Rustum. The metre is worth noting ; it is of the form discussed 
 in the note on Youth and Nature. In this poem, however, it is 
 used more irregularly 5 sometimes there are two accents in a line, 
 sometimes four, sometimes only one. That is not very important ; 
 the metrical basis of the poem is a continuation of accented and un- 
 accented syllables, with sufficient regularity to give us a feeling for 
 the recurrence of accent, and enough variety to avoid monotony. 
 In this poem, however, as in others of Matthew Arnold's, the un- 
 accented syllables are often so long as to make the line very stiflFand 
 heavy. 
 
 What girl. The difl?erence between the sophisticated present 
 and the simplicity of the past is presented in two vivid comparisons. 
 
 Border'd by cities and hoarse. The favorite idea of the 
 
 poet's concerning the present. He fears that things will grow 
 worse, though he acknowledges the possibility of something different. 
 
 Rugby Chapel 
 
 Matthew Arnold's father was Thomas Arnold, for many years 
 Headmaster of Rugby, a great figure in the history of education in 
 the nineteenth century. To him, in great measure, do we owe the 
 personal, human conception of education that so widely obtains to- 
 day. He is buried in the chapel of the school. Dean Stanley says 
 of him : ** If there is any one place at Rugby more than another 
 which was especially the scene of Dr. Arnold's labors, both as a 
 teacher and as a master, it is the school-chapel." The readers of 
 Tom Broivn at Rugby will remember the last chapter of the book, 
 in which Tom goes back to the school and spends an hour in the 
 chapel. 
 
 Thomas Arnold, besides being the master of a great school, was 
 a historian, keenly interested in the newer ideas of history that were 
 coming in under the influence of Niebuhr. He published a History 
 of Rome ^ and became Professor of Modern History at Oxford. He 
 was also greatly interested in social and political questions. As one 
 reads his Life and Correspondence by Dean Stanley, one is im- 
 
1 86 ^Ott$ 
 
 mensely impressed at his single-souled Christian character, which 
 found expression in various ways, but always had the one incentive 
 of devotion to his Master. 
 
 Some time before writing this poem, Matthew Arnold expressed 
 the main thought of it in writing to his mother. " But this is 
 just what makes him great — that he was not only a good man 
 saving his own soul by righteousness, but that he carried so many 
 others with him in his hand, and saved them, if they would let 
 him, along with himself." 
 
 At a call unforeseen, sudden. Dr. Arnold died of angina 
 pectoris almost without warning. He waked in some pain be- 
 tween five and six in the morning, and died before eight o'clock. 
 
 A long steep journey. Mr. Theodore Walrond, who 
 writes the account of Thomas Arnold in the Dictionary of National 
 Biography, says that the imagery of this passage is taken from the 
 long Westmoreland rambles of which Dr. Arnold was so fond. 
 But this must be a mistake ; the spirit of the description came, 
 doubtless, from the memory of those excursions, but the imagery is 
 evidently alpine. It is not very like Arnold to indulge in vague 
 generalizations. 
 
 Servants of God ! — or Sons. So John i. 12, who gives 
 
 a very different reason for so calling them, and one much more in 
 keeping with Thomas Arnold's life. Friends is the word of Jesus 
 in the passage of which this seems a reminiscence. John xv. 15. 
 It ought to be said at the end of this fine poem that Matthew 
 Arnold by no means gives an interpretation of his father's life that 
 his father would have agreed to. Thomas Arnold was all that his 
 son said, doubtless, but he had a perfectly definite conception of the 
 aim of his effort, which his son entirely lacked, and a perfectly 
 definite conception of the reasons for his power, which his son does 
 not give us. He was a man devoted to the work of God, because 
 he was heart and soul devoted to his Son, Jesus Christ. 
 
 Memorial Verses 
 
 In these verses, written at the time of Wordsworth's death, 
 Matthew Arnold expresses a view that he held through life, the 
 view that after Goethe whom he greatly admired (and after Byron 
 
jl^otetf 187 
 
 in popular vogue), Wordsworth was the great poet not of England 
 only, but of Europe, in the 19th century. In the introduction to 
 the Selections from Wordiivorth^ which he made many years after 
 this poem, he gives his reasons for this estimate. But he has ex- 
 pressed the general idea of this poem in several places. For instance, 
 in one of his letters, September 22, 1864, he speaks of Goethe as 
 a great and powerful spirit "in the line of human thought, Words- 
 worth in contemplation, Byron in that of passion." 
 
 This characterization of Byron may be compared with the esti- 
 mate of thirty years later, to be found in the introduction to his 
 volume of Selections from Byror, or in the Second Series of Essays 
 in Criticism. The real Byron was " the true and puissant per- 
 sonality, with its direct strokes, its ever-welling force, its satire, its 
 energy, and its agony." That perhaps was what he meant when 
 he says we ha.d felt him. As to teaching, he quotes with approval 
 Goethe's remark that '* the moment he begins to reflect he is a 
 child." Most readers of Byron will agree. They will generally 
 feel that his direct teaching, if there be any, is all wrong, but that 
 he was a great and powerful spirit. 
 
 As to Goethe, Arnold, in one of his early prose writings, though 
 some years after the time of this poem, TAe Function of Criticism 
 at the Present Time, called him " one of the greatest of critics," 
 and we shall understand this better by thinking of his view that 
 the great eflFort oi French and German literature in his day was 
 critical, that criticism was a seeing anything as in itself it really is. 
 " Goethe knew life and the world . . . much more comprehen- 
 sively than Byron. He knew a great deal more of them, and he 
 knew them much more as they really are." This is a good deal to 
 say of any one, and makes us understand better the idea of these 
 lines. 
 
 Of Wordsworth we need add little to these lines. Matthew 
 Arnold was a Wordsworthian, as he later said, who could read any- 
 thing of Wordsworth, — even Peter Bell, the Ecclesiastical Sonnets^ 
 and the Address to Mr. Wilkinson^ s Spade. And in a very few 
 words in one of his later essays he tells what he thinks the chief 
 power of Wordsworth. "Wordsworth's poetry is great," he 
 says, " because of the extraordinary power with which Wordsworth 
 feels the joy offered to us in nature, the joy offered to us in the 
 
1 88 0om 
 
 simple primary affections and duties ; and because of the extraor- 
 dinary power with which, in case after case, he shows us this joy, 
 and renders it so as to make us share it." That, though written 
 in 1879, is not very different from this judgment of 1850. 
 
 The Scholar-Gipsy 
 
 Matthew Arnold, in a note commonly printed with the poem, 
 gives its suggestion as follows : — 
 
 " There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by 
 his poverty forced to leave his studies there ; and at last to join himself to 
 a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the 
 insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love 
 and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had 
 been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a 
 couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They 
 quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies ; and he gave them an 
 account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them 
 that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken 
 for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could 
 do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others : 
 that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the 
 whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the 
 world an account of what he had learned." — Glanvil's Vanitj of Dog- 
 matixing, 1661. 
 
 The poem more than any other of Arnold's is full of the spirit 
 of place. He early learned to love the country about Oxford, and 
 especially the stretch of country to the west, and it had a charm 
 for him through life. Almost half a century after his undergraduate 
 days, he writes, " On Friday I got out to Hinksey and up the hill 
 to within sight of the Cumner firs, I cannot describe the effect 
 which this landscape always has upon me — the hillside with the 
 valleys, and Oxford in the Thames valley below. " Letters, Octo- 
 ber 18, 1885. We may therefore do our best to realize the cir- 
 cumstances, both as to the general look of the country-side, and as 
 to the especial charm of flower and tree. 
 
 Go, for they call you. These few words give us the pas- 
 toral tone and background. The poet has been talking with a 
 shepherd toward evening, as they sat by the hedge in the corner of 
 an upland field. 
 
 In this high field's dark corner. " On Thursday I got 
 
i|iote0 189 
 
 up alone Into one of the little coombs that papa was so fond of, and 
 which I had in my mind in the ' Gipsy Scholar,' and felt the pecul- 
 iar sentiment of the country and neighbourhood as deeply as ever." 
 — Letters, October, 1854. 
 
 The scarlet poppies. In July the scarlet poppies are scat- 
 tered over nearly every wheat and oat field in the kingdom. 
 
 John Burroughs, FresA Fields, p. 165. 
 
 Pale pink convolvulus. The pink convolvulus is very like 
 the wild morning-glory or woodchuck vine, though the flower is 
 somewhat smaller. 
 
 to learn the gipsy-lore. The two who have learned 
 most of the Gipsies are George Borrow and Charles G. Leland. 
 They learned much, but not exactly what Glanvil or Matthew Ar- 
 nold had in mind. 
 
 on the Hurst. Hurst hill between the village of Cumner 
 and Hinksey. Arnold speaks of it long afterward : "I went alone 
 up the Hinksey hillside towards Cumner Hurst, and enjoyed it 
 more than I can say." — Letters, October 19, 1885. 
 
 The Berkshire moors. Berkshire is the county south of 
 Oxford, though here it lies to the west, just across the Thames. 
 
 Or in my boat I lie. The punt is a favorite retreat of the 
 Oxford student from academic labors and cares : it is even more 
 leisurely than the canoe which has of late intruded upon its domain. 
 
 Bab-lock-hithe. Just below the village of Cumner ,-a few 
 miles to the west of Oxford, is a rope-guided barge now (or lately) 
 the only one of its kind left on the Thames. It is about four miles 
 from Oxford, but the river winds so that it is full twenty by water. 
 — Cf. R. G. Thwaites, Our Cycling Tour in England, p. 285. 
 
 Wychwood bo'wers. Wychwood forest is some fifteen 
 miles to the northwest of Oxford. 
 
 The Fyfield elm. "I know the Fyfield tree," he writes 
 in Thyrsis. Fyfield is a village a few miles beyond Cumner, but the 
 particular tree here mentioned seems a matter of conjecture. 
 
 Dark bluebells. How real was all this circumstance we 
 may judge from a few words in the poet's letters (May 14, 1861): 
 ** Presently I am going to my old haunts among the Cumner hills 
 and shall come back with plenty of orchises and bluebells." 
 
 Godstow Bridge. The ruins of Godstow nunnery are not 
 
1 90 ifiote0 
 
 far from Wytham, three or four miles out of Oxford to the north- 
 west, though longer by the river. 
 
 Bagley "Wood was the favorite place of Matthew Arnold's 
 father in his walks about Oxford. 
 
 Oh life unlike to ours. This phrase may serve as key to 
 the poem. As in so many other poems, Arnold thinks of his own 
 time ( " this strange disease of modern life " ) as a time of blind and 
 ignorant transition, in which men, having lost their earlier ideals and 
 gained no new ones, are merely motes in a whirlwind of dust, or 
 something of the sort. As a contrast, the idea of the simple defi- 
 niteness of the Scholar-Gipsy gives him pleasure, as does the sim- 
 plicity of the country-side. Eight years after this poem was pub- 
 lished, on May 14, 1861, he wrote: "If I was disposed to fly 
 for refuge to the country and its sights and sounds, against the 
 rather humdrum life which prevailed here [Oxford] in old times, 
 how much more am I disposed to do this now, convinced as I am 
 that irritations and envyings are not only negatively injurious to one's 
 spirit, like dullness, but positively and actively." 
 
 The figure in the last two stanzas is very beautiful in itself, though 
 not quite so much in point as the closing lines of So Arab and Rustum. 
 Still the Tyrians, like the Oxford gipsy, were of an older civiliza- 
 tion that could not cope with the domineering modern life, and 
 since they could not battle with it preferred to fly. 
 
 Thyrsis 
 
 Clough wasJL friend of Arnold's at school, at college, and after- 
 ward. " wl^o agreeing," he writes, March lo, 1848, "like 
 two lambs in a ^rld of wolves." Arnold calls him Thyrsis in 
 recollection of the pastoral poetry of Theocritus, whom he read 
 much during the two years [in which he had the poem in mind. 
 The ninth and tenth stanzas are suggested by the recollection of the 
 Sicilian poet, although all the circumstance of the poem is truly 
 English. The places of this poem are much the same as in The 
 Scholar-Gipsy. The poet is on the Cumner hills to the west of 
 Oxford, perhaps on Hurst hill mentioned in the preceding poem. 
 The two Hinkseys are villages between himself and Oxford : per- 
 haps he had walked through North Hinksey as he came out. At 
 first he looks to the southwest toward Ilsley downs to find the well- 
 
 I 
 
00tt& 191 
 
 known elm-tree of older days. Of the other places, Ensham and 
 Wytham are to the north on the Thames above Oxford, Sandford 
 on the river below the city. The Vale mentioned in the second 
 stanza is the White Horse Vale in Berkshire. 
 
 The cuckoo's parting cry. *' The cuckoo on the wet 
 June morning I heard in the garden at Woodford." Letters, 
 April 7, 1866. 
 
 Oh easy access. This stanza, and the one beginning " And 
 long the way," the poet himself liked best of the poem. The idea 
 of the stanza, as of the preceding, will hardly be grasped without 
 familiarity with the classical allusion. 
 
 I know . . . what purple fritillaries. The fritillary 
 is a handsome bell-shaped flower. Visitors to Oxford nowadays 
 need not miss it, for the fritillaries are now famous and may even be 
 found at the flower-stores. When Ruskin went to Oxford, how- 
 ever, as he afterward indignantly complained, no one thought enough 
 of the matter to let him know that there were any. 
 
 I know these slopes. This stanza also the poet liked, 
 and that following, because they brought before him certain places 
 and moments. Letters, April 7, 1866. 
 
 Heine's Grave 
 
 Heine, although a German poet, lived the latter part of his 
 life in Paris, and died there. At his own desire he was buried, not 
 in his native country, but in the cemetery of M^tmartre. Eight 
 years before his death he was attacked by a kind^^aralytic stroke, 
 (Half-blind, palsied, in pain) and w^left with an in- 
 curable disease of the spinal marrow. After a short time he was 
 not even able to go out, and lingered on for years, on what he called 
 his '* mattress-grave." He was literally half-blind and was often 
 in great agony. It was something, Arnold thinks, to maintain, if 
 not composure, even a bold sanity. Yet Heine was not one of the 
 great calm souls of the world : there was quite a dash of bitterness 
 in his make-up. 
 
 Some years after the time of this poem, Matthew Arnold, writing 
 an essay on Heine and his place in literature, quotes from Goethe, 
 as follows : '* If I were to say what I had really been to the Ger- 
 mans in general, and to the young German poets in particular, I 
 
192 l^otefif 
 
 should say I had been their liberator.''^ He had taught them to 
 be themselves, to be original. And thus Heine came to be, as he 
 writes himself, ** a brave soldier in the Liberation War of humanity. " 
 ** Taking that terrible modern weapon, the pen, in his hand, he 
 passed the remainder of his life in one fierce battle. What was 
 that battle ? the reader will ask. It was a life and death battle 
 with Philistinism." 
 
 The mention of the Hartz, later in the poem is inspired by Heine's 
 Harzreise, and Goethe's Harzreise im fVinter. 
 
 Geist's Grave 
 
 This is one of Arnold's latest poems, as he says in Stanza 1 1 : it 
 was published in 1881. Geist was a dachshund of whom all the 
 family were devotedly fond. Arnold wrote to his son : * * The 
 daily miss of him will wear off, but we shall never forget him." 
 
 The Strayed Reveller 
 
 This poem was the most considerable of the first collection 
 ( 1 849) called from it The Strayed Reveller ^ and Other Poems. 
 The volume was withdrawn, however, before many copies had been 
 sold. With a few others, it was reprinted in the volume of 1853. 
 The general critical opinion at the time of publishing (so far as there 
 was one) was not very favorable. The Athenaum said it had 
 some fine thinking, and the North British Re-vieiv said it had some 
 fine imagery, but neither said anything more of it. Blackicood' s 
 with its usual frankness called it *'a confused chaunt about Circe, 
 Ulysses, and the Gods from which no exercise of ingenuity can ex- 
 tract a meaning." The case does not seem quite so bad as that. 
 The poem consists of a dramatic setting not hard to realize, and an 
 expression of some ideas on poetry. The dramatic pictures, Circe's 
 palace, with Circe herself and Ulyssess (how definitely imagined !) 
 and the young man come down from his upland retreat in the 
 wooded mountain, these make a beautiful poem with nothing else. 
 The latter part, in which the young man expresses a theory of poetic 
 art which he has learned of old Silenus, that also is interesting in 
 itself and, one would say, by no means obscure. The main doc- 
 trine Is 
 
^otti 193 
 
 " such a price 
 The Gods exact for song ; 
 To become what we sing." 
 
 This may be compared with the view of Resignation, which ex- 
 presses a different element in the poetic experience, without deny- 
 ing this. 
 
 Most noteworthy in the poem, probably, are the pictures of the 
 Indian, the Scythian, the Centaurs, the Chorasmian ferry. These 
 are most characteristic, even of Matthew Arnold's most finished 
 art. They have the clearness that comes from imaginative power 
 and mastery of expression. If not composed with the eye on the 
 object, yet they have something of the same naturalness. They 
 are classic and yet they do not give us the sense of bareness that we 
 may often get from such classicism, for instance, as that of Flax- 
 man's outlines, or Thorwaldsen's sculpture. These pictures are 
 like some modern pictures. They have color, richness, life. 
 
 The Forsaken Merman 
 
 This is one of the poems of the first collection, a poem of picture 
 and emotion, rather than of thought. The situation, the King of 
 the Sea and his children longing for the wife and mother who had 
 left them : the circumstance, the stormy surface of the ocean, the 
 silent depths : these are the materials of the poem, one which Mr. 
 Swinburne remembered in after years. When a schoolboy at Eton 
 he had got it mainly by heart, as he did one or two others less ap- 
 plicable to the appreciation of boyhood. The reader may be inter- 
 ested in asking himself whether this poem has the classic touch we 
 speak of so often with Matthew Arnold. Compare it with the 
 Strayed Re'veller, and it is certainly not classic in subject : that is 
 on an old Greek story, this is medieval. But it is not the subject 
 that makes a poem classic : it is the handling. And to get at the 
 essential character of the handling, let us put this poem beside an- 
 other on a like subject, namely, The Mermaid, by Tennyson. It 
 is not so much of a poem as this, but it has some of the qualities of 
 its author, who was a great master of romantic poetry. We will 
 print a few lines that one may easily compare with the description 
 in our poem, of the world under the sea. 
 
194 iliotesf 
 
 " I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall 
 Low adown, low adown. 
 From under my starry sea-bud crown 
 
 Low adown and around. 
 And I should look like a fountain of gold 
 Springing alone 
 With a shrill inner sound, 
 
 Over the throne 
 In the midst of the hall ; 
 Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
 From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
 Would slowly trail himself seven-fold 
 Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate 
 With his large calm eyes for the love of me." 
 
 Notice that the diflference here is not that one poem has color 
 and brilliancy and life : both have. Nor is it that one poem is im- 
 aginative, for both are. Rather is the diflFerence that Arnold seems 
 to have his object clearly present in mind, so that he sees the cool 
 and deep cavern, the coiling and twining sea-snakes, and he is so 
 satisfied with the sight of them that he is content to describe it. 
 Tennyson, on the other hand, who does not see so much nor so 
 definitely, is not content with it but adds the comparison to the 
 golden fountain. 
 
 That is, of course, only one mark of the difference : Arnold 
 wishes to see the whole scene as clearly and distinctly as he can im- 
 agine it. He does not want it to be colorless or bare or mean, but 
 he wants it as it is, because he is sure if he can get the situation and 
 the circumstance as it really is, he will have something beautiful. 
 So his touches are descriptive j they are imaginative but not figura- 
 tive. There is hardly a figure (of likeness at least) in the poem. 
 Look through it and see : the waves are compared to white horses, 
 the scales of the sea-snakes are called mail, but that is hardly a figure, 
 her eyes are tealed to the book, the heath is starred with broom. 
 After all, how slight that is : there is sometimes more simile and 
 metaphor in a dozen lines of Tennyson than in the whole of this 
 poem. That is because the romantic poet, his mind always full of 
 beautiful images, is always telling us of them. But Matthew 
 Arnold keeps his eye upon the thing he is writing of, for he wants us 
 to see it very clearly and vividly. And that gives a certain quality 
 to his poetry. 
 
jliote0 195 
 
 SOHRAB AND RuSTUM 
 
 This poem was written in 1853 and published in the volume 
 of that year, often called Poems : First Series, in which Matthew 
 Arnold got together what he desired out of T/te Strayed Re-veller, 
 and Other Poems, and Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems, both 
 of which he had withdrawn from circulation before many copies had 
 been sold. '* I am occupied with a thing that gives me more pleas- 
 ure than anything I have ever done yet, which is a good sign." 
 Letters, April 14, 1853. And in writing to his mother, he 
 says, " I think it by far the best thing I have done yet," and that 
 the story is "a very noble and excellent one," May, 1853. 
 We have here, therefore, a good opportunity to study Arnold's poetic 
 qualities. Let us begin, methodically, by looking at the subject. This 
 the poet gives us himself in a note that was printed with the poem. 
 
 The story of Sohrab and Rustum as told in Sir John Malcolm's 
 History of Persia, as follows : — 
 
 '•'• The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum's early amours. He 
 had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose 
 armies he commanded and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all con- 
 temporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay into 
 the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that 
 country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved 
 to do, under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time they 
 parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage ; the second, 
 the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father 5 the 
 third was fata! to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangsof death, warned 
 his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and 
 bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that 
 he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to 
 the aged hero ; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair 
 for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore 
 open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed 
 on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade 
 him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite 
 frantic ; he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, and 
 was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's 
 death, he burnt his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to Seis- 
 tan, where it was interred ; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the last 
 request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile 
 us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could 
 have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written 
 to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she 
 revealed the truth ; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned 
 name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days." 
 
196 iPotesf 
 
 By reading this account and comparing it with the poem we get 
 an idea of the " noble and excellent" story, and of the things in 
 it that so impressed the poet. He had clearly no thought of any 
 meaning in the story, or any analogy to be drawn from it as was, 
 perhaps, the case in Empedocles on Etna. It was not that there 
 was any lesson or moral in it, though, as must be the case in any 
 real story from life, there may be powerful moral currents to be 
 felt. It was not an opportunity to present some thoughts other- 
 wise in mind, as in some degree in The Strayed Re-veller. It was 
 simply because the story of the lonely father's unwittingly killing 
 his unknown son seemed to Arnold intensely affecting and tragic, 
 and he felt sure that if it were told so that others could see it as he 
 saw it, it would arouse feelings in his readers that would give poetic 
 pleasure and a sympathy with the great things of life. 
 
 His manner of telling it is that to which we have become accus- 
 tomed. It is (in the main) a plain, even bare, narrative that con- 
 tents itself with stating what the poet has imagined. But this thing 
 which the poet has imagined is not plain and bare at all. He im- 
 agines nothing that he does not imagine fully. Peran Wisa wears 
 a woolen coat, sandals, a white cloak and a cap of sheepskin with 
 curly black wool, and he carries a ruler's staff instead of a sword. 
 Rustum sits by his morning meal of melons, bread, and roasted 
 sheep, playing with a falcon on his wrist. Ruksh is a bright bay, 
 with a golden-green saddlecloth, embroidered wonderfully with gold, 
 and so on. The poet has a very particular idea of the strange and 
 wonderful scene of which he writes. There is nothing that should 
 be called imagery, but it is all a creation of the imagination. 
 
 There are further to be noted two characteristics 'of style that 
 are classic ; we may say that they come practically from Homer : 
 the long formal speeches and the long formal similes. Why, one 
 may ask, if one wants to be so true to nature, as would seem from 
 the accurate almost prosaic description, why be so unnatural as to 
 give speeches and modes of language that real men could never 
 have used on such occasions ? The answer will lie in the very 
 nature of poetry and picture, namely, that neither can present life 
 precisely as it is, that there must always be some conventionality of 
 form, and that if this conventionality serves to help the main effect 
 without distracting from the attention, or jarring on our sense of 
 
jl^otes? 197 
 
 life, we may be satisfied. Of course men do not commonly speak 
 in long speeches or use long similes, but then men do not speak in 
 poetry, nor indeed in literary language, even. Literary language, 
 poetry, are conventional forms (just like the use of lines in drawing, 
 or of marble in sculpture,) and wc might well say that these addi- 
 tional conventionalities bear little harm with those accustomed to 
 them, while they do (so the argument would run) aid much in the 
 poet's desire to present very strongly the essential things in his sub- 
 ject. The figure of the rich woman looking with vague curiosity 
 at the poor drudge does really make us appreciate the feeling of 
 Rustum as he goes into the combat, just as his last long speech 
 makes us feel his misery at the end of it. Or at least that is the 
 theory of the matter. 
 
 And with all this attention to style the appreciative reader will 
 not be distracted from the beauty of the story itself with its half- 
 realistic and half-symbolic end. It is one of the astonishing confusions 
 of life, surely, one of those confusions that so often hinder our action 
 and distress us; but we shall sometime escape from them and enjoy 
 calm and rest. 
 
 Tristram and Iseult 
 
 This selection is the third and last part of Arnold's partly dra- 
 matic, partly narrative poem. Tristram and Iseult, the wife of 
 Mark of Cornwall, had fallen in love with each other by drinking 
 through mistake a love-philtre that had been meant for the king. 
 As Iseult belonged to another, Tristram had in time met and loved 
 Iseult of Brittany, the Iseult of our extract. With her he lived 
 happily for a time, but left her on some adventure where he re- 
 ceived a death-wound and came back to Brittany. In his last hours 
 (and here the poem begins) he longs for the first Iseult and sends 
 for her. She comes to him and the two die together. In the 
 third part we have a conclusion something like that of Sohrab and 
 Rustum. After the fierce mistakes and follies of life comes this 
 quiet picture of the old castle of Brittany, the widow and her chil- 
 dren. The poet moralizes a bit upon it, in the guise of a medie- 
 val chronicler, and ends with the story of Merlin and Vivien, the 
 enchanter's sleep after a life of laborious learning and toil. 
 
THE POEMS TO MARGUERITE 
 
 The foundation of the present attempt to connect these 
 poems into one series lies in two facts: First, the greater 
 number of them appear in almost the order here assigned 
 to them in Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems ^ 1852. 
 Calling them by the numbers given them in this appen- 
 dix they are as follows: 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 11, 15, 16, 
 14, 17, 18, 19, 20. Second, they are now, mostly, or 
 once were grouped together in two lyric suites, entitled 
 Faded Leases {zy 5, 6, 7, 8) and Sivitzerland {<)y 11, 12, 
 
 13, 14, i5> ^i)- 
 
 As originall;^ published, these poems had no common 
 title: they were merely the first fifteen poems following 
 Empedocles on Etna. The groupings into Faded Leanjes 
 and Snvitzerland date from the years 1855 and 1853, 
 respectively. In those years Arnold rearranged and re- 
 published his poems and added some new ones. In 1867 
 and 1885 he made some changes in these series, but with- 
 out changing their general character. It seems plain, 
 however, that the two suites are in reality one, and that 
 their order is not as they stand at present, but as they 
 originally stood. Faded Lea^ves coming first and Sivitz- 
 erland second. In the Faded Leanjes the poet is seen On 
 the Rhiney i. e. on the way to Switzerland. Each series 
 consists of personal lyrics inspired by a charming and 
 beautiful woman, whom the poet loves, but leaves be- 
 cause she cannot love him. In Faded Leagues she has arch 
 eyes and mocking mouth, grey eyes and J)rjQwn hair. 
 
200 aippenuir 
 
 But her eyes were evidently not absolutely grey, for we 
 have also the curious couplet, 
 
 ** Eyes too expressive to be blue, 
 Too lovely to be grey." 
 The Marguerite of the Sijoitxerland poems has eyes of 
 blue {Meeting)^ which were very like grey {Absence). 
 She has the archest chin, an arch smile, and mockery in 
 her eyes. The inspiration seems the same person: it is 
 hard to imagine two such episodes with two persons so 
 closely resembling each other. 
 
 Such facts seem sufficient to give the presumption of a 
 single series: we may next note the reasons in the case of 
 each separate poem. 
 
 1 . A Memory-Picture. This poem originally appeared 
 in 1849 with the name To My Friends. In 1853 it was 
 made I in Switzerland. In 1 858 it was detached and now 
 appears among Early Poems. It is a picture of Marguerite, 
 evidently the same Marguerite as in Parting and The 
 Terrace at Berne. 
 
 2. The Ri^ver. I in Faded Lea^ves. In 1852 the first 
 poem coming after Empedocles. 
 
 3. Urania. This poem was originally called Excuse j 
 and in 1852 came immediately after 2. It may seen doubt- 
 ful that it should refer to Marguerite, but when we think 
 of her archness and mockery it may appear not unlikely. 
 
 4. Euphrosyne. This poem was originally called Indif- 
 ference^ and came in 1852 immediately after 3 and before 
 5 now in Faded Lea-ves. Euphrosyne is one full of inward 
 happiness and joy, like Marguerite of the 
 
 " arch smile which tells 
 The unconquered joy that in her spirit dwells " 
 
 Parting. 
 
 and of the gay delight showing in her fresh voice {The 
 Terrace at Berne). 
 
appenUiic 201 
 
 5. Too Late. y 
 
 ' rv .L D 7 • \ Stand now in Faded Leanjes. 
 
 7. On the Rhine. I 
 
 8. Longing. J 
 
 9. Meeting. In 185a called The Lake and coming 
 immediately after 8. In 1853 it was made II in S'witzer- 
 landy and in 1885 when No. i was detached it took first 
 place. 
 
 \o. A Dream. This poem was originally published 
 (1853) as III in Snjoitzerland. In 1869 it was omitted 
 entirely and now appears among Early Poems. It is ad- 
 dressed to Marguerite. 
 
 II. Parting. In 1852 followed 9, then (1853) was 
 made IV in S^ivitzerland, and now on the omission of i 
 and 10 stands second. 
 
 jz. A Fareivell first appeared in 1 869 as IV in Snvitz- 
 erland, and now stands third. 
 
 13. Isolation. In 1857 called To Marguerite, the only 
 new poem in the third edition of the First Series. 
 
 14. To Marguerite: Continued. In 1852 called To 
 Marguerite i in 1853 made V in S'^vitzerland. 
 
 15. Absence. In 1852 comes immediately after 1 1 ; in 
 1853 VI in S^ivitzerland. 
 
 16. Destiny. In 1852 comes immediately after 15; it 
 was not reprinted by Arnold. 
 
 17. Human Life. In 1852 this poem follows 14. It 
 was not, however, printed in 1853 in Sivitzerlandy but 
 was republished in Neiv Poems, 1867. 
 
 18. Despondency. In 1852 follows 17: unlike it, how- 
 ever, republished in 1855. 
 
 19. Youth'' s Agitations. In 1852 follows 18: like 17 
 not republished till 1867. 
 
 20. Self-Deception. In 1852 follows 19: like 18 re- 
 published in 1855. 
 
202 3ipptnt>ix 
 
 21. T/ie Terrace at Berne. Originally published in 
 1867, then (1869) the last poem of the Sivitzerland 
 
 Such reasons do not make a certain proof, but if the 
 twenty-one poems are read in order, it will be seen that 
 they are practically expressive of one general sentiment. 
 If there were fact at bottom for the sentiment in some, it 
 is reasonable enough to believe that it was at bottom of 
 all. Nos. 17—20 have least reason to be included here. 
 In the volume of 1852, however, they follow along im- 
 mediately after the other poems and to my mind are 
 rather explained by them. 
 
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