Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold (Illustrated) E-Book

Matthew Arnold

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 3077

Beschreibung

The Victorian English poet and essayist Matthew Arnold was the archetypal sage writer, noted for his classical attacks on the tastes and manners of his time. His poetry is characterised by its classically poised, serene and grand style, which is often intimate, personal, full of romantic regret and nostalgic in tone. Arnold’s incisive essays chastised and instructed the reader on contemporary social issues, fashioning himself as the apostle of “culture” in his landmark work ‘Culture and Anarchy’. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the complete poetical works of Matthew Arnold, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 2)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Arnold's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes a selection of Arnold's non-fiction, including his seminal collection of essays CULTURE AND ANARCHY
* Features two bonus biographies - discover Arnold's literary life
* Ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
* UPDATED with rare uncollected poems, five prose works and one biography

The Poetry Collections
The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems
Sonnets
Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems
Tristram and Iseult
Poems, a New Edition
The Church of Brou
Poems, Second and Third Series, 1855
Merope. a Tragedy
Poems from Magazines
New Poems, 1867
Uncollected Poems

The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Prose
On Translating Homer
Culture and Anarchy
St. Paul and Protestantism, with an Essay on Puritanism and the Church of England
Literature and Dogma
Discourses in America
The Study of Celtic Literature
Selected Essays

The Biographies
Matthew Arnold by Leslie Stephen
Matthew Arnold by George William Erskine Russell
Matthew Arnold by George Saintsbury

Leseprobe

Matthew Arnold

(1822–1888)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems

Sonnets

Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems

Tristram and Iseult

Poems, a New Edition

The Church of Brou

Poems, Second and Third Series, 1855

Merope. a Tragedy

Poems from Magazines

New Poems, 1867

Uncollected Poems

The Poems

List of Poems in Chronological Order

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Prose

On Translating Homer

Culture and Anarchy

St. Paul and Protestantism, with an Essay on Puritanism and the Church of England

Literature and Dogma

Discourses in America

The Study of Celtic Literature

Selected Essays

The Biographies

Matthew Arnold by Leslie Stephen

Matthew Arnold by George William Erskine Russell

Matthew Arnold by George Saintsbury

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2021

Version 2

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Matthew Arnold

By Delphi Classics, 2021

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COPYRIGHT

Matthew Arnold - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2021.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 9781909496651

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections

Matthew Arnold was born in Laleham-on-the-Thames, Surrey, sixteen miles west of London.

The poet’s father, Thomas Arnold, was a famous educator and historian, who worked as the headmaster of Rugby School from 1828 to 1841.

The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems

Matthew Arnold (1822–1888) was the son of Thomas Arnold, the famed headmaster of Rugby School, and brother to both Tom Arnold, literary professor, and William Delafield Arnold, novelist and colonial administrator.

When Arnold was six years old, his father was appointed Headmaster of Rugby School and the young family took up residence in the Headmaster’s house. Arnold was tutored by his uncle, the Reverend John Buckland, at Laleham, Middlesex. In 1837 he returned to Rugby School where he was enrolled in the fifth form, moving into the sixth form in 1838 and coming under the direct tutelage of his father. At this time, he wrote verses for the manuscript Fox How Magazine, produced by Matthew and his brother Tom for the family’s enjoyment from 1838 to 1843. During his years as a Rugby student, Arnold won school prizes for English essay writing, and Latin and English poetry.

In 1841, he won an open scholarship to Balliol College, Oxford. During his residence at Oxford, his friendship ripened with Arthur Hugh Clough, another Rugby old boy who had been one of his father’s favourites. Arnold attended John Henry Newman’s sermons at St. Mary’s, but declined joining the Oxford Movement.

In 1845, after a short interlude of teaching at Rugby, Arnold was elected Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. Two years later he became Private Secretary to Lord Lansdowne, Lord President of the Council. Shortly after, Arnold published his first book of poetry, The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems, which attracted little notice.

In 1834, the Arnolds occupied a holiday home, Fox How, in the Lake District; William Wordsworth was a neighbour and became a close friend.

CONTENTS

Sonnet: One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee

Mycerinus

Sonnet. To a Friend

The Strayed Reveller

Fragment of an ‘Antigone’

The Sick King in Bokhara

Arnold, c. 1868

Sonnet: One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee

ONE lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,One lesson  that in every wind is  blown,One lesson of two duties serv’d in one,Though the loud world proclaim their enmity —   Of Toil unsever’d from Tranquillity:   5Of Labour, that in still advance  outgrowsFar 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,   10Still 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.

Mycerinus

‘NOT  by the justice that my father spurn’d,Not for the thousands whom my father slew,Altars unfed and temples overturn’d,Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks were due;Fell this late voice from lips that cannot lie,   5Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny.

I will unfold my sentence and my crime.My crime, that, rapt in reverential awe,I sate obedient, in the fiery primeOf youth, self-govern’d, at the feet of Law;   10Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings,By contemplation of diviner things.

My father lov’d injustice, and liv’d long;Crown’d with grey hairs he died, and full of sway.I lov’d the good he scorn’d, and hated wrong:   15The Gods declare my recompense to-day.I look’d for life more lasting, rule more high;And when six years are measur’d, lo, I die!

Yet surely, O my people, did I deemMan’s justice from the all-just Gods was given:   20A light that from some upper fount did beam,Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven;A light that, shining from the blest abodes,Did shadow somewhat of the life of Gods.

Mere phantoms of man’s self-tormenting heart,   25Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed:Vain dreams, that quench our pleasures, then depart,When the dup’d soul, self-master’d, claims its meed:When, on the strenuous just man, Heaven bestows,Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close.   30

Seems it so light a thing then, austere Powers,To spurn man’s common lure, life’s pleasant things?Seems there no joy in dances crown’d with flowers,Love, free to range, and regal banquetings?Bend ye on these, indeed, an unmov’d eye,   35Not Gods but ghosts, in frozen apathy?

Or is it that some Power, too wise, too strong,Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile,Whirls earth, and heaven, and men, and gods along,Like the broad rushing of the insurged  Nile?   40And the great powers we serve, themselves may beSlaves of a tyrannous Necessity?

Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars,Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight,And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars,   45Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night?Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen,Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene?

Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be,Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream?   50Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see,Blind divinations of a will supreme;Lost labour: when the circumambient gloomBut hides, if Gods, Gods careless of our doom?

The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak   55My sand runs short; and as yon star-shot ray,Hemm’d by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak,Now, as the barrier closes, dies away;Even so do past and future intertwine,Blotting this six years’ space, which yet is mine.   60

Six years — six little years — six drops of time — Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane,And old men die, and young men pass their prime,And languid Pleasure fade and flower again;And the dull Gods behold, ere these are flown,   65Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.

Into the silence of the groves and woodsI will go forth; but something would I say — Something — yet what I know not: for the GodsThe doom they pass revoke not, nor delay;   70And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all,And the night waxes, and the shadows fall.

Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king.I go, and I return not. But the willOf the great Gods is plain; and ye must bring   75Ill deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfilTheir pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise,The praise of Gods, rich boon! and length of days.’

 — So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn;And one loud cry of grief and of amaze   80Broke from his sorrowing people: so he spake;And turning, left them there; and with brief pause,Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his wayTo the cool region of the groves he lov’d.There by the river banks he wander’d on,   85From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,Their smooth tops shining sunwards, and beneathBurying their unsunn’d stems in grass and flowers:Where in one dream the feverish time of YouthMight fade in slumber, and the feet of Joy   90Might wander all day long and never tire:Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn,Rose-crown’d; and ever, when the sun went down,A hundred lamps beam’d in the tranquil gloom,From tree to tree, all through the twinkling grove,   95Revealing all the tumult of the feast,Flush’d guests, and golden goblets, foam’d with wine;While the deep-burnish’d foliage overheadSplinter’d the silver arrows of the moon.  It may be that sometimes his wondering soul   100From the loud joyful laughter of his lipsMight shrink half startled, like a guilty manWho wrestles with his dream; as some pale Shape,Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems,Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl,   105Whispering, ‘A little space, and thou art mine.’It may be on that joyless feast his eyeDwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within,Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength,And by that silent knowledge, day by day,   110Was calm’d, ennobled, comforted, sustain’d.It may be; but not less his brow was smooth,And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom,And his mirth quail’d not at the mild reproofSigh’d out by Winter’s sad tranquillity;   115Nor, pall’d with its own fullness, ebb’d and diedIn the rich languor of long summer days;Nor wither’d, when the palm-tree plumes that roof’dWith their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall,Bent to the cold winds of the showerless Spring;   120No, nor grew dark when Autumn brought the clouds.  So six long years he revell’d, night and day;And when the mirth wax’d loudest, with dull soundSometimes from the grove’s centre echoes came,To tell his wondering people of their king;   125In the still night, across the steaming flats,

Sonnet. To a Friend

WHO  prop, thou ask’st, in these bad days, my mind?He much, the old man, who, clearest-soul’d of men,Saw The Wide Prospect,  and the Asian Fen,And Tmolus’ hill, and Smyrna’s bay, though blind.Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,   5That halting slave, who in NicopolisTaught Arrian, when Vespasian’s brutal sonClear’d Rome of what most sham’d him. But be hisMy special thanks, whose even-balanc’d soul,From first youth tested up to extreme old age,   10Business could not make dull, nor Passion wild:Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole:The mellow glory of the Attic stage;Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.

The Strayed Reveller

The portico of Circe’s Palace.    EveningA YOUTH.    CIRCE

THE YOUTHFASTER, faster,O Circe, Goddess,Let the wild, thronging train,The bright processionOf eddying forms,   5Sweep through my soul!Thou standest, smilingDown on me; thy right arm,Lean’d up against the column there,Props thy soft cheek;   10Thy left holds, hanging loosely,The deep cup, ivy-cinctur’d,I held but now.

Is it then eveningSo soon? I see, the night dews,   15Cluster’d in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder.The cool night-wind, too,Blows through the portico,   20Stirs thy hair, Goddess,Waves thy white robe.

CIRCEWhence art thou, sleeper?

THE YOUTHWhen the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planks   25Of my hut, by the chestnuts,Up at the valley-head,Came breaking, Goddess,I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin:   30Passing 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   35The rout early gather’dIn the town, round the temple,Iacchus’ white faneOn yonder hill.

Quick I pass’d, following   40The wood-cutters’ cart-trackDown the dark valley; — I sawOn my left, through the beeches,Thy palace, Goddess,Smokeless, empty:   45Trembling, I enter’d; beheldThe court all silent,The lions sleeping;On the altar, this bowl.I drank, Goddess — 50And sunk down here, sleeping,On the steps of thy portico.

CIRCEFoolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,   55Through the delicate flush’d marble,The red creaming liquor,Strown with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not,Deny thee not my bowl.   60Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so, — Drink, drink again!

THE YOUTHThanks, gracious One!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me!   65More subtle-windingThan Pan’s flute-music.Faint — faint! Ah me!Again the sweet sleep.

CIRCEHist! Thou — within there!   70Come forth, Ulysses!Art tired with hunting?While we range the woodland,See what the day brings.

ULYSSESEver new magic!   75Hast thou then lur’d hither,Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,The young, languid-ey’d Ampelus,Iacchus’ darling — Or some youth belov’d of Pan,   80Of Pan and the Nymphs?That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreath’d margeOf thy cup: — the bright, glancing vine-leaves   85That crown his hair;Falling forwards, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants,His fawn-skin, half united,Smear’d with red wine-stains? Who is he,   90That he sits, overweigh’dBy fumes of wine and sleep,So late, in thy portico?What youth, Goddess, — what guestOf Gods or mortals?   95

CIRCEHist! he wakes!I lur’d him not hither, Ulysses.Nay, ask him!

THE YOUTHWho speaks? Ah! Who comes forthTo thy side, Goddess, from within?   100How shall I name him?This spare, dark-featur’d,Quick-ey’d stranger?Ah! and I see tooHis sailor’s bonnet,   105His short coat, travel-tarnish’d,With one arm bare. — Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumoursThe favour’d guest of Circe, brought by the waves?   110Art thou he, stranger?The wise Ulysses,Laertes’ son?

ULYSSESI am Ulysses.And thou, too, sleeper?   115Thy voice is sweet.It may be thou hast follow’dThrough the islands some divine bard,By age taught many things,Age and the Muses;   120And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learn’d his songs,Of Gods and Heroes,Of war and arts,   125And peopled citiesInland, or builtBy the grey sea. — If so, then hail!I honour and welcome thee.

THE YOUTHThe Gods are happy.   130They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes:And see, below them,The Earth, and men.

They see Tiresias   135Sitting, staff in hand,On the warm, grassyAsopus’ bank:His robe drawn overHis old, sightless head:   140Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes.

They see the CentaursIn the upper glensOf Pelion, in the streams,   145Where red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools;With streaming flanks, and headsRear’d proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind.   150They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand,His frail boat moor’d toA floating isle thick mattedWith large-leav’d, low-creeping melon-plants,   155And the dark cucumber.He reaps, and stows them,Drifting — drifting: — round him,Round his green harvest-plot,Flow the cool lake-waves:   160The mountains ring them.

They see the ScythianOn the wide Stepp, unharnessingHis wheel’d house at noon.He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,   165Mares’ milk, and breadBak’d on the embers: — all aroundThe boundless waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr’dWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leav’d iris flowers.   170Sitting in his cartHe makes his meal: before him, for long miles,Alive with bright green lizards,And the springing bustard fowl,The track, a straight black line,   175Furrows the rich soil: here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopp’d with rough-hewn,Grey, rain-blear’d statues, overpeerThe sunny Waste.   180

They see the FerryOn the broad, clay-ladenLone Chorasmian stream: thereonWith snort and strain,Two horses, strongly swimming, tow   185The ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm-harness’d by the mane: — a Chief,With shout and shaken spearStands at the prow, and guides them: but astern,   190The cowering Merchants, in long robes,Sit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops,Of gold and ivory,Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,   195Jasper and chalcedony,And milk-barr’d onyx stones.The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies.The Gods behold them.   200

They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heaving,Violet sea:At sunset nearing   205The Happy Islands.

These things, Ulysses,The wise Bards alsoBehold and sing.But oh, what labour!   210O Prince, what pain!

They too can seeTiresias: — but the Gods,Who give them vision,Added this law:   215That they should bear tooHis groping blindness,His dark foreboding,His scorn’d white hairs;Bear Hera’s anger   220Through a life lengthen’dTo seven ages.

They see the CentaursOn Pelion: — then they feel,They too, the maddening wine   225Swell their large veins to bursting: in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive,Drive crashing through their bones: they feelHigh on a jutting rock in the red stream   230Alcmena’s dreadful sonPly his bow: — such a priceThe Gods exact for song;To become what we sing.

They see the Indian   235On his mountain lake: — but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn  the unkind spring have gnaw’dTheir melon-harvest to the heart: They seeThe Scythian: — but long frosts   240Parch them in winter-time on the bare Stepp,Till they too fade like grass: they crawlLike shadows forth in spring.

They see the MerchantsOn the Oxus’ stream: — but care   245Must visit first them too, and make them pale.Whether, through whirling sand,A cloud of desert robber-horse has burstUpon their caravan: or greedy kings,In the wall’d cities the way passes through,   250Crush’d them with tolls: or fever-airs,On some great river’s marge,Mown them down, far from home.

They see the HeroesNear harbour: — but they share   255Their lives, and former violent toil, in Thebes,Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy:Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo, first,Startled the unknown Sea.   260

The old SilenusCame, lolling in the sunshine,From the dewy forest coverts,This way, at noon.Sitting by me, while his Fauns   265Down at the water sideSprinkled and smooth’dHis drooping garland,He told me these things.But I, Ulysses,   270Sitting on the warm steps,Looking over the valley,All day long, have seen,Without pain, without labour,Sometimes a wild-hair’d Maenad;   275Sometimes a Faun with torches;And sometimes, for a moment,Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-rob’d — the belov’d,The desir’d, the divine,   280Belov’d Iacchus.

Ah cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah glimmering water — Fitful earth-murmur — Dreaming woods!   285Ah golden-hair’d, strangely-smiling Goddess,And thou, prov’d, much enduring,Wave-toss’d Wanderer!Who can stand still?

Fragment of an ‘Antigone’

THE CHORUSWELL hath he done who hath seiz’d happiness.For little do the all-containing Hours,      Though opulent, freely give.    Who, weighing that life well    Fortune presents unpray’d,   5Declines her ministry, and carves his own:    And, justice not infring’d,Makes his own welfare his unswerv’d-from law.He does well too, who keeps that clue the mildBirth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave.   10      For from the day when these    Bring him, a weeping child,    First to the light, and markA country for him, kinsfolk, and a home,    Unguided he remains,   15Till the Fates come again, alone, with death.

      In little companies,      And, our own place once left,  Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid,By city and household group’d, we live: and many shocks   20      Our order heaven-ordain’d      Must every day endure.  Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars.      Besides what waste He makes,      The all-hated, order-breaking,   25      Without friend, city, or home,        Death, who dissevers all.

      Him then I praise, who dares      To self-selected good  Prefer obedience to the primal law,   30Which consecrates the ties of blood: for these, indeed,        Are to the Gods a care:        That touches but himself.For every day man may be link’d and loos’d        With strangers: but the bond   35          Original, deep-inwound,        Of blood, can he not bind:        Nor, if Fate binds, not bear.

    But hush! Haemon, whom Antigone,    Robbing herself of life in burying,   40    Against Creon’s law, Polynices,    Robs of a lov’d bride; pale, imploring,        Waiting her passage,    Forth from the palace hitherward comes.

HAEMONNo, no, old men, Creon I curse not.   45      I weep, Thebans,    One than Creon crueller far.For he, he, at least, by slaying her,August laws doth mightily vindicate:But thou, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless,   50Ah me! — honourest more than thy lover,      O Antigone,A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse.

THE CHORUS      Nor was the love untrue      Which the Dawn-Goddess  bore   55      To that fair youth she erst      Leaving the salt sea-bedsAnd coming flush’d over the stormy frith      Of loud Euripus, saw:      Saw and snatch’d, wild with love,   60      From the pine-dotted spurs      Of Parnes, where thy waves,      Asopus, gleam rock-hemm’d;The Hunter of the Tanagraean Field.        But him, in his sweet prime,   65      By severance immature,      By Artemis’ soft shafts,      She, though a Goddess born,Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.      Such end o’ertook that love.   70      For she desir’d to make      Immortal mortal man,      And blend his happy life,      Far from the Gods, with hers:To him postponing an eternal law.   75

HAEMON  But, like me, she, wroth, complaining,  Succumb’d to the envy of unkind Gods:  And, her beautiful arms unclasping,  Her fair Youth unwillingly gave.

THE CHORUS      Nor, though enthron’d too high   80      To fear assault of envious Gods,  His belov’d Argive Seer would Zeus retain      From his appointed end      In this our Thebes: but when

      His flying steeds came near   85      To cross the steep Ismenian glen,  The broad Earth open’d and whelm’d them and him;      And through the void air sang      At large his enemy’s spear.

And fain would Zeus have sav’d his tired son   90Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand    O’er the sun-redden’d Western Straits:Or at his work in that dim lower world.    Fain would he have recall’d    The fraudulent oath which bound   95To a much feebler wight the heroic man:

But he preferr’d Fate to his strong desire.Nor did there need less than the burning pile    Under the towering Trachis crags,And the Spercheius’ vale, shaken with groans,   100    And the rous’d Maliac gulph,

The Sick King in Bokhara

HUSSEINO MOST just Vizier, send awayThe cloth-merchants, and let them be,Them and their dues, this day: the KingIs ill at ease, and calls for thee.

THE VIZIERO merchants, tarry yet a day   5Here in Bokhara: but at noonTo-morrow, come, and ye shall payEach fortieth web of cloth to me,As the law is, and go your way.O Hussein, lead me to the King.   10Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,Ferdousi’s,  and the others’, lead.How is it with my lord?

HUSSEIN              Alone,Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,   15O Vizier, without lying down,In the great window of the gate,Looking into the Registàn;Where through the sellers’ booths the slavesAre this way bringing the dead man.   20O Vizier, here is the King’s door.

THE KINGO Vizier, I may bury him?

THE VIZIERO King, thou know’st, I have been sickThese many days, and heard no thing(For Allah shut my ears and mind),   25Not even what thou dost, O King.Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make hasteTo speak in order what hath chanc’d.

THE KINGO Vizier, be it as thou say’st.   30

HUSSEINThree days since, at the time of prayer,A certain Moollah, with his robeAll rent, and dust upon his hair,Watch’d my lord’s coming forth, and push’dThe golden mace-bearers aside,   35And fell at the King’s feet, and cried;

‘Justice, O King, and on myself!On this great sinner, who hath brokeThe law, and by the law must die!Vengeance, O King!’          But the King spoke:   40‘What fool is this, that hurts our earsWith folly? or what drunken slave?My guards, what, prick him with your spears!Prick me the fellow from the path!’As the King said, so was it done,   45And to the mosque my lord pass’d on.

But on the morrow, when the KingWent forth again, the holy bookCarried before him, as is right,And through the square his path he took;   50

My man comes running, fleck’d with bloodFrom yesterday, and falling downCries out most earnestly; ‘O King,My lord, O King, do right, I pray!

‘How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern   55If I speak folly? but a king,Whether a thing be great or small,Like Allah, hears and judges all.

‘Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierceIn these last days the sun hath burn’d:   60That the green water in the tanksIs to a putrid puddle turn’d:And the canal, that from the streamOf Samarcand is brought this way,Wastes, and runs thinner every day.   65

‘Now I at nightfall had gone forthAlone, and in a darksome placeUnder some mulberry trees I foundA little pool; and in brief spaceWith all the water that was there   70I fill’d my pitcher, and stole homeUnseen: and having drink to spare,I hid the can behind the door,And went up on the roof to sleep.

‘But in the night, which was with wind   75And burning dust, again I creepDown, having fever, for a drink.

‘Now meanwhile had my brethren foundThe water-pitcher, where it stoodBehind the door upon the ground,   80And call’d my mother: and they all,As they were thirsty, and the nightMost sultry, drain’d the pitcher there;That they sate with it, in my sight,Their lips still wet, when I came down.   85

‘Now mark! I, being fever’d, sick,(Most unblest also) at that sightBrake forth, and curs’d them — dost thou hear?One was my mother — Now, do right!’

But my lord mus’d a space, and said:   90‘Send him away, Sirs, and make on.It is some madman,’ the King said:As the King said, so was it done.

The morrow at the self-same hourIn the King’s path, behold, the man,   95Not kneeling, sternly fix’d: he stoodRight opposite, and thus began,Frowning grim down:— ‘Thou wicked King,Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!What, must I howl in the next world,   100Because thou wilt not listen here?

‘What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,And all grace shall to me be grudg’d?Nay but, I swear, from this thy pathI will not stir till I be judg’d.’   105

Then they who stood about the KingDrew close together and conferr’d:Till that the King stood forth and said,‘Before the priests thou shalt be heard.’

But when the Ulemas  were met   110And the thing heard, they doubted not;But sentenc’d him, as the law is,To die by stoning on the spot.

Now the King charg’d us secretly:‘Ston’d must he be, the law stands so:   115Yet, if he seek to fly, give way:Forbid him not, but let him go.’

So saying, the King took a stone,And cast it softly: but the man,With a great joy upon his face,   120Kneel’d down, and cried not, neither ran.

So they, whose lot it was, cast stones;That they flew thick and bruis’d him sore:But he prais’d Allah with loud voice,And remain’d kneeling as before.   125

My lord had cover’d up his face:But when one told him, ‘He is dead,’Turning him quickly to go in,‘Bring thou to me his corpse,’ he said.

And truly, while I speak, O King,   130I hear the bearers on the stair.Wilt thou they straightway bring him in? — Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

THE VIZIERO King, in this I praise thee not.Now must I call thy grief not wise.   135Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,To find such favour in thine eyes?

Nay, were he thine own mother’s son,Still, thou art king, and the Law stands.It were not meet the balance swerv’d,   140The sword were broken in thy hands.

But being nothing, as he is,Why for no cause make sad thy face?Lo, I am old: three kings, ere thee,Have I seen reigning in this place.   145

But who, through all this length of time,Could bear the burden of his years,If he for strangers pain’d his heartNot less than those who merit tears?

Fathers we must have, wife and child;   150And grievous is the grief for these:This pain alone, which must be borne,Makes the head white, and bows the knees.

But other loads than this his ownOne man is not well made to bear.   155Besides, to each are his own friends,To mourn with him, and show him care.

Look, this is but one single place,Though it be great: all the earth round,If a man bear to have it so,   160Things which might vex him shall be found.

Upon the Russian  frontier, whereThe watches of two armies standNear one another, many a man,Seeking a prey unto his hand,   165

Hath snatch’d a little fair-hair’d slave:They snatch also, towards Mervè,The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,And up from thence to Orgunjè.

And these all, labouring for a lord,   170Eat not the fruit of their own hands:Which is the heaviest of all plagues,To that man’s mind, who understands.

The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)Vex one another, night and day:   175There are the lepers, and all sick:There are the poor, who faint alway.

All these have sorrow, and keep still,Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.Wilt thou have pity on all these?   180No, nor on this dead dog, O King!

THE KINGO Vizier, thou art old, I young.Clear in these things I cannot see.My head is burning; and a heatIs in my skin which angers me.   185

But hear ye this, ye sons of men!They that bear rule, and are obey’d,Unto a rule more strong than theirsAre in their turn obedient made.

In vain therefore, with wistful eyes   190Gazing up hither, the poor man,Who loiters by the high-heap’d booths,Below there, in the Registàn,

Says, ‘Happy he, who lodges there!With silken raiment, store of rice,   195And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,Grape syrup, squares of colour’d ice,

‘With cherries serv’d in drifts of snow.’In vain hath a king power to buildHouses, arcades, enamell’d mosques;   200And to make orchard closes, fill’d

With curious fruit trees, bought from far;With cisterns for the winter rain;And in the desert, spacious innsIn divers places; — if that pain   205

Is not more lighten’d, which he feels,If his will be not satisfied:And that it be not, from all timeThe Law is planted, to abide.

Thou wert a sinner, thou poor man!   210Thou wert athirst; and didst not see,That, though we snatch what we desire,We must not snatch it eagerly.

And I have meat and drink at will,And rooms of treasures, not a few.   215But I am sick, nor heed I these:And what I would, I cannot do.

Even the great honour which I have,When I am dead, will soon grow still.So have I neither joy, nor fame.   220But what I can do, that I will.

I have a fretted brick-work tombUpon a hill on the right hand,Hard by a close of apricots,Upon the road of Samarcand:   225

Thither, O Vizier, will I bearThis man my pity could not save;And, plucking  up the marble flags,There lay his body in my grave.

Bring water, nard, and linen rolls.   230Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb.Then say; ‘He was not wholly vile,Because a king shall bury him.’

Sonnets

CONTENTS

Shakespeare

To the Duke of Wellington

Written in Butler’s Sermons

Written in Emerson’s Essays

To an Independent Preacher

To George Cruikshank, Esq.

To a Republican Friend

To a Republican Friend (Continued)

Religious Isolation

To my Friends

A Modern Sappho

The New Sirens

The Voice

To Fausta

Desire

Stanzas on a Gipsy Child by the Sea-shore

The Hayswater Boat

The Forsaken Merman

The World and the Quietist

In utrumque paratus

Resignation

Arnold, 1870

Shakespeare

OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free.We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still,Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hillThat to the stars uncrowns his majesty,Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,   5Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling-place,Spares but the cloudy border of his baseTo the foil’d searching of mortality:And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know,Self-school’d, self-scann’d, self-honour’d, self-secure,   10Didst walk on Earth unguess’d at. Better so!All pains the immortal spirit must endure,  All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow,

To the Duke of Wellington

ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED

BECAUSE thou hast believ’d, the wheels of lifeStand never idle, but go always round:Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground,Mov’d only; but by genius, in the strifeOf all its chafing torrents after thaw,   5Urg’d; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand,The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand:And, in this vision of the general law,Hast labour’d with the foremost, hast becomeLaborious, persevering, serious, firm;   10For this, thy track, across the fretful foamOf vehement actions without scope or term,  Call’d History, keeps a splendour: due to wit,  Which saw one clue to life, and follow’d it.

Written in Butler’s Sermons

AFFECTIONS, Instincts, Principles, and Powers,Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control — So men, unravelling God’s harmonious whole,Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours.Vain labour! Deep and broad, where none may see,   5Spring the foundations of the shadowy throneWhere man’s one Nature, queen-like, sits alone,Centred in a majestic unity;And rays her powers, like sister islands, seenLinking their coral arms under the sea:   10Or cluster’d peaks, with plunging gulfs betweenSpann’d by aërial arches, all of gold;Whereo’er the chariot wheels of Life are roll’dIn cloudy circles, to eternity.

Written 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 unfurl’d.Hast thou no lip for welcome?’ So I said.   5Man after man, the world smil’d and pass’d by:A smile of wistful incredulityAs though one spake of noise unto the dead:Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful; and fullOf bitter knowledge. Yet the Will is free:   10Strong 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. —   Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery?

To an Independent Preacher

WHO PREACHED THAT WE SHOULD BE ‘IN HARMONY WITH NATURE’

‘IN harmony with Nature’? Restless fool,Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee,When true, the last impossibility;To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool: — Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more,   5And in that more lie all his hopes of good.Nature is cruel; man is sick of blood:Nature is stubborn; man would fain adore:Nature is fickle; man hath need of rest:Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave;   10Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest.Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends;Nature and man can never be fast friends.

To George Cruikshank, Esq.

ON SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME HIS PICTURE OF ‘THE BOTTLE’, IN THE COUNTRY

ARTIST, whose hand, with horror wing’d, hath tornFrom the rank life of towns this leaf: and flungThe prodigy of full-blown crime amongValleys and men to middle fortune born,Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn:   5Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude,Like comets on the heavenly solitude?Shall breathless glades, cheer’d by shy Dian’s horn,Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The SoulBreasts her own griefs: and, urg’d too fiercely, says:   10‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of manMay be by man effac’d: man can controlTo pain, to death, the bent of his own days.Know thou the worst. So much, not more, he

To a Republican Friend

GOD  knows it, I am with you. If to prizeThose virtues, priz’d and practis’d by too few,But priz’d, but lov’d, but eminent in you,Man’s fundamental life: if to despiseThe barren optimistic sophistries   5Of comfortable moles, whom what they doTeaches the limit of the just and true — And for such doing have no need of eyes:If sadness at the long heart-wasting showWherein earth’s great ones are disquieted:   10If thoughts, not idle, while before me flowThe armies of the homeless and unfed: —   If these are yours, if this is what you are,  Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share.

To a Republican Friend (Continued)

YET, when I muse on what life is, I seemRather to patience prompted, than that proudProspect of hope which France proclaims so loud,France, fam’d in all great arts, in none supreme.Seeing this Vale, this Earth, whereon we dream,   5Is on all sides o’ershadow’d by the highUno’erleap’d Mountains of Necessity,Sparing us narrower margin than we deem.Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,When, bursting through the network superpos’d   10By selfish occupation — plot and plan,Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man,All difference with his fellow man compos’d,Shall be left standing face to face with God.

Religious Isolation

TO THE SAME

CHILDREN (as such forgive them) have I known,Ever in their own eager pastime bentTo make the incurious bystander, intentOn his own swarming thoughts, an interest own;Too fearful or too fond to play alone.   5Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul(Not less thy boast) illuminates, controlWishes unworthy of a man full-grown.What though the holy secret which moulds theeMoulds not the solid Earth? though never Winds   10Have whisper’d it to the complaining Sea,Nature’s great law, and law of all men’s minds?  To its own impulse every creature stirs:  Live by thy light, and Earth will live by hers.

To my Friends

WHO RIDICULED A TENDER LEAVE-TAKING

LAUGH,  my Friends, and without blameLightly quit what lightly came:Rich to-morrow as to-daySpend as madly as you may.I, with little land to stir,   5Am the exacter labourer.  Ere the parting hour go by,  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

But my Youth reminds me— ‘ThouHast liv’d light as these live now:   10As these are, thou too wert such:Much hast had, hast squander’d much.’Fortune’s now less frequent heir,Ah! I husband what’s grown rare.  Ere the parting hour go by,   15  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Young, I said: ‘A face is goneIf too hotly mus’d upon:And our best impressions areThose that do themselves repair.’   20Many a face I then let by,Ah! is faded utterly.  Ere the parting hour go by,  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Marguerite says: ‘As last year went,   25So the coming year’ll be spent: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?   30  Ere the parting hour go by,  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint that lilac kerchief, boundHer soft face, her hair around:Tied under the archest chin   35Mockery ever ambush’d in.Let the fluttering fringes streakAll her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.  Ere the parting hour go by,  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!   40

Paint that figure’s pliant graceAs she towards me lean’d her face,Half refus’d and half resign’d,Murmuring, ‘Art thou still unkind?’Many a broken promise then   45Was 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:   50Paint, with their impetuous stressOf inquiring tenderness,Those frank eyes, where deep doth lieAn angelic gravity.  Ere the parting hour go by,   55  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

What, my Friends, these feeble linesShow, you say, my love declines?To paint ill as I have done,Proves forgetfulness begun?   60Time’s gay minions, pleas’d you see,Time, your master, governs me.  Pleas’d, you mock the fruitless cry  ‘Quick, thy tablets, Memory!’

Ah! too true. Time’s current strong   65Leaves us true 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!   70  Ere the parting hour go by,

A Modern Sappho

THEY are gone: all is still: Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?Nothing moves on the lawn but the quick lilac shade.Far up gleams the house, and beneath flows the river.Here lean, my head, on this cool balustrade.

Ere he come: ere the boat, by the shining-branch’d border   5Of dark elms come round, dropping down the proud stream;Let me pause, let me strive, in myself find some order,Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider’d flags gleam.

Is it hope makes me linger? the dim thought, that sorrowMeans parting? that only in absence lies pain?   10It was well with me once if I saw him: to-morrowMay bring one of the old happy moments again.

Last night we stood earnestly talking together — She enter’d — that moment his eyes turn’d from me.Fasten’d on her dark hair and her wreath of white heather — 15As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.

Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn:They must love — while they must: But the hearts that love longerAre rare: ah! most loves but flow once, and return.   20

I shall suffer; but they will outlive their affection:I shall weep; but their love will be cooling: and he,As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection,Will be brought, thou poor heart! how much nearer to thee!

For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking   25The strong band which beauty around him hath furl’d,Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking,Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.

Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing,Perceive but a voice as I come to his side:   30But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing,Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.

Then — to wait. But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?‘Tis he! ‘tis the boat, shooting round by the trees!Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving!   35Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.

Hast thou yet dealt him, O Life, thy full measure?World, have thy children yet bow’d at his knee?Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown’d him, O Pleasure?Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.   40

The New Sirens

A PALINODE

  IN  the cedar shadow sleeping,  Where cool grass and fragrant glooms  Oft at noon have lur’d me, creeping  From your darken’d palace rooms:  I, who in your train at morning   5  Stroll’d and sang with joyful mind,  Heard, at evening, sounds of warning;Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind.

  Who are they, O pensive Graces, — For I dream’d they wore your forms — 10  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,   15With 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.   20  In a Tyrian galley steering  From the golden springs of dawn,  Troops, like Eastern kings, appearing,Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.

  And we too, from upland valleys,   25  Where some Muse, with half-curv’d frown,  Leans her ear to your mad sallies  Which the charm’d winds never drown;  By faint music guided, ranging  The scar’d glens, we wander’d on:   30  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,   35  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 callingSeeking ceilèd chambers and a palace hall.   40

  Are the accents of your luring  More melodious than of yore?  Are those frail forms more enduring  Than the charms Ulysses bore?  That we sought you with rejoicings   45  Till at evening we descry  At a pause of Siren voicingsThese vext branches and this howling sky?

  Oh! your pardon. The uncouthness  Of that primal age is gone:   50  And the skin of dazzling smoothness  Screens not now a heart of stone.  Love has flush’d those cruel faces;  And your slacken’d arms forego  The delight of fierce embraces:   55And those whitening bone-mounds do not grow.

  ‘Come,’ you say; ‘the large appearance  Of man’s labour is but vain:  And we plead as firm adherence  Due to pleasure as to pain.’   60  Pointing to some world-worn creatures,  ‘Come,’ you murmur with a sigh:  ‘Ah! we own diviner features,Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.

  ‘Come,’ you say, ‘the hours are dreary:   65  Life is long, and will not fade:  Time is lame, and we grow weary  In this slumbrous cedarn shade.  Round our hearts, with long caresses,  With low sighs hath Silence stole;   70  And her load of steaming tressesWeighs, 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   75  Leaves her riddle half unknown.  Come,’ you say, ‘the brain is seeking,  When the princely heart is dead:  Yet this glean’d, when Gods were speaking,Rarer secrets than the toiling head.   80

  ‘Come,’ you say, ‘opinion trembles,  Judgement shifts, convictions go:  Life dries up, the heart dissembles:  Only, what we feel, we know.  Hath your wisdom known emotions?   85  Will it weep our burning tears?  Hath it drunk of our love-potionsCrowning moments with the weight of years?’

  I am dumb. Alas! too soon, all  Man’s grave reasons disappear:   90  Yet, I think, at God’s tribunal  Some large answer you shall hear.  But for me, my thoughts are straying  Where at sunrise, through the vines,  On these lawns I saw you playing,   95Hanging garlands on the odorous pines.

  When your showering locks enwound you,  And your heavenly eyes shone through:  When the pine-boughs yielded round you,  And your brows were starr’d with dew:   100  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   105  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 — 110  Or, perhaps, if Hope were stronger — No weak nursling of an earthly sun …    Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,        Dusk the hall with yew!

  But a bound was set to meetings,   115  And the sombre day dragg’d on:  And the burst of joyful greetings,  And the joyful dawn, were gone:  For the eye was fill’d with gazing,  And on raptures follow calms: — 120  And those warm locks men were praisingDroop’d, unbraided, on your listless arms.

  Storms unsmooth’d your folded valleys,  And made all your cedars frown;  Leaves are whirling in the alleys   125  Which your lovers wander’d down. — Sitting cheerless in your bowers,  The hands propping the sunk head,  Do they gall you, the long hours?And the hungry thought, that must be fed?   130

  Is the pleasure that is tasted  Patient of a long review?  Will the fire joy hath wasted,  Mus’d on, warm the heart anew? — Or, are those old thoughts returning,   135  Guests the dull sense never knew,  Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,Germs, your untrimm’d Passion overgrew?

  Once, like me, you took your station  Watchers for a purer fire:   140  But you droop’d in expectation,  And you wearied in desire.  When the first rose flush was steeping  All the frore peak’s awful crown,  Shepherds say, they found you sleeping   145In a windless valley, further down.

  Then you wept, and slowly raising  Your doz’d eyelids, sought again,  Half in doubt, they say, and gazing  Sadly back, the seats of men.   150  Snatch’d an earthly inspiration  From some transient human Sun,  And proclaim’d your vain ovationFor the mimic raptures you had won.    Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,   155        Dusk the hall with yew!

  With a sad, majestic motion —   With a stately, slow surprise —   From their earthward-bound devotion  Lifting up your languid eyes:   160  Would you freeze my louder boldness  Dumbly smiling as you go?  One faint frown of distant coldnessFlitting fast across each marble brow?

  Do I brighten at your sorrow   165  O sweet Pleaders? doth my lot  Find assurance in to-morrow  Of one joy, which you have not?  O speak once! and let my sadness,  And this sobbing Phrygian strain,   170  Sham’d and baffled by your gladness,Blame the music of your feasts in vain.

  Scent, and song, and light, and flowers —   Gust on gust, the hoarse winds blow.  Come, bind up those ringlet showers!   175  Roses for that dreaming brow!  Come, once more that ancient lightness,  Glancing feet, and eager eyes!  Let your broad lamps flash the brightnessWhich the sorrow-stricken day denies!   180

  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,   185  From the humming festal room,  Deep and far, a broken gleamingReels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.

  Where I stand, the grass is glowing:  Doubtless, you are passing fair:   190  But I hear the north wind blowing;  And I feel the cold night-air.  Can I look on your sweet faces,  And your proud heads backward thrown,  From this dusk of leaf-strewn places   195With the dumb woods and the night alone?

  But, indeed, this flux of guesses —   Mad delight, and frozen calms —   Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses,  And to-morrow — folded palms — 200  Is this all? this balanc’d measure?  Could life run no easier way?  Happy at the noon of pleasure,Passive, at the midnight of dismay?

  But, indeed, this proud possession — 205  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 track’d its clouded ways?   210  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   215  On the peerless cheek of queens —   When the mean shall no more sorrow  And the proudest no more smile —   While the dawning of the morrowWidens slowly westward all that while?   220

  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:   225  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:   230  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:   235Lodgers in the forest and the cave.

  Long we wander’d with you, feeding  Our sad souls on your replies:  In a wistful silence reading  All the meaning of your eyes:   240  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 weeping Graces,   245  Sylvan Gods of this fair shade!  Is there doubt on divine faces?  Are the happy Gods dismay’d?  Can men worship the wan features,  The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,   250  Of unspher’d discrowned creatures,Souls as little godlike as their own?

  Come, loose hands! The wingèd fleetness  Of immortal feet is gone.  And your scents have shed their sweetness,   255  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.   260

  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 pal’d at morning,   265  Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand. — Cold in that unlovely dawning,Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand.

  Strew no more red roses, maidens,  Leave the lilies in their dew:   270  Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!  Dusk, O dusk the hall with yew! — Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,  Her I lov’d at eventide?  Shall I ask, what faded mourner   275Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?

The Voice

      AS the kindling glances,      Queen-like and clear,      Which the bright moon lances      From her tranquil sphere      At the sleepless waters   5      Of a lonely mere,On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,          Shiver and die.      As the tears of sorrow        Mothers have shed — 10      Prayers that to-morrow        Shall in vain be sped      When the flower they flow for        Lies frozen and dead — Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,   15          Bringing no rest.

      Like bright waves that fall      With a lifelike motionOn the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean: — A wild rose climbing up a mould’ring wall — 20A gush of sunbeams through a ruin’d hall — Strains of glad music at a funeral: —       So sad, and with so wild a start      To this long sober’d heart,      So anxiously and painfully,   25      So drearily and doubtfullyAnd, oh, with such intolerable change      Of thought, such contrast strange,O unforgotten Voice, thy whispers come,Like wanderers from the world’s extremity,   30      Unto their ancient home.

In vain, all, all in vain,They beat upon mine ear again,Those melancholy tones so sweet and still;Those lute-like tones which in long distant years   35      Did steal into mine ears:Blew such a thrilling summons to my will      Yet could not shake it:Drain’d all the life my full heart had to spill;      Yet could not break it.   40

To Fausta

JOY comes and goes: hope ebbs and flows,        Like the wave.Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.    Love lends life a little grace,    A few sad smiles: and then,   5      Both are laid in cold place,        In the grave.

Dreams dawn and fly: friends smile and die,        Like spring flowers.Our vaunted life is one long funeral.   10    Men dig graves, with bitter tears,    For their dead hopes; and all,    Maz’d with doubts, and sick with fears,        Count the hours.

We count the hours: these dreams of ours,   15        False and hollow,Shall we go hence and find they are not dead?    Joys we dimly apprehend,    Faces that smil’d and fled,    Hopes born here, and born to end,   20

Desire

    THOU,  who dost dwell alone —     Thou, who dost know thine own —     Thou, to whom all are known    From the cradle to the grave —         Save, oh, save.   5    From the world’s temptations,      From tribulations;    From that fierce anguish    Wherein we languish;    From that torpor deep   10    Wherein we lie asleep,Heavy as death, cold as the grave;        Save, oh, save.

    When the Soul, growing clearer,      Sees God no nearer:   15    When the Soul, mounting higher,      To God comes no nigher:    But the arch-fiend Pride    Mounts at her side,    Foiling her high emprize,   20    Sealing her eagle eyes,    And, when she fain would soar,    Makes idols to adore;    Changing the pure emotion    Of her high devotion,   25    To a skin-deep sense    Of her own eloquence:Strong to deceive, strong to enslave —         Save, oh, save.

    From the ingrain’d fashion   30    Of this earthly nature    That mars thy creature.    From grief, that is but passion;    From mirth, that is but feigning;    From tears, that bring no healing;   35    From wild and weak complaining;      Thine old strength revealing,        Save, oh, save.    From doubt, where all is double:    Where wise men are not strong:   40    Where comfort turns to trouble:    Where just men suffer wrong:    Where sorrow treads on joy:    Where sweet things soonest cloy:    Where faiths are built on dust:   45    Where Love is half mistrust,Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea;        Oh, set us free.    O let the false dream fly    Where our sick souls do lie   50      Tossing continually.    O where thy voice doth come      Let all doubts be dumb:      Let all words be mild:      All strifes be reconcil’d:   55      All pains beguil’d.    Light bring no blindness;    Love no unkindness;    Knowledge no ruin;    Fear no undoing.

Stanzas on a Gipsy Child by the Sea-shore