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
The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Prose
CULTURE AND ANARCHY
SELECTED ESSAYS
The Biographies
MATTHEW ARNOLD by George William Erskine Russell
MATTHEW ARNOLD by George Saintsbury
© Delphi Classics 2013
Version 1
MATTHEW ARNOLD
By Delphi Classics, 2013
NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, 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: 5
Of Labour, that in still advance 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, 10
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.
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, 5
Stern 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 prime
Of youth, self-govern’d, at the feet of Law; 10
Ennobling 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: 15
The 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 deem
Man’s justice from the all-just Gods was given: 20
A 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, 25
Which 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, 35
Not 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? 40
And the great powers we serve, themselves may be
Slaves 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, 45
Sweep 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? 50
Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see,
Blind divinations of a will supreme;
Lost labour: when the circumambient gloom
But hides, if Gods, Gods careless of our doom?
The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak 55
My 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,
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, 65
Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.
Into the silence of the groves and woods
I will go forth; but something would I say —
Something — yet what I know not: for the Gods
The doom they pass revoke not, nor delay; 70
And 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 will
Of the great Gods is plain; and ye must bring 75
Ill deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfil
Their 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 80
Broke from his sorrowing people: so he spake;
And turning, left them there; and with brief pause,
Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way
To the cool region of the groves he lov’d.
There by the river banks he wander’d on, 85
From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,
Their smooth tops shining sunwards, and beneath
Burying their unsunn’d stems in grass and flowers:
Where in one dream the feverish time of Youth
Might fade in slumber, and the feet of Joy 90
Might 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, 95
Revealing all the tumult of the feast,
Flush’d guests, and golden goblets, foam’d with wine;
While the deep-burnish’d foliage overhead
Splinter’d the silver arrows of the moon.
It may be that sometimes his wondering soul 100
From the loud joyful laughter of his lips
Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man
Who wrestles with his dream; as some pale Shape,
Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems,
Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl, 105
Whispering, ‘A little space, and thou art mine.’
It may be on that joyless feast his eye
Dwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within,
Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength,
And by that silent knowledge, day by day, 110
Was 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 reproof
Sigh’d out by Winter’s sad tranquillity; 115
Nor, pall’d with its own fullness, ebb’d and died
In the rich languor of long summer days;
Nor wither’d, when the palm-tree plumes that roof’d
With their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall,
Bent to the cold winds of the showerless Spring; 120
No, 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 sound
Sometimes from the grove’s centre echoes came,
To tell his wondering people of their king; 125
In the still night, across the steaming flats,
Mix’d with the murmur of the moving Nile.
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, 5
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian’s brutal son
Clear’d Rome of what most sham’d him. But be his
My special thanks, whose even-balanc’d soul,
From first youth tested up to extreme old age, 10
Business 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. Evening
A YOUTH. CIRCE
THE YOUTH
FASTER, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms, 5
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me; thy right arm,
Lean’d up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek; 10
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctur’d,
I held but now.
Is it then evening
So soon? I see, the night dews, 15
Cluster’d in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder.
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico, 20
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 25
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: 30
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 35
The rout early gather’d
In the town, round the temple,
Iacchus’ white fane
On yonder hill.
Quick I pass’d, following 40
The wood-cutters’ cart-track
Down the dark valley; — I saw
On my left, through the beeches,
Thy palace, Goddess,
Smokeless, empty: 45
Trembling, I enter’d; beheld
The court all silent,
The lions sleeping;
On the altar, this bowl.
I drank, Goddess — 50
And sunk 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, 55
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. 60
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so, —
Drink, drink again!
THE YOUTH
Thanks, gracious One!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me! 65
More subtle-winding
Than Pan’s flute-music.
Faint — faint! Ah me!
Again the sweet sleep.
CIRCE
Hist! Thou — within there! 70
Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.
ULYSSES
Ever new magic! 75
Hast 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, 80
Of Pan and the Nymphs?
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreath’d marge
Of thy cup: — the bright, glancing vine-leaves 85
That crown his hair;
Falling forwards, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants,
His fawn-skin, half united,
Smear’d with red wine-stains? Who is he, 90
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? 95
CIRCE
Hist! he wakes!
I lur’d him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!
THE YOUTH
Who speaks? Ah! Who comes forth
To thy side, Goddess, from within? 100
How shall I name him?
This spare, dark-featur’d,
Quick-ey’d stranger?
Ah! and I see too
His sailor’s bonnet, 105
His short coat, travel-tarnish’d,
With one arm bare. —
Art thou not he, whom fame
This long time rumours
The favour’d guest of Circe, brought by the waves? 110
Art thou he, stranger?
The wise Ulysses,
Laertes’ son?
ULYSSES
I am Ulysses.
And thou, too, sleeper? 115
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Page 1
