Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

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by Matthew Arnold


  Ere the parting hour go by,

  Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

  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 5

  Of 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 sorrow

  Means parting? that only in absence lies pain? 10

  It was well with me once if I saw him: to-morrow

  May 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 — 15

  As 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 longer

  Are 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 25

  The 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: 30

  But 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! 35

  Ah! 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, 15

  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. 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 calling

  Seeking 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 voicings

  These 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: 55

  And 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 tresses

  Weighs, 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-potions

  Crowning 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, 95

  Hanging 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 gl
istering 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 praising

  Droop’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 145

  In 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 ovation

  For 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 coldness

  Flitting 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 brightness

  Which 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 gleaming

  Reels 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 195

  With 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 morrow

  Widens 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: 235

  Lodgers 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!
<
br />   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 275

  Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?

  Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!

  Dusk the hall with yew!

  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 motion

  On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean: —

  A wild rose climbing up a mould’ring wall — 20

  A 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 doubtfully

  And, 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,

 

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