Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

by Matthew Arnold

  Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s?’

  He spoke: but Rustum gaz’d, and gaz’d, and stood

  Speechless; and then he utter’d one sharp cry — 690

  O Boy — thy Father! — and his voice chok’d there.

  And then a dark cloud pass’d before his eyes,

  And his head swam, and he sunk down to earth.

  But Sohrab crawl’d to where he lay, and cast

  His arms about his neck, and kiss’d his lips, 695

  And with fond faltering fingers strok’d his cheeks,

  Trying to call him back to life: and life

  Came back to Rustum, and he op’d his eyes,

  And they stood wide with horror; and he seiz’d

  In both his hands the dust which lay around, 700

  And threw it on his head, and smirch’d his hair,

  His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms:

  And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast,

  And his sobs chok’d him; and he clutch’d his sword,

  To draw it, and for ever let life out. 705

  But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, —

  And with soothing voice he spoke, and said: —

  ‘Father, forbear: for I but meet to-day

  The doom that at my birth was written down

  In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand. 710

  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 engag’d

  The strife, and hurl’d me on my father’s spear. 715

  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,My Son! 720

  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.’ 725

  So said he: and his voice releas’d the heart

  Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast

  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, 730

  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 mov’d

  His head, as if inquiring what their grief

  Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 735

  The big warm tears roll’d down, and cak’d 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 thy nimble joints,

  When first they bore thy Master to this field.’ 740

  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. 745

  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, 750

  And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake

  Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself

  Has often strok’d thy neck, and given thee food,

  Corn in a golden platter soak’d with wine,

  And said— “O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!” — but I 755

  Have never known my grandsire’s furrow’d face,

  Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,

  Nor slak’d my thirst at the clear Helmund stream:

  But lodg’d among my father’s foes, and seen

  Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand, 760

  Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,

  And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk

  The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend,

  Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,

  The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream — 765

  The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.’

  And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied: —

  ‘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!’ 770

  And, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied: —

  ‘Desire not that, my father; thou must live.

  For some are born to do great deeds, and live,

  As some are born to be obscur’d, and die.

  Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 775

  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 entreat for them: What have they done? 780

  They follow’d 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, 785

  Thou, and the snow-hair’d 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 790

  May see my tomb a great way off, and say —

  Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there,

  Whom his great father did in ignorance kill —

  And I be not forgotten in my grave.’

  And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied: — 795

  ‘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,

  And carry thee away to Seistan,

  And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 800

  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. 805

  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, 810

  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! 815

  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; 820

  And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;

  And say — O son, I weep thee not too sore,

  For willingly, I know, thou met’st thine end. —

  But now in blood and battles was my youth,

  And full of blood and battle
s is my age; 825

  And I shall never end this life of blood.’

  Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied: —

  ‘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, 830

  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 gaz’d on Sohrab’s face, and said: — 835

  ‘Soon be that day, my Son, and deep that sea!

  Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure.’

  He spoke; and Sohrab smil’d on him, and took

  The spear, and drew it from his side, and eas’d

  His wound’s imperious anguish: but the blood 840

  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, 845

  By romping children, whom their nurses call

  From the hot fields at noon: his head droop’d low,

  His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay —

  White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,

  Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, 850

  Convuls’d 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

  Unwillingly the spirit fled away,

  Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 855

  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 860

  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, 865

  And the two 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 loos’d, and fires

  Began to twinkle through the fog: for now 870

  Both armies mov’d 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, 875

  Out of the mist and hum of that low land,

  Into the frosty starlight, and there mov’d,

  Rejoicing, through the hush’s Chorasmian waste,

  Under the solitary moon: he flow’d

  Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunjè, 880

  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 — 885

  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 890

  And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath’d stars

  Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.

  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, 5

  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 10

  With its cool trees, and night,

  And the sweet, tranquil Thames,

  And moonshine, and the dew,

  To thy rack’d heart and brain

  Afford no balm? 15

  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 20

  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 resound 25

  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 — hearest! 30

  Eternal Passion!

  Eternal Pain!

  Thekla’s Answer

  (From Schiller.)

  WHERE I am, thou ask’st, and where wended

  When my fleeting shadow pass’d from thee? —

  Am I not concluded now, and ended?

  Have not life and love been granted me?

  Ask, where now those nightingales are singing, 5

  Who, of late, on the soft nights of May,

  Set thine ears with soul-fraught music ringing —

  Only, while their love liv’d, lasted they.

  Find I him, from whom I had to sever? —

  Doubt it not, we met, and we are one. 10

  There, where what is join’d, is join’d for ever,

  There, where tears are never more to run.

  There thou too shalt live with us together,

  When thou too hast borne the love we bore:

  There, from sin deliver’d, dwell my Father, 15

  Track’d by Murder’s bloody sword no more.

  There he feels, it was no dream deceiving

  Lur’d him starwards to uplift his eye:

  God doth match his gifts to man’s believing;

  Believe, and thou shalt find the Holy nigh. 20

  All thou augurest here of lovely seeming

  There shall find fulfilment in its day:

  Dare, O Friend, be wandering, dare be dreaming;

  Lofty thought lies oft in childish play.

  THE CHURCH OF BROU

  CONTENTS

  CHURCH OF BROU I. The Castle

  CHURCH OF BROU II. The Church

  CHURCH OF BROU III. The Tomb

  The Neckan

  A Dream

  Requiescat

  The Scholar Gipsy

  Stanzas in Memory of the Late Edward Quillinan, Esq.

  CHURCH OF BROU I. The Castle

  DOWN the Savoy valleys sounding,

  Echoing round this castle old,

  ‘Mid the distant mountain chalets

  Hark! what bell for church is toll’d?

  In the bright October morning 5

  Savoy’s Duke had left his bride.

  From the Castle, past the drawbridge,

  Flow’d the hunters’ merry tide.

  Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering.

  Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 10

  From her mullion’d chamber casement

  Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.

  From Vienna by the Danube

  Here she came, a bride, in spring.

  Now the autumn crisps the forest; 15

  Hunters gather, b
ugles ring.

  Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,

  Horses fret, and boar-spears glance:

  Off! — They sweep the marshy forests,

  Westward, on the side of France. 20

  Hark! the game’s on foot; they scatter: —

  Down the forest ridings lone,

  Furious, single horsemen gallop.

  Hark! a shout — a crash — a groan!

  Pale and breathless, came the hunters, 25

  On the turf dead lies the boar.

  God! the Duke lies stretch’d beside him —

  Senseless, Weltering in his gore.

  In the dull October evening,

  Down the leaf-strewn forest road, 30

  To the castle, past the drawbridge,

  Came the hunters with their load.

  In the hall, with sconces blazing,

  Ladies waiting round her seat,

  Cloth’d in smiles, beneath the dais, 35

  Sate the Duchess Marguerite.

  Hark! below the gates unbarring!

  Tramp of men and quick commands!

  ‘— ‘Tis my lord come back from hunting.’ —

  And the Duchess claps her hands. 40

  Slow and tired, came the hunters;

  Stopp’d in darkness in the court.

  ‘ — Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!,

  To the hall! What sport, what sport?’ —

  Slow they enter’d with their Master; 45

  In the hall they laid him down.

  On his coat were leaves and blood-stains:

  On his brow an angry frown.

  Dead her princely youthful husband

  Lay before his wife; 50

  Bloody ‘neath the flaring scones:

  And the sight froze all her life.

  In Vienna by the Danube

  Kings hold revel, gallants meet.

  Gay of old amid the gayest 55

  Was the Duchess Marguerite.

  In Vienna by the Danube

  Feast and dance her youth beguil’d.

  Till that hour she never sorrow’d;

  But from then she never smil’d. 60

  ‘Mid the Savoy mountain valleys

  Far from town or haunt of man,

  Stands a lonely Church, unfinish’d,

  Which the Duchess Maud began:

  Old, that Duchess stern began it; 65

  In grey age, with palsied hands.