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Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

Page 25

by Matthew Arnold


  And the blind Hoder answer’d him and spake: —

  ‘His place of state remains by Hela’s side,

  But empty: for his wife, for Nanna came

  Lately below, and join’d him; and the Pair 440

  Frequent the still recesses of the realm

  Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb’d.

  But they too doubtless, will have breath’d the balm

  Which floats before a visitant from Heaven,

  And have drawn upwards to this verge of Hell.’ 445

  He spake; and, as he ceas’d, a puff of wind

  Roll’d heavily the leaden mist aside

  Round where they stood, and they beheld Two Forms

  Make towards them o’er the stretching cloudy plain.

  And Hermod straight perceiv’d them, who they were, 450

  Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said: —

  ‘Balder, too truly thou foresaw’st a snare.

  Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey.

  No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge

  In thy own house, Breidablik, nor enjoy 455

  The love all bear towards thee, nor train up

  Forset, thy son, to be belov’d like thee.

  Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age.

  Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!’

  He spake; and Balder answer’d him and said: — 460

  ‘Hail and farewell, for here thou com’st no more.

  Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt’st

  In Heaven, nor let the other Gods lament,

  As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn:

  For Nanna hath rejoin’d me, who, of old, 465

  In Heaven, was seldom parted from my side;

  And still the acceptance follows me, which crown’d

  My former life, and cheers me even here.

  The iron frown of Hela is relax’d

  When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead 470

  Trust me, and gladly bring for my award

  Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates,

  Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.’

  And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply: —

  ‘Thou hast then all the solace death allows, 475

  Esteem and function: and so far is well.

  Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground,

  Rusting for ever: and the years roll on,

  The generations pass, the ages grow,

  And bring us nearer to the final day 480

  When from the south shall march the Fiery Band

  And cross the Bridge of Heaven, with Lok for guide,

  And Fenris at his heel with broken chain:

  While from the east the Giant Rymer steers

  His ship, and the great Serpent makes to land; 485

  And all are marshall’d in one flaming square

  Against the Gods, upon the plains of Heaven.

  I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.’

  He spake; but Balder answer’d him and said: —

  ‘Mourn not for me: Mourn, Hermod, for the Gods: 490

  Mourn for the men on Earth, the Gods in Heaven,

  Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day.

  The day will come, when Asgard’s towers shall fall,

  And Odin, and his Sons, the seed of Heaven:

  But what were I, to save them in that hour? 495

  If strength could save them, could not Odin save,

  My Father, and his pride, the Warrior Thor,

  Vidar the Silent, the Impetuous Tyr?

  I, what were I, when these can naught avail?

  Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, 500

  And the two Hosts are marshall’d, and in Heaven

  The golden-crested Cock shall sound alarm,

  And his black Brother-Bird from hence reply,

  And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour —

  Longing will stir within my breast, though vain 505

  But not to me so grievous, as, I know,

  To other Gods it were, is my enforc’d

  Absence from fields where I could nothing aid:

  For I am long since weary of your storm

  Of carnage, and find, Hermond, in your life 510

  Something too much of war and broils, which make

  Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood.

  Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail;

  Mine ears are stunn’d with blows, and sick for calm.

  Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 515

  Unarm’d, inglorious: I attend the course

  Of ages, and my late return to light,

  In times less alien to a spirit mild,

  In new-recover’d seats, the happier day.’

  He spake; and the fleet Hermond thus replied: — 520

  ‘Brother, what seats are these, what happier day?

  Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone.’

  And the ray-crowned Balder answer’d him: —

  ‘Far to the south, beyond The Blue, there spreads

  Another Heaven, The Boundless: no one yet 525

  Hath reach’d it: there hereafter shall arise

  The second Asgard, with another name.

  Thither, when o’er this present Earth and Heavens

  The tempest of the latter days hath swept,

  And they from sight have disappear’d, and sunk, 530

  Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair:

  Hoder and I shall join them from the grave.

  There re-assembling we shall see emerge

  From the bright Ocean at our feet an Earth

  More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits 535

  Self-springing, and a seed of man preserv’d,

  Who then shall live in peace, as now in war.

  But we in Heaven shall find again with joy

  The ruin’d palaces of Odin, seats

  Familiar, halls where we have supp’d of old; 540

  Re-enter them with wonder, never fill

  Our eyes with fazing, and rebuilt with tears.

  And we shall tread once more the well-known plain

  Of Ida, and among the grass shall find

  The golden dice with which we play’d of yore; 545

  And that will bring to mind the former life

  And pastime of the Gods, the wise discourse

  Of Odin, the delights of other days.

  O Hermod, pray that thou mayst join us then!

  Such for the future is my hope: meanwhile, 550

  I rest the thrall of Hela, and endure

  Death, and the gloom which round me even now

  Thickens, and to its inner gulph recalls.

  Farewell, for longer speech is not allow’d.’

  He spoke, and wav’d farewell, and gave his hand 555

  To Nanna; and she gave their brother blind

  Her hand, in turn, for guidance; and The Three

  Departed o’er the cloudy pain, and soon

  Faded from sight into the interior gloom

  But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, 560

  Mute, gazing after them in tears: and fain,

  Fain had he follow’d their receding steps,

  Though they to Death were bound, and he to Heaven,

  Then; but a Power he could not break withheld.

  And as a stork which idle boys have trapp’d, 565

  And tied him in a yard, at autumn sees

  Flocks of his kind pass flying o’er his head

  To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun;

  He strains to join their flight, and, from his shed,

  Follows them with a long complaining cry — 570

  So, Hermod gaz’d, and yearn’d to join his kin.

  At last he sigh’d, and set forth back to Heaven.

  Separation

  STOP — Not to me, at this bitter departing,

  Speak of the sure consolations of Time.
>
  Fresh be the wound, still-renew’d be its smarting,

  So but thy image endure in its prime.

  But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature 5

  Wills that remembrance should always decay;

  If the lov’d form and the deep-cherish’d feature

  Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away —

  Me let no half-effac’d memories cumber!

  Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee — 10

  Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber —

  Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me!

  Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me,

  Scanning my face and the changes wrought there, —

  Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me, 15

  With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?

  Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse

  THROUGH Alpine meadows soft-suffused

  With rain, where thick the crocus blows,

  Past the dark forges long disused,

  The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.

  The bridge is cross’d, and slow we ride, 5

  Through forest, up the mountain-side.

  The autumnal evening darkens round,

  The wind is up, and drives the rain;

  While hark! far down, with strangled sound

  Doth the Dead Guiers’ stream complain, 10

  Where that wet smoke among the woods

  Over his boiling cauldron broods.

  Swift rush the spectral vapours white

  Past limestone scars with ragged pines,

  Showing — then blotting from our sight. 15

  Halt! through the cloud-drift something shines!

  High in the valley, wet and drear,

  The huts of Courrerie appear.

  Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher

  Mounts up the stony forest-way. 20

  At last the encircling trees retire;

  Look! through the showery twilight grey

  What pointed roofs are these advance?

  A palace of the Kings of France?

  Approach, for what we seek is here. 25

  Alight and sparely sup and wait

  For rest in this outbuilding near;

  Then cross the sward and reach that gate;

  Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come

  To the Carthusians’ world-famed home. 30

  The silent courts, where night and day

  Into their stone-carved basins cold

  The splashing icy fountains play,

  The humid corridors behold,

  Where ghostlike in the deepening night 35

  Cowl’d forms brush by in gleaming white.

  The chapel, where no organ’s peal

  Invests the stern and naked prayer.

  With penitential cries they kneel

  And wrestle; rising then, with bare 40

  And white uplifted faces stand,

  Passing the Host from hand to hand;

  Each takes; and then his visage wan

  Is buried in his cowl once more.

  The cells — the suffering Son of Man 45

  Upon the wall! the knee-worn floor!

  And, where they sleep, that wooden bed,

  Which shall their coffin be, when dead.

  The library, where tract and tome

  Not to feed priestly pride are there, 50

  To hymn the conquering march of Rome,

  Nor yet to amuse, as ours are;

  They paint of souls the inner strife,

  Their drops of blood, their death in life.

  The garden, overgrown — yet mild 55

  Those fragrant herbs are flowering there!

  Strong children of the Alpine wild

  Whose culture is the brethren’s care;

  Of human tasks their only one,

  And cheerful works beneath the sun. 60

  Those halls too, destined to contain

  Each its own pilgrim host of old,

  From England, Germany, or Spain —

  All are before me! I behold

  The House, the Brotherhood austere! 65

  And what am I, that I am here?

  For rigorous teachers seized my youth,

  And purged its faith, and trimm’d its fire,

  Show’d me the high white star of Truth,

  There bade me gaze, and there aspire; 70

  Even now their whispers pierce the gloom:

  What dost thou in this living tomb?

  Forgive me, masters of the mind!

  At whose behest I long ago

  So much unlearnt, so much resign’d! 75

  I come not here to be your foe.

  I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,

  To curse and to deny your truth;

  Not as their friend or child I speak!

  But as on some far northern strand, 80

  Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek

  In pity and mournful awe might stand

  Before some fallen Runic stone —

  For both were faiths, and both are gone.

  Wandering between two worlds, one dead, 85

  The other powerless to be born,

  With nowhere yet to rest my head,

  Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.

  Their faith, my tears, the world deride;

  I come to shed them at their side. 90

  Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,

  Ye solemn seats of holy pain!

  Take me, cowl’d forms, and fence me round,

  Till I possess my soul again!

  Till free my thoughts before me roll, 95

  Not chafed by hourly false control.

  For the world cries your faith is now

  But a dead time’s exploded dream;

  My melancholy, sciolists say,

  Is a pass’d mode, an outworn theme — 100

  As if the world had ever had

  A faith, or sciolists been sad.

  Ah, if it be pass’d, take away,

  At least, the restlessness — the pain!

  Be man henceforth no more a prey 105

  To these out-dated stings again!

  The nobleness of grief is gone —

  Ah, leave us not the fret alone!

  But, if you cannot give us ease,

  Last of the race of them who grieve 110

  Here leave us to die out with these

  Last of the people who believe!

  Silent, while years engrave the brow;

  Silent — the best are silent now.

  Achilles ponders in his tent, 115

  The kings of modern thought are dumb;

  Silent they are, though not content,

  And wait to see the future come.

  They have the grief men had of yore,

  But they contend and cry no more. 120

  Our fathers water’d with their tears

  This sea of time whereon we sail;

  Their voices were in all men’s ears

  Who pass’d within their puissant hail.

  Still the same Ocean round us raves, 125

  But we stand mute and watch the waves.

  For what avail’d it, all the noise

  And outcry of the former men?

  Say, have their sons obtain’d more joys?

  Say, is life lighter now than then? 130

  The sufferers died, they left their pain;

  The pangs which tortured them remain.

  What helps it now, that Byron bore,

  With haughty scorn which mock’d the smart,

  Through Europe to the Aetolian shore 135

  The pageant of his bleeding heart?

  That thousands counted every groan,

  And Europe made his woe her own?

  What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze

  Carried thy lovely wail away, 140

  Musical through Italian trees

  That fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?

  Inheritors of thy dist
ress

  Have restless hearts one throb the less?

  Or are we easier, to have read, 145

  O Obermann! the sad, stern page,

  Which tells us how thou hidd’st thy head

  From the fierce tempest of thine age

  In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,

  Or chalets near the Alpine snow? 150

  Ye slumber in your silent grave!

  The world, which for an idle day

  Grace to your mood of sadness gave,

  Long since hath flung her weeds away.

  The eternal trifler breaks your spell; 155

  But we — we learnt your lore too well!

  There may, perhaps, yet dawn an age,

  More fortunate, alas! than we,

  Which without hardness will be sage,

  And gay without frivolity. 160

  Sons of the world, oh, haste those years;

  But, till they rise, allow our tears!

  Allow them! We admire with awe

  The exulting thunder of your race;

  You give the universe your law, 165

  You triumph over time and space.

  Your pride of life, your tireless powers,

  We mark them, but they are not ours.

  We are like children rear’d in shade

  Beneath some old-world abbey wall 170

  Forgotten in a forest-glade

  And secret from the eyes of all;

  Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves,

  Their abbey, and its close of graves.

  But where the road runs near the stream, 175

  Oft through the trees they catch a glance

  Of passing troops in the sun’s beam —

  Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance!

  Forth to the world those soldiers fare,

  To life, to cities, and to war. 180

  And through the woods, another way,

  Faint bugle-notes from far are borne,

  Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,

  Round some old forest-lodge at morn;

  Gay dames are there in sylvan green, 185

  Laughter and cries — those notes between!

  The banners flashing through the trees

  Make their blood dance and chain their eyes;

 

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