Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

by Matthew Arnold

  Brings thee back in the light

  Of thy radiant vigour again!

  In the gloom of November we pass’d

  Days not of gloom at thy side; 20

  Seasons impair’d not the ray

  Of thine even cheerfulness clear.

  Such thou wast; and I stand

  In the autumn evening, and think

  Of bygone autumns with thee. 25

  Fifteen years have gone round

  Since thou arosest to tread,

  In the summer morning, the road

  Of death, at a call unforeseen,

  Sudden. For fifteen years, 30

  We who till then in thy shade

  Rested as under the boughs

  Of a mighty oak, have endured

  Sunshine and rain as we might,

  Bare, unshaded, alone, 35

  Lacking the shelter of thee.

  O strong soul, by what shore

  Tarriest thou now? For that force,

  Surely, has not been left vain!

  Somewhere, surely, afar, 40

  In the sounding labour-house vast

  Of being, is practised that strength,

  Zealous, beneficent, firm!

  Yes, in some far-shining sphere,

  Conscious or not of the past, 45

  Still thou performest the word

  Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live,

  Prompt, unwearied, as here!

  Still thou upraisest with zeal

  The humble good from the ground, 50

  Sternly repressest the bad.

  Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse

  Those who with half-open eyes

  Tread the border-land dim

  ‘Twixt vice and virtue; reviv’st, 55

  Succourest; — this was thy work,

  This was thy life upon earth.

  What is the course of the life

  Of mortal men on the earth? —

  Most men eddy about 60

  Here and there — eat and drink,

  Chatter and love and hate,

  Gather and squander, are raised

  Aloft, are hurl’d in the dust,

  Striving blindly, achieving 65

  Nothing; and, then they die —

  Perish; and no one asks

  Who or what they have been,

  More than he asks what waves

  In the moonlit solitudes mild 70

  Of the midmost Ocean, have swell’d,

  Foam’d for a moment, and gone.

  And there are some, whom a thirst

  Ardent, unquenchable, fires,

  Not with the crowd to be spent, 75

  Not without aim to go round

  In an eddy of purposeless dust,

  Effort unmeaning and vain.

  Ah yes, some of us strive

  Not without action to die 80

  Fruitless, but something to snatch

  From dull oblivion, nor all

  Glut the devouring grave!

  We, we have chosen our path —

  Path to a clear-purposed goal, 85

  Path of advance! but it leads

  A long, steep journey, through sunk

  Gorges, o’er mountains in snow!

  Cheerful, with friends, we set forth;

  Then, on the height, comes the storm! 90

  Thunder crashes from rock

  To rock, the cataracts reply;

  Lightnings dazzle our eyes;

  Roaring torrents have breach’d

  The track, the stream-bed descends 95

  In the place where the wayfarer once

  Planted his footstep — the spray

  Boils o’er its borders; aloft,

  The unseen snow-beds dislodge

  Their hanging ruin; — alas, 100

  Havoc is made in our train!

  Friends who set forth at our side

  Falter, are lost in the storm!

  We, we only, are left!

  With frowning foreheads, with lips 105

  Sternly compress’d, we strain on,

  On — and at nightfall, at last,

  Come to the end of our way,

  To the lonely inn ‘mid the rocks;

  Where the gaunt and taciturn Host 110

  Stands on the threshold, the wind

  Shaking his thin white hairs —

  Holds his lantern to scan

  Our storm-beat figures, and asks:

  Whom in our party we bring? 115

  Whom we have left in the snow?

  Sadly we answer: We bring

  Only ourselves; we lost

  Sight of the rest in the storm.

  Hardly ourselves we fought through, 120

  Stripp’d, without friends, as we are.

  Friends, companions, and train

  The avalanche swept from our side.

  But thou would’st not alone

  Be saved, my father! alone 125

  Conquer and come to thy goal,

  Leaving the rest in the wild.

  We were weary, and we

  Fearful, and we, in our march,

  Fain to drop down and to die. 130

  Still thou turnedst, and still

  Beckonedst the trembler, and still

  Gavest the weary thy hand!

  If, in the paths of the world,

  Stones might have wounded thy feet, 135

  Toil or dejection have tried

  Thy spirit, of that we saw

  Nothing! to us thou were still

  Cheerful, and helpful, and firm.

  Therefore to thee it was given 140

  Many to save with thyself;

  And, at the end of thy day,

  O faithful shepherd! to come,

  Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

  And through thee I believe 145

  In the noble and great who are gone;

  Pure souls honour’d and blest

  By former ages, who else —

  Such, so soulless, so poor,

  Is the race of men whom I see — 150

  Seem’d but a dream of the heart,

  Seem’d but a cry of desire.

  Yes! I believe that there lived

  Others like thee in the past,

  Not like the men of the crowd 155

  Who all round me to-day

  Bluster or cringe, and make life

  Hideous, and arid, and vile;

  But souls temper’d with fire,

  Fervent, heroic, and good, 160

  Helpers and friends of mankind.

  Servants of God! — or sons

  Shall I not call you? because

  Not as servants ye knew

  Your Father’s innermost mind, 165

  His, who unwillingly sees

  One of his little ones lost —

  Yours is the praise, if mankind

  Hath not as yet in its march

  Fainted, and fallen, and died! 170

  See! in the rocks of the world

  Marches the host of mankind,

  A feeble, wavering line.

  Where are they tending? — A God

  Marshall’d them, gave them their goal. — 175

  Ah, but the way is so long!

  Years they have been in the wild!

  Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks,

  Rising all round, overawe.

  Factions divide them; their host 180

  Threatens to break, to dissolve.

  Ah, keep, keep them combined!

  Else, of the myriads who fill

  That army, not one shall arrive!

  Sole they shall stray; in the rocks 185

  Labour for ever in vain,

  Die one by one in the waste.

  Then, in such hour of need

  Of your fainting, dispirited race,

  Ye, like angels, appear, 190

  Radiant with ardour divine.

  Beacons of hope, ye appear!

  Languor is not in your heart,

  Weakness is not in your word,


  Weariness not on your brow. 195

  Ye alight in our van; at your voice,

  Panic, despair, flee away.

  Ye move through the ranks, recall

  The stragglers, refresh the outworn,

  Praise, re-inspire the brave. 200

  Order, courage, return.

  Eyes rekindling, and prayers,

  Follow your steps as ye go.

  Ye fill up the gaps in our files,

  Strengthen the wavering line, 205

  Stablish, continue our march,

  On, to the bound of the waste,

  On, to the City of God.

  Heine’s Grave

  ‘HENRI HEINE’ — — ‘tis here!

  The black tombstone, the name

  Carved there — no more! and the smooth,

  Swarded alleys, the limes

  Touch’d with yellow by hot 5

  Summer, but under them still

  In September’s bright afternoon

  Shadow, and verdure, and cool!

  Trim Montmartre! the faint

  Murmur of Paris outside; 10

  Crisp everlasting-flowers,

  Yellow and black, on the graves.

  Half blind, palsied, in pain,

  Hither to come, from the streets’

  Uproar, surely not loath 15

  Wast thou, Heine! — to lie

  Quiet! to ask for closed

  Shutters, and darken’d room,

  And cool drinks, and an eased

  Posture, and opium, no more! 20

  Hither to come, and to sleep

  Under the wings of Renown.

  Ah! not little, when pain

  Is most quelling, and man

  Easily quell’d, and the fine 25

  Temper of genius alive

  Quickest to ill, is the praise

  Not to have yielded to pain!

  No small boast, for a weak

  Son of mankind, to the earth 30

  Pinn’d by the thunder, to rear

  His bolt-scathed front to the stars;

  And, undaunted, retort

  ‘Gainst thick-crashing, insane,

  Tyrannous tempests of bale, 35

  Arrowy lightnings of soul!

  Hark! through the alley resounds

  Mocking laughter! A film

  Creeps o’er the sunshine; a breeze

  Ruffles the warm afternoon, 40

  Saddens my soul with its chill.

  Gibing of spirits in scorn

  Shakes every leaf of the grove,

  Mars the benignant repose

  Of this amiable home of the dead. 45

  Bitter spirits! ye claim

  Heine? — Alas, he is yours!

  Only a moment I long’d

  Here in the quiet to snatch

  From such mates the outworn 50

  Poet, and steep him in calm.

  Only a moment! I knew

  Whose he was who is here

  Buried, I knew he was yours!

  Ah, I knew that I saw 55

  Here no sepulchre built

  In the laurell’d rock, o’er the blue

  Naples bay, for a sweet

  Tender Virgil! no tomb

  On Ravenna sands, in the shade 60

  Of Ravenna pines, for a high

  Austere Dante! no grave

  By the Avon side, in the bright

  Stratford meadows, for thee,

  Shakespeare! loveliest of souls, 65

  Peerless in radiance, in joy.

  What so harsh and malign,

  Heine! distils from thy life,

  Poisons the peace of thy grave?

  I chide with thee not, that thy sharp 70

  Upbraidings often assail’d

  England, my country; for we,

  Fearful and sad, for her sons,

  Long since, deep in our hearts,

  Echo the blame of her foes. 75

  We, too, sigh that she flags;

  We, too, say that she now,

  Scarce comprehending the voice

  Of her greatest, golden-mouth’d sons

  Of a former age any more, 80

  Stupidly travels her round

  Of mechanic business, and lets

  Slow die out of her life

  Glory, and genius, and joy.

  So thou arraign’st her, her foe; 85

  So we arraign her, her sons.

  Yes, we arraign her! but she,

  The weary Titan! with deaf

  Ears, and labour-dimm’d eyes,

  Regarding neither to right 90

  Nor left, goes passively by,

  Staggering on to her goal;

  Bearing on shoulders immense,

  Atlanteän, the load,

  Wellnigh not to be borne, 95

  Of the too vast orb of her fate.

  But was it thou — I think

  Surely it was — that bard

  Unnamed, who, Goethe said,

  Had every other gift, but wanted love; 100

  Love, without which the tongue

  Even of angels sounds amiss?

  Charm is the glory which makes

  Song of the poet divine;

  Love is the fountain of charm. 105

  How without charm wilt thou draw,

  Poet! the world to thy way?

  Not by the lightnings of wit!

  Not by the thunder of scorn!

  These to the world, too, are given; 110

  Wit it possesses, and scorn —

  Charm is the poet’s alone.

  Hollow and dull are the great,

  And artists envious, and the mob profane.

  We know all this, we know! 115

  Cam’st thou from heaven, O child

  Of light! but this to declare?

  Alas! to help us forget

  Such barren knowledge awhile,

  God gave the poet his song. 120

  Therefore a secret unrest

  Tortured thee, brilliant and bold!

  Therefore triumph itself

  Tasted amiss to thy soul.

  Therefore, with blood of thy foes, 125

  Trickled in silence thine own.

  Therefore the victor’s heart

  Broke on the field of his fame.

  Ah! as of old, from the pomp

  Of Italian Milan, the fair 130

  Flower of marble of white

  Southern palaces — steps

  Border’d by statues, and walks

  Terraced, and orange bowers

  Heavy with fragrance — the blond 135

  German Kaiser full oft

  Long’d himself back to the fields,

  Rivers, and high-roof’d towns

  Of his native Germany; so,

  So, how often! from hot 140

  Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps

  Blazing, and brilliant crowds,

  Starr’d and jewell’d, of men

  Famous, of women the queens

  Of dazzling converse, and fumes 145

  Of praise — hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain

  That mount, that madden! — how oft

  Heine’s spirit outworn

  Long’d itself out of the din

  Back to the tranquil, the cool 150

  Far German home of his youth!

  See! in the May afternoon,

  O’er the fresh short turf of the Hartz,

  A youth, with the foot of youth,

  Heine! thou climbest again. 155

  Up, through the tall dark firs

  Warming their heads in the sun,

  Chequering the grass with their shade —

  Up, by the stream with its huge

  Moss-hung boulders and thin 160

  Musical water half-hid —

  Up, o’er the rock-strewn slope,

  With the sinking sun, and the air

  Chill, and the shadows now

  Long on the grey hill-side — 165

  To the stone-roof’d hut at the top.

  Or, yet la
ter, in watch

  On the roof of the Brocken tower

  Thou standest, gazing! to see

  The broad red sun, over field 170

  Forest and city and spire

  And mist-track’d stream of the wide

  Wide German land, going down

  In a bank of vapours — again

  Standest! at nightfall, alone. 175

  Or, next morning, with limbs

  Rested by slumber, and heart

  Freshen’d and light with the May,

  O’er the gracious spurs coming down

  Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks, 180

  And beechen coverts, and copse

  Of hazels green in whose depth

  Ilse, the fairy transform’d,

  In a thousand water-breaks light

  Pours her petulant youth — 185

  Climbing the rock which juts

  O’er the valley, the dizzily perch’d

  Rock! to its Iron Cross

  Once more thou cling’st; to the Cross

  Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh. 190

  Goethe, too, had been there.

  In the long-past winter he came

  To the frozen Hartz, with his soul

  Passionate, eager, his youth

  All in ferment; — but he 195

  Destined to work and to live

  Left it, and thou, alas!

  Only to laugh and to die.

  But something prompts me: Not thus

  Take leave of Heine, not thus 200

  Speak the last word at his grave!

  Not in pity and not

  With half censure — with awe

  Hail, as it passes from earth

  Scattering lightnings, that soul! 205

  The spirit of the world

  Beholding the absurdity of men —

  Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile

  For one short moment wander o’er his lips.

  That smile was Heine! for its earthly hour 210

  The strange guest sparkled; now ‘tis pass’d away.

  That was Heine! and we,

  Myriads who live, who have lived,

  What are we all, but a mood,

  A single mood, of the life 215

  Of the Being in whom we exist,

  Who alone is all things in one.

  Spirit, who fillest us all!

  Spirit who utterest in each

  New-coming son of mankind 220

  Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!

  O thou, one of whose moods,

  Bitter and strange, was the life

  Of Heine — his strange, alas!

  His bitter life — may a life 225

  Other and milder be mine!

  May’st thou a mood more serene,

  Happier, have utter’d in mine!

  May’st thou the rapture of peace