--No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours.
For what wears out the life of mortal men?
"Tis that from change to change their being rolls: "Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, And numb the elastic powers.
Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are--what we have been.
Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so?
Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire: Else wert thou long since number"d with the dead-- Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire.
The generations of thy peers are fled, And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot, And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv"st on Glanvil"s page, Because thou hadst--what we, alas, have not!
For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.
O Life unlike to ours!
Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.
Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will"d, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill"d; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-- Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?
Yes, we await it, but it still delays, And then we suffer; and amongst us One, Who most has suffer"d, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery"s birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes.
This for our wisest: and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, With close-lipp"d Patience for our only friend, Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: But none has hope like thine.
Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away.
O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o"ertax"d, its palsied hearts, was rife-- Fly hence, our contact fear!
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend"s approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude.
Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silver"d branches of the glade-- Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen they flowers, as in former years, With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, to the nightingales.
But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from they own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest.
Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix"d they powers, And they clear aims be cross and shifting made: And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
--As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair"d creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the Aegean isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep"d in brine; And knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; And s.n.a.t.c.h"d his rudder, and shook out more sail, And day and night held on indignantly O"er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales.
Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888
752. 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 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?
Dost thou to-night behold Here, through the moonlight on this English gra.s.s, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear"d eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister"s shame?
Dost thou once more a.s.say Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor Fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound 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--thou hearest!
Eternal Pa.s.sion!
Eternal Pain!
Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888
753. Shakespeare
OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil"d searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school"d, self-scann"d, self-honour"d, self-secure, Didst walk on earth unguess"d at. Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.
Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888
754. From the Hymn of Empedocles
IS it so small a thing To have enjoy"d the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;
That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date, And while we dream on this Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?
Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad: And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;
Who "s loth to leave this life Which to him little yields: His hard-task"d sunburnt wife, His often-labour"d fields; The boors with whom he talk"d, the country spots he knew.
But thou, because thou hear"st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; Because the G.o.ds thou fear"st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.
I say, Fear not! life still Leaves human effort scope.
But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope.
Because thou must not dream, thou need"st not then despair.
William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880
755. The Flowers
WHEN Love arose in heart and deed To wake the world to greater joy, "What can she give me now?" said Greed, Who thought to win some costly toy.
He rose, he ran, he stoop"d, he clutch"d; And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, In Greed"s hot grasp were fray"d and s.m.u.tch"d, And Greed said, "Flowers! Can this be all?"
He flung them down and went his way, He cared no jot for thyme or rose; But boys and girls came out to play, And some took these and some took those--
Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; And at their touch the dew return"d, And all the bloom a thousandfold-- So red, so ripe, the roses burn"d!
William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880