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by Matthew Arnold | |

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the {AE}gean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

by Robert Frost | |

New Hampshire

 I met a lady from the South who said
(You won't believe she said it, but she said it):
"None of my family ever worked, or had
A thing to sell.
" I don't suppose the work Much matters.
You may work for all of me.
I've seen the time I've had to work myself.
The having anything to sell is what Is the disgrace in man or state or nation.
I met a traveler from Arkansas Who boasted of his state as beautiful For diamonds and apples.
"Diamonds And apples in commercial quantities?" I asked him, on my guard.
"Oh, yes," he answered, Off his.
The time was evening in the Pullman.
I see the porter's made your bed," I told him.
I met a Californian who would Talk California—a state so blessed, He said, in climate, none bad ever died there A natural death, and Vigilance Committees Had had to organize to stock the graveyards And vindicate the state's humanity.
"Just the way Stefansson runs on," I murmured, "About the British Arctic.
That's what comes Of being in the market with a climate.
" I met a poet from another state, A zealot full of fluid inspiration, Who in the name of fluid inspiration, But in the best style of bad salesmanship, Angrily tried to male me write a protest (In verse I think) against the Volstead Act.
He didn't even offer me a drink Until I asked for one to steady him.
This is called having an idea to sell.
It never could have happened in New Hampshire.
The only person really soiled with trade I ever stumbled on in old New Hampshire Was someone who had just come back ashamed From selling things in California.
He'd built a noble mansard roof with balls On turrets, like Constantinople, deep In woods some ten miles from a railroad station, As if to put forever out of mind The hope of being, as we say, received.
I found him standing at the close of day Inside the threshold of his open barn, Like a lone actor on a gloomy stage— And recognized him, through the iron gray In which his face was muffled to the eyes, As an old boyhood friend, and once indeed A drover with me on the road to Brighton.
His farm was "grounds," and not a farm at all; His house among the local sheds and shanties Rose like a factor's at a trading station.
And be was rich, and I was still a rascal.
I couldn't keep from asking impolitely, Where bad he been and what had he been doing? How did he get so? (Rich was understood.
) In dealing in "old rags" in San Francisco.
Ob, it was terrible as well could be.
We both of us turned over in our graves.
Just specimens is all New Hampshire has, One each of everything as in a showcase, Which naturally she doesn't care to sell.
She had one President.
(Pronounce him Purse, And make the most of it for better or worse.
He's your one chance to score against the state.
) She had one Daniel Webster.
He was all The Daniel Webster ever was or shall be.
She had the Dartmouth' needed to produce him.
I call her old.
She has one family Whose claim is good to being settled here Before the era of colonization, And before that of exploration even.
John Smith remarked them as be coasted by, Dangling their legs and fishing off a wharf At the Isles of Shoals, and satisfied himself They weren't Red Indians but veritable Pre-primitives of the white race, dawn people, Like those who furnished Adam's sons with wives; However uninnocent they may have been In being there so early in our history.
They'd been there then a hundred years or more.
Pity he didn't ask what they were up to At that date with a wharf already built, And take their name.
They've since told me their name— Today an honored one in Nottingham.
As for what they were up to more than fishing— Suppose they weren't behaving Puritanly, The hour bad not yet struck for being good, Mankind had not yet gone on the Sabbatical.
It became an explorer of the deep Not to explore too deep in others' business.
Did you but know of him, New Hampshire has One real reformer who would change the world So it would be accepted by two classes, Artists the minute they set up as artists, Before, that is, they are themselves accepted, And boys the minute they get out of college.
I can't help thinking those are tests to go by.
And she has one I don't know what to call him, Who comes from Philadelphia every year With a great flock of chickens of rare breeds He wants to give the educational Advantages of growing almost wild Under the watchful eye of hawk and eagle Dorkings because they're spoken of by Chaucer, Sussex because they're spoken of by Herrick.
She has a touch of gold.
New Hampshire gold— You may have heard of it.
I had a farm Offered me not long since up Berlin way With a mine on it that was worked for gold; But not gold in commercial quantities, Just enough gold to make the engagement rings And marriage rings of those who owned the farm.
What gold more innocent could one have asked for? One of my children ranging after rocks Lately brought home from Andover or Canaan A specimen of beryl with a trace Of radium.
I know with radium The trace would have to be the merest trace To be below the threshold of commercial; But trust New Hampshire not to have enough Of radium or anything to sell.
A specimen of everything, I said.
She has one witch—old style.
She lives in Colebrook.
(The only other witch I ever met Was lately at a cut-glass dinner in Boston.
There were four candles and four people present.
The witch was young, and beautiful (new style), And open-minded.
She was free to question Her gift for reading letters locked in boxes.
Why was it so much greater when the boxes Were metal than it was when they were wooden? It made the world seem so mysterious.
The S'ciety for Psychical Research Was cognizant.
Her husband was worth millions.
I think he owned some shares in Harvard College.
) New Hampshire used to have at Salem A company we called the White Corpuscles, Whose duty was at any hour of night To rush in sheets and fool's caps where they smelled A thing the least bit doubtfully perscented And give someone the Skipper Ireson's Ride.
One each of everything as in a showcase.
More than enough land for a specimen You'll say she has, but there there enters in Something else to protect her from herself.
There quality makes up for quantity.
Not even New Hampshire farms are much for sale.
The farm I made my home on in the mountains 1 had to take by force rather than buy.
I caught the owner outdoors by himself Raking.
up after winter, and I said, “I’m going to put you off this farm: I want it.
" “Where are you going to put me? In the road?” “I’m going to put you on the farm next to it.
” “Why won't the farm next to it do for you?" "I like this better.
" It was really better.
Apples? New Hampshire has them, but unsprayed, With no suspicion in stern end or blossom end Of vitriol or arsenate of lead, And so not good for anything but cider.
Her unpruned grapes are flung like lariats Far up the birches out of reach of man.
A state producing precious metals, stones, And—writing; none of these except perhaps The precious literature in quantity Or quality to worry the producer About disposing of it.
Do you know, Considering the market, there are more Poems produced than any other thing? No wonder poets sometimes have to seem So much more businesslike than businessmen.
Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.
She's one of the two best states in the Union.
Vermont's the other.
And the two have been Yokefellows in the sap yoke from of old In many Marches.
And they lie like wedges, Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end, And are a figure of the way the strong Of mind and strong of arm should fit together, One thick where one is thin and vice versa.
New Hampshire raises the Connecticut In a trout hatchery near Canada, But soon divides the river with Vermont.
Both are delightful states for their absurdly Small towns—Lost Nation, Bungey, Muddy Boo, Poplin, Still Corners (so called not because The place is silent all day long, nor yet Because it boasts a whisky still—because It set out once to be a city and still Is only corners, crossroads in a wood).
And I remember one whose name appeared Between the pictures on a movie screen Election night once in Franconia, When everything had gone Republican And Democrats were sore in need of comfort: Easton goes Democratic, Wilson 4 Hughes 2.
And everybody to the saddest Laughed the loud laugh the big laugh at the little.
New York (five million) laughs at Manchester, Manchester (sixty or seventy thousand) laughs At Littleton (four thousand), Littleton Laughs at Franconia (seven hundred), and Franconia laughs, I fear—-did laugh that night­-- At Easton.
What has Easton left to laugh at, And like the actress exclaim "Oh, my God" at? There's Bungey; and for Bungey there are towns, Whole townships named but without population.
Anything I can say about New Hampshire Will serve almost as well about Vermont, Excepting that they differ in their mountains.
The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight; New Hampshire mountains Curl up in a coil.
I had been coming to New Hampshire mountains.
And here I am and what am I to say? Here first my theme becomes embarrassing.
Emerson said, "The God who made New Hampshire Taunted the lofty land with little men.
" Anotner Massachusetts poet said, "I go no more to summer in New Hampshire.
I've given up my summer place in Dublin.
" But when I asked to know what ailed New Hampshire, She said she couldn't stand the people in it, The little men (it's Massachusetts speaking).
And when I asked to know what ailed the people, She said, "Go read your own books and find out.
" I may as well confess myself the author Of several books against the world in general.
To take them as against a special state Or even nation's to restrict my meaning.
I'm what is called a sensibilitist, Or otherwise an environmentalist.
I refuse to adapt myself a mite To any change from hot to cold, from wet To dry, from poor to rich, or back again.
I make a virtue of my suffering From nearly everything that goes on round me.
In other words, I know wherever I am, Being the creature of literature I am, 1 sball not lack for pain to keep me awake.
Kit Marlowe taught me how to say my prayers: "Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.
" Samoa, Russia, Ireland I complain of, No less than England, France, and Italy.
Because I wrote my novels in New Hampshire Is no proof that I aimed them at New Hampshire.
When I left Massachusetts years ago Between two days, the reason why I sought New Hampshire, not Connecticut, Rhode Island, New York, or Vermont was this: Where I was living then, New Hampshire offered The nearest boundary to escape across.
I hadn't an illusion in my handbag About the people being better there Than those I left behind.
I thought they weren't.
I thought they couldn't be.
And yet they were.
I'd sure had no such friends in Massachusetts As Hall of Windham, Gay of Atkinson, Bartlett of Raymond (now of Colorado), Harris of Derry, and Lynch of Bethlehem.
The glorious bards of Massachusetts seem To want to make New Hampshire people over.
They taunt the lofty land with little men.
I don't know what to say about the people.
For art's sake one could almost wish them worse Rather than better.
How are we to write The Russian novel in America As long as life goes so unterribly? There is the pinch from which our only outcry In literature to date is heard to come.
We get what little misery we can Out of not having cause for misery.
It makes the guild of novel writers sick To be expected to be Dostoievskis On nothing worse than too much luck and comfort.
This is not sorrow, though; it's just the vapors, And recognized as such in Russia itself Under the new regime, and so forbidden.
If well it is with Russia, then feel free To say so or be stood against the wall And shot.
It's Pollyanna now or death.
This, then, is the new freedom we hear tell of; And very sensible.
No state can build A literature that shall at once be sound And sad on a foundation of well-being.
To show the level of intelligence Among us: it was just a Warren farmer Whose horse had pulled him short up in the road By me, a stranger.
This is what he said, From nothing but embarrassment and want Of anything more sociable to say: "You hear those bound dogs sing on Moosilauke? Well, they remind me of the hue and cry We've heard against the Mid - Victorians And never rightly understood till Bryan Retired from politics and joined the chorus.
The matter with the Mid-Victorians Seems to have been a man named Joh n L.
" "Go 'long," I said to him, he to his horse.
I knew a man who failing as a farmer Burned down his farmhouse for the fire insurance, And spent the proceeds on a telescope To satisfy a lifelong curiosity About our place among the infinities.
And how was that for otherworldliness? If I must choose which I would elevate — The people or the already lofty mountains I'd elevate the already lofty mountains The only fault I find with old New Hampshire Is that her mountains aren't quite high enough.
I was not always so; I've come to be so.
How, to my sorrow, how have I attained A height from which to look down critical On mountains? What has given me assurance To say what height becomes New Hampshire mountains, Or any mountains? Can it be some strength I feel, as of an earthquake in my back, To heave them higher to the morning star? Can it be foreign travel in the Alps? Or having seen and credited a moment The solid molding of vast peaks of cloud Behind the pitiful reality Of Lincoln, Lafayette, and Liberty? Or some such sense as says bow high shall jet The fountain in proportion to the basin? No, none of these has raised me to my throne Of intellectual dissatisfaction, But the sad accident of having seen Our actual mountains given in a map Of early times as twice the height they are— Ten thousand feet instead of only five— Which shows how sad an accident may be.
Five thousand is no longer high enough.
Whereas I never had a good idea About improving people in the world, Here I am overfertile in suggestion, And cannot rest from planning day or night How high I'd thrust the peaks in summer snow To tap the upper sky and draw a flow Of frosty night air on the vale below Down from the stars to freeze the dew as starry.
The more the sensibilitist I am The more I seem to want my mountains wild; The way the wiry gang-boss liked the logjam.
After he'd picked the lock and got it started, He dodged a log that lifted like an arm Against the sky to break his back for him, Then came in dancing, skipping with his life Across the roar and chaos, and the words We saw him say along the zigzag journey Were doubtless as the words we heard him say On coming nearer: "Wasn't she an i-deal Son-of-a-bitch? You bet she was an i-deal.
" For all her mountains fall a little short, Her people not quite short enough for Art, She's still New Hampshire; a most restful state.
Lately in converse with a New York alec About the new school of the pseudo-phallic, I found myself in a close corner where I bad to make an almost funny choice.
"Choose you which you will be—a prude, or puke, Mewling and puking in the public arms.
" "Me for the hills where I don’t have to choose.
” "But if you bad to choose, which would you be?" 1 wouldn't be a prude afraid of nature.
I know a man who took a double ax And went alone against a grove of trees; But his heart failing him, he dropped the ax And ran for shelter quoting Matthew Arnold: "'Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood': There s been enough shed without shedding mine.
Remember Birnam Wood! The wood's in flux!" He had a special terror of the flux That showed itself in dendrophobia.
The only decent tree had been to mill And educated into boards, be said.
He knew too well for any earthly use The line where man leaves off and nature starts.
And never overstepped it save in dreams.
He stood on the safe side of the line talking— Which is sheer Matthew Arnoldism, The cult of one who owned himself "a foiled Circuitous wanderer," and "took dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne"— Agreed in 'frowning on these improvised Altars the woods are full of nowadays, Again as in the days when Ahaz sinned By worship under green trees in the open.
Scarcely a mile but that I come on one, A black-checked stone and stick of rain-washed charcoal.
Even to say the groves were God's first temples Comes too near to Ahaz' sin for safety.
Nothing not built with hands of course is sacred.
But here is not a question of what's sacred; Rather of what to face or run away from.
I'd hate to be a runaway from nature.
And neither would I choose to be a puke Who cares not what be does in company, And when he can't do anything, falls back On words, and tries his worst to make words speak Louder than actions, and sometimes achieves it.
It seems a narrow choice the age insists on 8ow about being a good Greek, for instance) That course, they tell me, isn't offered this year.
"Come, but this isn't choosing—puke or prude?" Well, if I have to choose one or the other, I choose to be a plain New Hampshire farmer With an income in cash of, say, a thousand (From, say, a publisher in New York City).
It's restful to arrive at a decision, And restful just to think about New Hampshire.
At present I am living in Vermont.

by Matthew Arnold | |

Thyrsis a Monody

 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,
And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks--
Are ye too changed, ye hills?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!
Here came I often, often, in old days--
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?-- This winter-eve is warm, Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring, The tender purple spray on copse and briers! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, She needs not June for beauty's heightening, Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!-- Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power Befalls me wandering through this upland dim.
Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour; Now seldom come I, since I came with him.
That single elm-tree bright Against the west--I miss it! is it goner? We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquaintance made By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd.
Ah me! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday! Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart Into the world and wave of men depart; But Thyrsis of his own will went away.
It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest.
He loved each simple joy the country yields, He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep, For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
Some life of men unblest He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head.
He went; his piping took a troubled sound Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; He could not wait their passing, he is dead.
So, some tempestuous morn in early June, When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, Before the roses and the longest day-- When garden-walks and all the grassy floor With blossoms red and white of fallen May And chestnut-flowers are strewn-- So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze: The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I! Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, And stocks in fragrant blow; Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown! What matters it? next year he will return, And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, And scent of hay new-mown.
But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see; See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, And blow a strain the world at last shall heed-- For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee! Alack, for Corydon no rival now!-- But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Some good survivor with his flute would go, Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the beauteous head Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.
O easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, She knew each lily white which Enna yields Each rose with blushing face; She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.
But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd; And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill! Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? I know the wood which hides the daffodil, I know the Fyfield tree, I know what white, what purple fritillaries The grassy harvest of the river-fields, Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields, And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?-- But many a tingle on the loved hillside, With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees, Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team, And only in the hidden brookside gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.
Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, Above the locks, above the boating throng, Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats, Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among And darting swallows and light water-gnats, We track'd the shy Thames shore? Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?-- They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.
I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; -- The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.
And long the way appears, which seem'd so short To the less practised eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare! Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, And near and real the charm of thy repose, And night as welcome as a friend would fall.
But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss Of quiet!--Look, adown the dusk hill-side, A troop of Oxford hunters going home, As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come.
Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field!--'Tis done; and see, Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky, Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out.
I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, Yet, happy omen, hail! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale (For there thine earth forgetting eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale), Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!-- Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him; To a boon southern country he is fled, And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's train divine (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine, Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!-- Putting his sickle to the perilous grain In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, For thee the Lityerses-song again Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes-- And how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, And all the marvel of the golden skies.
There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair.
Despair I will not, while I yet descry 'Neath the mild canopy of English air That lonely tree against the western sky.
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear, Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, Woods with anemonies in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.
This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold-- But the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.
Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound; Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.
And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cams't thou in thy jocund youthful time, Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.
What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat-- It fail'd, and thou wage mute! Yet hadst thou always visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, Left human haunt, and on alone till night.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.
--Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar, Let in thy voice a whisper often come, To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou! I wander'd till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.
Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill, Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

by Matthew Arnold | |

Rugby Chapel

 Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening.
The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;--hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows;--but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid.
There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening.
But ah! That word, gloom, to my mind Brings thee back, in the light Of thy radiant vigour, again; In the gloom of November we pass'd Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impair'd not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee.
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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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 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 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 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, 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 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, 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.
Thunder crashes from rock To rock, the cataracts reply, Lightnings dazzle our eyes.
Roaring torrents have breach'd The track, the stream-bed descends 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, 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 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 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? 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, Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.
Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side.
But thou woulds't not alone Be saved, my father! alone 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.
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, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wage still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given 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 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-- 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 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, 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, 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! 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.
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 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 Stagger 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, 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.
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! 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, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God.

by Matthew Arnold | |


 Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.
And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: 'Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 'Ah, once more,' I cried, 'ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!' From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer: 'Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.
'Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
'And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul.
'Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see.
' O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: 'Resolve to be thyself; and know that he, Who finds himself, loses his misery!'

by Matthew Arnold | |

To a Republican Friend

 God knows it, I am with you.
If to prize Those virtues, priz'd and practis'd by too few, But priz'd, but lov'd, but eminent in you, Man's fundamental life: if to despise The barren optimistic sophistries Of comfortable moles, whom what they do Teaches the limit of the just and true-- And for such doing have no need of eyes: If sadness at teh long heart-wasting show Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted: If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow The armies of the homeless and unfed:-- If these are yours, if this is what you are, Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share.

by Matthew Arnold | |

Strayed Reveller The

 The Youth

Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me! thy right arm,
Lean'd up against the column there,
Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
I held but now.
Is it, then, evening So soon? I see, the night-dews, Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe! Circe.
Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth.
When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew- Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, Iacchus' white fane On yonder hill.
Quick I pass'd, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;-I saw On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty! Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl.
I drank, Goddess! And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico.
Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Thou lovest it, then, my wine? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, thee! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! Drink-drink again! The Youth.
Thanks, gracious one! Ah, the sweet fumes again! More soft, ah me, More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music! Faint-faint! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep! Circe.
Hist! Thou-within there! Come forth, Ulysses! Art tired with hunting? While we range the woodland, See what the day brings.
Ever new magic! Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus' darling- Or some youth beloved of Pan, Of Pan and the Nymphs? That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants-- His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,-what guest Of Gods or mortals? Circe.
Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him! The Youth.
Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within? How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare!-- Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? Art thou he, stranger? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son? Ulysses.
I am Ulysses.
And thou, too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet.
It may be thou hast follow'd Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs.
Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts, And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the gray sea.
-If so, then hail! I honour and welcome thee.
The Youth.
The Gods are happy.
They turn on all sides Their shining eyes, And see below them The earth and men.
They see Tiresias Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus bank, His robe drawn over His old sightless head, Revolving inly The doom of Thebes.
They see the Centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams, Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind.
They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moor'd to A floating isle thick-matted With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants And the dark cucumber.
He reaps, and stows them, Drifting--drifting;--round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves, The mountains ring them.
They see the Scythian On the wide stepp, unharnessing His wheel'd house at noon.
He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- Mares' milk, and bread Baked on the embers;--all around The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock And flag-leaved iris-flowers.
Sitting in his cart He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards, And the springing bustard-fowl, The track, a straight black line, Furrows the rich soil; here and there Cluster of lonely mounds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer The sunny waste.
They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief With shout and shaken spear, Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, Jasper and chalcedony, And milk-barred onyx-stones.
The loaded boat swings groaning In the yellow eddies; The Gods behold him.
They see the Heroes Sitting in the dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving Violet sea.
At sunset nearing The Happy Islands.
These things, Ulysses, The wise bards, also Behold and sing.
But oh, what labour! O prince, what pain! They too can see Tiresias;--but the Gods, Who give them vision, Added this law: That they should bear too His groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs; Bear Hera's anger Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages.
They see the Centaurs On Pelion:--then they feel, They too, the maddening wine Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain They feel the biting spears Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive, Drive crashing through their bones; they feel High on a jutting rock in the red stream Alcmena's dreadful son Ply his bow;--such a price The Gods exact for song: To become what we sing.
They see the Indian On his mountain lake; but squalls Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart.
--They see The Scythian: but long frosts Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring.
They see the merchants On the Oxus stream;--but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale.
Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home.
They see the Heroes Near harbour;--but they share Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; Or where the echoing oars Of Argo first Startled the unknown sea.
The old Silenus Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way at noon.
Sitting by me, while his Fauns Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His drooping garland, He told me these things.
But I, Ulysses, Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labour, Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad-- Sometimes a Faun with torches-- And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stems Flowing-robed, the beloved, The desired, the divine, Beloved Iacchus.
Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-murmur, Dreaming woods! Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess, And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- The cup again! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess.
Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul!

by Matthew Arnold | |

Lines Written in Kensington Gardens

 In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!

Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.
Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.
In the huge world, which roars hard by, Be others happy if they can! But in my helpless cradle I Was breathed on by the rural Pan.
I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world And now keeps only in the grave.
Yet here is peace for ever new! When I who watch them am away, Still all things in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day.
Then to their happy rest they pass! The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar.
The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.

by Matthew Arnold | |

Quiet Work

 One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, 
One lesson which in every wind is blown, 
One lesson of two duties kept at one 
Though the loud world proclaim their enmity-- 

Of toil unsever'd from tranquility! 
Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows 
Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose, 
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.
Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil, Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.

by Matthew Arnold | |

Cadmus and Harmonia

 Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes.
The grass is cool, the sea-side air Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers More virginal and sweet than ours.
And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, In breathless quiet, after all their ills; Nor do they see their country, nor the place Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, Nor the unhappy palace of their race, Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more.
There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes! They had stay'd long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children roll'd, Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A grey old man and woman; yet of old The Gods had to their marriage come, And at the banquet all the Muses sang.
Therefore they did not end their days In sight of blood, but were rapt, far away, To where the west-wind plays, And murmurs of the Adriatic come To those untrodden mountain-lawns; and there Placed safely in changed forms, the pair Wholly forgot their first sad life, and home, And all that Theban woe, and stray For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.