Matthew Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum and Other Poems Part 15

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 pa.s.sionate desire 5 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; 10 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: 15 "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, amus.e.m.e.nt, sympathy. 20

"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 25 In what state G.o.d'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: 30 "Resolve to be thyself; and know that he, Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

A SUMMER NIGHT

In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street, How lonely rings the echo of my feet!

Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world;--but see, 5 A break between the housetops shows The moon! and, lost behind her, fading dim Into the dewy dark obscurity Down at the far horizon's rim, Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 10

And to my mind the thought Is on a sudden brought Of a past night, and a far different scene.

Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep As clearly as at noon; 15 The spring-tide's br.i.m.m.i.n.g flow Heaved dazzlingly between; Houses, with long white sweep,

Girdled the glistening bay; Behind, through the soft air, 20 The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away, The night was far more fair-- But the same restless pacings to and fro, And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, And the same bright, calm moon. 25

And the calm moonlight seems to say: _Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast, Which neither deadens into rest, Nor ever feels the fiery glow That whirls the spirit from itself away_, 30 _But fluctuates to and fro, Never by pa.s.sion quite possess'd And never quite benumb'd by the world's sway?--_ And I, I know not if to pray Still to be what I am, or yield and be 35 Like all the other men I see.

For most men in a brazen prison live, Where, in the sun's hot eye, With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 40 Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall.

And as, year after year, Fresh products of their barren labour fall From their tired hands, and rest Never yet comes more near, 45 Gloom settles slowly down over their breast; A while they try to stem The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest, And the rest, a few, Escape their prison and depart 50 On the wide ocean of life anew.

There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart Listeth, will sail; Nor doth he know how these prevail, Despotic on that sea, 55 Trade-winds which cross it from eternity.

Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd By thwarting signs, and braves The freshening wind and blackening waves And then the tempest strikes him; and between 60 The lightning-bursts is seen Only a driving wreck.

And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck With anguished face and flying hair, Grasping the rudder hard, 65 Still bent to make some port he knows not where, Still standing for some false, impossible sh.o.r.e.

And sterner comes the roar Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom 70 And he, too, disappears and comes no more.

Is there no life, but there alone?

Madman or slave, must man be one?

Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!

Clearness divine. 75 Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign Of languor, though so calm, and though so great Are yet untroubled and unpa.s.sionate; Who though so n.o.ble, share in the world's toil.

And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil! 80

I will not say that your mild deeps retain A tinge, it may he, of their silent pain Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain-- But I will rather say that you remain A world above man's head, to let him see 85 How boundless might his soul's horizon be, How vast, yet of which clear transparency!

How it were good to live there, and breathe free!

How fair a lot to fill Is left to each man still! 90

GEIST'S GRAVE

Four years!--and didst thou stay above The ground, which hides thee now, but four?

And all that life, and all that love, Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

Only four years those winning ways, 5 Which make me for thy presence yearn, Call'd us to pet thee or to praise, Dear little friend! at every turn?

That loving heart, that patient soul, Had they indeed no longer span, 10 To run their course, and reach their goal, And read their homily to man? 12

That liquid, melancholy eye, From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry, 15 The sense of tears in mortal things--

That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled By spirits gloriously gay, And temper of heroic mould-- What, was four years their whole short day? 20

Yes, only four!--and not the course Of all the centuries yet to come, And not the infinite resource Of Nature, with her countless sum

Of figures, with her fulness vast 25 Of new creation evermore, Can ever quite repeat the past, Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot!

Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, 30 And builds himself I know not what Of second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go, On us, who stood despondent by, A meek last glance of love didst throw, 35 And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart-- Would fix our favourite on the scene, Nor let thee utterly depart And be as if thou ne'er hadst been. 40

And so there rise these lines of verse On lips that rarely form them now; 42 While to each other we rehea.r.s.e: Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!

We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 45 We bid thee to thy vacant chair, We greet thee by the window-pane, We hear thy scuffle on the stair.

We see the flaps of thy large ears Quick raised to ask which way we go; 50 Crossing the frozen lake, appears Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear Who mourn thee in thine English home; Thou hast thine absent master's tear, 55 Dropt by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there, And thou shalt live as long as we.

And after that--thou dost not care!

In us was all the world to thee. 60

Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, Even to a date beyond our own We strive to carry down thy name, By mounded turf, and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach, 65 Here, where the gra.s.s is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travellers on the Portsmouth road;-- 70 There build we thee, O guardian dear, Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through this garden pa.s.s, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the gra.s.s, 75 And stop before the stone, and say:

_People who lived here long ago Did by this stone, it seems, intend To name for future times to know The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend._ 80