Matthew Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum and Other Poems Part 17

When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, From this poor present self which I am now; When youth has done its tedious vain expense Of pa.s.sions that for ever ebb and flow;

Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind, 5 And breathe more happy in an even clime?-- 6 Ah no, for then I shall begin to find A thousand virtues in this hated time!

Then I shall wish its agitations back, And all its thwarting currents of desire; 10 Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, And call this hurrying fever, generous fire; 12

And sigh that one thing only has been lent To youth and age in common--discontent.

AUSTERITY OF POETRY

That son of Italy who tried to blow, 1 Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, 2 In his light youth amid a festal throng 3 Sate with his bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 5 Youth like a star; and what to youth belong-- Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.

A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,

'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!

Shuddering, they drew her garments off--and found 10 A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. 11

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within.

WORLDLY PLACE

_Even in a palace, life may be led well!_ So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den 3 Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 5 And drudge under some foolish master's ken. 6 Who rates us if we peer outside our pen-- 7 Match'd with a palace, is not this a h.e.l.l?

_Even in a palace!_ On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; 10 And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame

Some n.o.bler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here!

The aids to n.o.ble life are all within."

EAST LONDON

'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 2 And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 4

I met a preacher there I knew, and said: 5 "Ill and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?"-- "Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been, Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, _the living bread."_

O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light, 10 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,

To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam-- Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night!

Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.

WEST LONDON

Crouch'd on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, 1 A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied.

A babe was in her arms, and at her side A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.

Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, 5 Pa.s.s'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hied Across and begg'd, and came back satisfied.

The rich she had let pa.s.s with frozen stare.

Thought I: "Above her state this spirit towers; She will not ask of aliens but of friends, 10 Of sharers in a common human fate.

"She turns from that cold succour, which attends The unknown little from the unknowing great, And points us to a better time than ours."

ELEGIAC POEMS

MEMORIAL VERSES

_April_, 1850

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 1 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 2 But one such death remain'd to come; The last poetic voice is dumb-- We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 5

When Byron's eyes were shut in death, We bow'd our head and held our breath.

He taught us little; but our soul Had _felt_ him like the thunder's roll.

With shivering heart the strife we saw 10 Of pa.s.sion with eternal law; And yet with reverential awe We watch'd the fount of fiery life Which served for that t.i.tanic strife.

When Goethe's death was told, we said: 15 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.

Physician of the iron age, 17 Goethe has done his pilgrimage.

He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; 20 And struck his finger on the place, And said: _Thou ailest here, and here!_ He look'd on Europe's dying hour Of fitful dream and feverish power; His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 25 The turmoil of expiring life-- He said: _The end is everywhere, Art still has truth, take refuge there!_ And he was happy, if to know Causes of things, and far below 30 His feet to see the lurid flow Of terror, and insane distress, And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!

For never has such soothing voice 35 Been to your shadowy world convey'd, Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 38 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.

Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye, 40 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!