Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 2

"Or is it that some Force, too wise, too strong, Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile, Sweeps earth, and heaven, and men, and G.o.ds along, Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile?

And the great powers we serve, themselves may be Slaves of a tyrannous necessity?

"Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars, Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight, And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars, Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night?

Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen, Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene?

"Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be, Of one short joy, one l.u.s.t, one pleasant dream?

Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see, Blind divinations of a will supreme; Lost labour! when the circ.u.mambient gloom But hides, if G.o.ds, G.o.ds careless of our doom?

"The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak, My sand runs short; and--as yon star-shot ray, Hemm'd by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak, Now, as the barrier closes, dies away-- Even so do past and future intertwine, Blotting this six years' s.p.a.ce, which yet is mine.

"Six years--six little years--six drops of time!

Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane, And old men die, and young men pa.s.s their prime, And languid pleasure fade and flower again, And the dull G.o.ds behold, ere these are flown, Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.

"Into the silence of the groves and woods I will go forth; though something would I say-- Something--yet what, I know not; for the G.o.ds The doom they pa.s.s revoke not, nor delay; And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all, And the night waxes, and the shadows fall.

"Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king!

I go, and I return not. But the will Of the great G.o.ds is plain; and ye must bring Ill deeds, ill pa.s.sions, zealous to fulfil Their pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise, The praise of G.o.ds, rich boon! and length of days."

--So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn; And one loud cry of grief and of amaze Broke from his sorrowing people; so he spake, And turning, left them there; and with brief pause, Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way To the cool region of the groves he loved.

There by the river-banks he wander'd on, From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees, Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneath Burying their unsunn'd stems in gra.s.s and flowers; Where in one dream the feverish time of youth Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy Might wander all day long and never tire.

Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn, Rose-crown'd; and ever, when the sun went down, A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom, From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove, Revealing all the tumult of the feast-- Flush'd guests, and golden goblets foam'd with wine; While the deep-burnish'd foliage overhead Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon.

It may be that sometimes his wondering soul From the loud joyful laughter of his lips Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man Who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems, Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl, Whispering: _A little s.p.a.ce, and thou art mine!_ It may be on that joyless feast his eye Dwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within, Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength, And by that silent knowledge, day by day, Was calm'd, enn.o.bled, comforted, sustain'd.

It may be; but not less his brow was smooth, And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom, And his mirth quail'd not at the mild reproof Sigh'd out by winter's sad tranquillity; Nor, pall'd with its own fulness, ebb'd and died In the rich languor of long summer-days; Nor wither'd when the palm-tree plumes, that roof'd With their mild dark his gra.s.sy banquet-hall, Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring; No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds.

So six long years he revell'd, night and day.

And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, To tell his wondering people of their king; In the still night, across the steaming flats, Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile.

THE CHURCH OF BROU

I

The Castle

Down the Savoy valleys sounding, Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets Hark! what bell for church is toll'd?

In the bright October morning Savoy's Duke had left his bride.

From the castle, past the drawbridge, Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering; Gay, her smiling lord to greet, From her mullion'd chamber-cas.e.m.e.nt Smiles the d.u.c.h.ess Marguerite.

From Vienna, by the Danube, Here she came, a bride, in spring.

Now the autumn crisps the forest; Hunters gather, bugles ring.

Hounds are pulling, p.r.i.c.kers swearing, Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.

Off!--They sweep the marshy forests, Westward, on the side of France.

Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!-- Down the forest-ridings lone, Furious, single hors.e.m.e.n gallop---- Hark! a shout--a crash--a groan!

Pale and breathless, came the hunters; On the turf dead lies the boar-- G.o.d! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him, Senseless, weltering in his gore.

In the dull October evening, Down the leaf-strewn forest-road, To the castle, past the drawbridge, Came the hunters with their load.

In the hall, with sconces blazing, Ladies waiting round her seat, Clothed in smiles, beneath the das Sate the d.u.c.h.ess Marguerite.

Hark! below the gates unbarring!

Tramp of men and quick commands!

"--'Tis my lord come back from hunting--"

And the d.u.c.h.ess claps her hands.

Slow and tired, came the hunters-- Stopp'd in darkness in the court.

"--Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!

To the hall! What sport? What sport?"--

Slow they enter'd with their master; In the hall they laid him down.

On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown.

Dead her princely youthful husband Lay before his youthful wife, b.l.o.o.d.y, 'neath the flaring sconces-- And the sight froze all her life.

In Vienna, by the Danube, Kings hold revel, gallants meet.

Gay of old amid the gayest Was the d.u.c.h.ess Marguerite.

In Vienna, by the Danube, Feast and dance her youth beguiled.

Till that hour she never sorrow'd; But from then she never smiled.

'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys Far from town or haunt of man, Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, Which the d.u.c.h.ess Maud began;

Old, that d.u.c.h.ess stern began it, In gray age, with palsied hands; But she died while it was building, And the Church unfinish'd stands--

Stands as erst the builders left it, When she sank into her grave; Mountain greensward paves the chancel, Harebells flower in the nave

"--In my castle all is sorrow,"

Said the d.u.c.h.ess Marguerite then; "Guide me, some one, to the mountain!

We will build the Church again."--

Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, Austrian knights from Syria came.

"--Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!

Homage to your Austrian dame."--

From the gate the warders answer'd: "--Gone, O knights, is she you knew!

Dead our Duke, and gone his d.u.c.h.ess; Seek her at the Church of Brou!"--

Austrian knights and much-worn palmers Climb the winding mountain-way-- Reach the valley, where the Fabric Rises higher day by day.