Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 32

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee?

Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pa.s.s'd, Hotly charged--and sank at last.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb!

Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall!

THE LORD'S MESSENGERS

Thus saith the Lord to his own:-- "See ye the trouble below?

Warfare of man from his birth!

Too long let we them groan; Haste, arise ye, and go, Carry my peace upon earth!"

Gladly they rise at his call, Gladly obey his command, Gladly descend to the plain.

--Ah! How few of them all, Those willing servants, shall stand In the Master's presence again!

Some in the tumult are lost; Baffled, bewilder'd, they stray.

Some, as prisoners, draw breath.

Some, unconquer'd, are cross'd (Not yet half through the day) By a pitiless arrow of Death.

Hardly, hardly shall one Come, with countenance bright, At the close of day, from the plain; His Master's errand well done, Safe through the smoke of the fight, Back to his Master again.

A NAMELESS EPITAPH

Ask not my name, O friend!

That Being only, which hath known each man From the beginning, can Remember each unto the end.

BACCHa.n.a.lIA;

OR,

THE NEW AGE

I

The evening comes, the fields are still.

The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wain, The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, All housed within the sleeping farms!

The business of the day is done, The last-left haymaker is gone.

And from the thyme upon the height, And from the elder-blossom white And pale dog-roses in the hedge, And from the mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night-air blows The perfume which the day forgoes.

And on the pure horizon far, See, pulsing with the first-born star, The liquid sky above the hill!

The evening comes, the fields are still.

Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds-- Flickering and circling In files and in rounds-- Gaily their pine-staff green Tossing in air, Loose o'er their shoulders white Showering their hair-- See! the wild Maenads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood.

See! through the quiet land Rioting they pa.s.s-- Fling the fresh heaps about, Trample the gra.s.s.

Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize; Fill with their sports the field, Fill with their cries.

Shepherd, what ails thee, then?

Shepherd, why mute?

Forth with thy joyous song!

Forth with thy flute!

Tempts not the revel blithe?

Lure not their cries?

Glow not their shoulders smooth?

Melt not their eyes?

Is not, on cheeks like those, Lovely the flush?

--_Ah, so the quiet was!_ _So was the hush!_

II

The epoch ends, the world is still, The age has talk'd and work'd its fill-- The famous orators have shone, The famous poets sung and gone, The famous men of war have fought, The famous speculators thought, The famous players, sculptors, wrought, The famous painters fill'd their wall, The famous critics judged it all.

The combatants are parted now-- Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.

And in the after-silence sweet, Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, Ascending pure, the bell-like fame Of this or that down-trodden name Delicate spirits, push'd away In the hot press of the noon-day.

And o'er the plain, where the dead age Did its now silent warfare wage-- O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, Where many a splendour finds its tomb, Many spent fames and fallen mights-- The one or two immortal lights Rise slowly up into the sky To shine there everlastingly, Like stars over the bounding hill.

The epoch ends, the world is still.

Thundering and bursting In torrents, in waves-- Carolling and shouting Over tombs, amid graves-- See! on the c.u.mber'd plain Clearing a stage, Scattering the past about, Comes the new age.

Bards make new poems, Thinkers new schools, Statesmen new systems, Critics new rules.

All things begin again; Life is their prize; Earth with their deeds they fill, Fill with their cries.

Poet, what ails thee, then?

Say, why so mute?

Forth with thy praising voice!

Forth with thy flute!

Loiterer! why sittest thou Sunk in thy dream?

Tempts not the bright new age?

Shines not its stream?

Look, ah, what genius, Art, science, wit!

Soldiers like Caesar, Statesmen like Pitt!

Sculptors like Phidias, Raphaels in shoals, Poets like Shakespeare-- Beautiful souls!

See, on their glowing cheeks Heavenly the flush!

--_Ah, so the silence was!_ _So was the hush!_

The world but feels the present's spell, The poet feels the past as well; Whatever men have done, might do, Whatever thought, might think it too.

EPILOGUE