Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 34

He grew old in an age he condemn'd.

He look'd on the rushing decay Of the times which had shelter'd his youth Felt the dissolving throes Of a social order he loved; Outlived his brethren, his peers; And, like the Theban seer, Died in his enemies' day.

Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, Copais lay bright in the moon, Helicon gla.s.s'd in the lake Its firs, and afar rose the peaks Of Parna.s.sus, snowily clear; Thebes was behind him in flames, And the clang of arms in his ear, When his awe-struck captors led The Theban seer to the spring.

Tiresias drank and died.

Nor did reviving Thebes See such a prophet again.

Well may we mourn, when the head Of a sacred poet lies low In an age which can rear them no more!

The complaining millions of men Darken in labour and pain; But he was a priest to us all Of the wonder and bloom of the world, Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad.

He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day Of his race is past on the earth; And darkness returns to our eyes.

For, oh! is it you, is it you, Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, And mountains, that fill us with joy, Or the poet who sings you so well?

Is it you, O beauty, O grace, O charm, O romance, that we feel, Or the voice which reveals what you are?

Are ye, like daylight and sun, Shared and rejoiced in by all?

Or are ye immersed in the ma.s.s Of matter, and hard to extract, Or sunk at the core of the world Too deep for the most to discern?

Like stars in the deep of the sky, Which arise on the gla.s.s of the sage, But are lost when their watcher is gone.

"They are here"--I heard, as men heard In Mysian Ida the voice Of the Mighty Mother, or Crete, The murmur of Nature reply-- "Loveliness, magic, and grace, They are here! they are set in the world, They abide; and the finest of souls Hath not been thrill'd by them all, Nor the dullest been dead to them quite.

The poet who sings them may die, But they are immortal and live, For they are the life of the world.

Will ye not learn it, and know, When ye mourn that a poet is dead, That the singer was less than his themes, Life, and emotion, and I?

"More than the singer are these.

Weak is the tremor of pain That thrills in his mournfullest chord To that which once ran through his soul.

Cold the elation of joy In his gladdest, airiest song, To that which of old in his youth Fill'd him and made him divine.

Hardly his voice at its best Gives us a sense of the awe, The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom Of the unlit gulph of himself.

"Ye know not yourselves; and your bards-- The clearest, the best, who have read Most in themselves--have beheld Less than they left unreveal'd.

Ye express not yourselves;--can you make With marble, with colour, with word, What charm'd you in others re-live?

Can thy pencil, O artist! restore The figure, the bloom of thy love, As she was in her morning of spring?

Canst thou paint the ineffable smile Of her eyes as they rested on thine?

Can the image of life have the glow, The motion of life itself?

"Yourselves and your fellows ye know not; and me, The mateless, the one, will ye know?

Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, My longing, my sadness, my joy?

Will ye claim for your great ones the gift To have render'd the gleam of my skies, To have echoed the moan of my seas, Utter'd the voice of my hills?

When your great ones depart, will ye say: _All things have suffer'd a loss,_ _Nature is hid in their grave?_

"Race after race, man after man, Have thought that my secret was theirs, Have dream'd that I lived but for them, That they were my glory and joy.

--They are dust, they are changed, they are gone!

I remain."

THE YOUTH OF MAN

We, O Nature, depart, Thou survivest us! this, This, I know, is the law.

Yes! but more than this, Thou who seest us die Seest us change while we live; Seest our dreams, one by one, Seest our errors depart; Watchest us, Nature! throughout, Mild and inscrutably calm.

Well for us that we change!

Well for us that the power Which in our morning-prime Saw the mistakes of our youth, Sweet, and forgiving, and good, Sees the contrition of age!

Behold, O Nature, this pair!

See them to-night where they stand, Not with the halo of youth Crowning their brows with its light, Not with the sunshine of hope, Not with the rapture of spring, Which they had of old, when they stood Years ago at my side In this self-same garden, and said: "We are young, and the world is ours; Man, man is the king of the world!

Fools that these mystics are Who prate of Nature! for she Hath neither beauty, nor warmth, Nor life, nor emotion, nor power.

But man has a thousand gifts, And the generous dreamer invests The senseless world with them all.

Nature is nothing; her charm Lives in our eyes which can paint, Lives in our hearts which can feel."

Thou, O Nature, wast mute, Mute as of old! days flew, Days and years; and Time With the ceaseless stroke of his wings Brush'd off the bloom from their soul.

Clouded and dim grew their eye, Languid their heart--for youth Quicken'd its pulses no more.

Slowly, within the walls Of an ever-narrowing world, They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old.

Thee and their youth in thee, Nature! they saw no more.

Murmur of living, Stir of existence, Soul of the world!

Make, oh, make yourselves felt To the dying spirit of youth!

Come, like the breath of the spring!

Leave not a human soul To grow old in darkness and pain!

Only the living can feel you, But leave us not while we live!

Here they stand to-night-- Here, where this grey bal.u.s.trade Crowns the still valley; behind Is the castled house, with its woods, Which shelter'd their childhood--the sun On its ivied windows; a scent From the grey-wall'd gardens, a breath Of the fragrant stock and the pink, Perfumes the evening air.

Their children play on the lawns.

They stand and listen; they hear The children's shouts, and at times, Faintly, the bark of a dog From a distant farm in the hills.

Nothing besides! in front The wide, wide valley outspreads To the dim horizon, reposed In the twilight, and bathed in dew, Corn-field and hamlet and copse Darkening fast; but a light, Far off, a glory of day, Still plays on the city spires; And there in the dusk by the walls, With the grey mist marking its course Through the silent, flowery land, On, to the plains, to the sea, Floats the imperial stream.

Well I know what they feel!

They gaze, and the evening wind Plays on their faces; they gaze-- Airs from the Eden of youth Awake and stir in their soul; The past returns--they feel What they are, alas! what they were.

They, not Nature, are changed.

Well I know what they feel!

Hush, for tears Begin to steal to their eyes!

Hush, for fruit Grows from such sorrow as theirs!

And they remember, With piercing, untold anguish, The proud boasting of their youth.

And they feel how Nature was fair.

And the mists of delusion, And the scales of habit, Fall away from their eyes; And they see, for a moment, Stretching out, like the desert In its weary, unprofitable length, Their faded, ign.o.ble lives.

While the locks are yet brown on thy head, While the soul still looks through thine eyes, While the heart still pours The mantling blood to thy cheek, Sink, O youth, in thy soul!

Yearn to the greatness of Nature; Rally the good in the depths of thyself!

PALLADIUM

Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood; And Hector was in Ilium, far below, And fought, and saw it not--but there it stood!

It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall.

Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight Round Troy--but while this stood, Troy could not fall.