Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 41

Enough! The boat, with quiet shock, Unto its haven coming nigh, Touches, and on Gibraltar's rock Lands thee to die.

Ah me! Gibraltar's strand is far, But farther yet across the brine Thy dear wife's ashes buried are, Remote from thine.

For there, where morning's sacred fount Its golden rain on earth confers, The snowy Himalayan Mount O'ershadows hers.

Strange irony of fate, alas, Which, for two jaded English, saves, When from their dusty life they pa.s.s, Such peaceful graves!

In cities should we English lie, Where cries are rising ever new, And men's incessant stream goes by-- We who pursue

Our business with unslackening stride, Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast, The soft Mediterranean side, The Nile, the East, And see all sights from pole to pole, And glance, and nod, and bustle by, And never once possess our soul Before we die.

Not by those h.o.a.ry Indian hills, Not by this gracious Midland sea Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills, Should our graves be.

Some sage, to whom the world was dead, And men were specks, and life a play; Who made the roots of trees his bed, And once a day

With staff and gourd his way did bend To villages and homes of man, For food to keep him till he end His mortal span

And the pure goal of being reach; h.o.a.r-headed, wrinkled, clad in white, Without companion, without speech, By day and night

Pondering G.o.d's mysteries untold, And tranquil as the glacier-snows He by those Indian mountains old Might well repose.

Some grey crusading knight austere, Who bore Saint Louis company, And came home hurt to death, and here Landed to die; Some youthful troubadour, whose tongue Fill'd Europe once with his love-pain, Who here outworn had sunk, and sung His dying strain;

Some girl, who here from castle-bower, With furtive step and cheek of flame, 'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower By moonlight came

To meet her pirate-lover's ship; And from the wave-kiss'd marble stair Beckon'd him on, with quivering lip And floating hair;

And lived some moons in happy trance, Then learnt his death and pined away-- Such by these waters of romance 'Twas meet to lay.

But you--a grave for knight or sage, Romantic, solitary, still, O spent ones of a work-day age!

Befits you ill.

So sang I; but the midnight breeze, Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main, Comes softly through the olive-trees, And checks my strain.

I think of her, whose gentle tongue All plaint in her own cause controll'd; Of thee I think, my brother! young In heart, high-soul'd--

That comely face, that cl.u.s.ter'd brow, That cordial hand, that bearing free, I see them still, I see them now, Shall always see!

And what but gentleness untired, And what but n.o.ble feeling warm, Wherever shown, howe'er inspired, Is grace, is charm?

What else is all these waters are, What else is steep'd in lucid sheen, What else is bright, what else is fair, What else serene?

Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine!

Gently by his, ye waters, glide!

To that in you which is divine They were allied.

HAWORTH CHURCHYARD

APRIL, 1855

Where, under Loughrigg, the stream Of Rotha sparkles through fields Vested for ever with green, Four years since, in the house Of a gentle spirit, now dead-- Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend-- I saw the meeting of two Gifted women.[22] The one, Brilliant with recent renown, Young, unpractised, had told With a master's accent her feign'd Story of pa.s.sionate life; The other, maturer in fame, Earning, she too, her praise First in fiction, had since Widen'd her sweep, and survey'd History, politics, mind.

The two held converse; they wrote In a book which of world-famous souls Kept the memorial;--bard, Warrior, statesman, had sign'd Their names; chief glory of all, Scott had bestow'd there his last Breathings of song, with a pen Tottering, a death-stricken hand.

Hope at that meeting smiled fair.

Years in number, it seem'd, Lay before both, and a fame Heighten'd, and multiplied power.-- Behold! The elder, to-day, Lies expecting from death, In mortal weakness, a last Summons! the younger is dead!

First to the living we pay Mournful homage;--the Muse Gains not an earth-deafen'd ear.

Hail to the steadfast soul, Which, unflinching and keen, Wrought to erase from its depth Mist and illusion and fear!

Hail to the spirit which dared Trust its own thoughts, before yet Echoed her back by the crowd!

Hail to the courage which gave Voice to its creed, ere the creed Won consecration from time!

Turn we next to the dead.

--How shall we honour the young, The ardent, the gifted? how mourn?

Console we cannot, her ear Is deaf. Far northward from here, In a churchyard high 'mid the moors Of Yorkshire, a little earth Stops it for ever to praise.

Where, behind Keighley, the road Up to the heart of the moors Between heath-clad showery hills Runs, and colliers' carts Poach the deep ways coming down, And a rough, grimed race have their homes-- There on its slope is built The moorland town. But the church Stands on the crest of the hill, Lonely and bleak;--at its side The parsonage-house and the graves.

Strew with laurel the grave Of the early-dying! Alas, Early she goes on the path To the silent country, and leaves Half her laurels unwon, Dying too soon!--yet green Laurels she had, and a course Short, but redoubled by fame.

And not friendless, and not Only with strangers to meet, Faces ungreeting and cold, Thou, O mourn'd one, to-day Enterest the house of the grave!

Those of thy blood, whom thou lov'dst, Have preceded thee--young, Loving, a sisterly band; Some in art, some in gift Inferior--all in fame.

They, like friends, shall receive This comer, greet her with joy; Welcome the sister, the friend; Hear with delight of thy fame!

Round thee they lie--the gra.s.s Blows from their graves to thy own!

She, whose genius, though not Puissant like thine, was yet Sweet and graceful;--and she (How shall I sing her?) whose soul Knew no fellow for might, Pa.s.sion, vehemence, grief, Daring, since Byron died, That world-famed son of fire--she, who sank Baffled, unknown, self-consumed; Whose too bold dying song[23]

Stirr'd, like a clarion-blast, my soul.

Of one, too, I have heard, A brother--sleeps he here?

Of all that gifted race Not the least gifted; young, Unhappy, eloquent--the child Of many hopes, of many tears.

O boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well!

On thee too did the Muse Bright in thy cradle smile; But some dark shadow came (I know not what) and interposed.

Sleep, O cl.u.s.ter of friends, Sleep!--or only when May, Brought by the west-wind, returns Back to your native heaths, And the plover is heard on the moors, Yearly awake to behold The opening summer, the sky, The shining moorland--to hear The drowsy bee, as of old, Hum o'er the thyme, the grouse Call from the heather in bloom!

Sleep, or only for this Break your united repose!

EPILOGUE

So I sang; but the Muse, Shaking her head, took the harp-- Stern interrupted my strain, Angrily smote on the chords.