Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 73

Every morning did we pay Stupid salutations gay, Suited well to health, but how Mocking, how incongruous now!

Cake we offer'd, sugar, seed, Never doubtful of thy need; Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye, Praised thy golden livery.

Gravely thou the while, poor dear!

Sat'st upon thy perch to hear, Fixing with a mute regard Us, thy human keepers hard, Troubling, with our chatter vain, Ebb of life, and mortal pain-- Us, unable to divine Our companion's dying sign, Or o'erpa.s.s the severing sea Set betwixt ourselves and thee, Till the sand thy feathers smirch Fallen dying off thy perch!

Was it, as the Grecian sings, Birds were born the first of things, Before the sun, before the wind, Before the G.o.ds, before mankind, Airy, ante-mundane throng-- Witness their unworldly song!

Proof they give, too, primal powers, Of a prescience more than ours-- Teach us, while they come and go, When to sail, and when to sow.

Cuckoo calling from the hill, Swallow skimming by the mill, Swallows trooping in the sedge, Starlings swirling from the hedge, Mark the seasons, map our year, As they show and disappear.

But, with all this travail sage Brought from that anterior age, Goes an unreversed decree Whereby strange are they and we; Making want of theirs, and plan, Indiscernible by man.

No, away with tales like these Stol'n from Aristophanes![36]

Does it, if we miss your mind, Prove us so remote in kind?

Birds! we but repeat on you What amongst ourselves we do.

Somewhat more or somewhat less, 'Tis the same unskilfulness.

What you feel, escapes our ken-- Know we more our fellow men?

Human suffering at our side, Ah, like yours is undescried!

Human longings, human fears, Miss our eyes and miss our ears.

Little helping, wounding much, Dull of heart, and hard of touch, Brother man's despairing sign Who may trust us to divine?

Who a.s.sure us, sundering powers Stand not 'twixt his soul and ours?

Poor Matthias! See, thy end What a lesson doth it lend!

For that lesson thou shalt have, Dead canary bird, a stave!

Telling how, one stormy day, Stress of gale and showers of spray Drove my daughter small and me Inland from the rocks and sea.

Driv'n insh.o.r.e, we follow down Ancient streets of Hastings town-- Slowly thread them--when behold, French canary-merchant old Shepherding his flock of gold In a low dim-lighted pen Scann'd of tramps and fishermen!

There a bird, high-coloured, fat, Proud of port, though something squat-- Pursy, play'd-out Philistine-- Dazzled Nelly's youthful eyne.

But, far in, obscure, there stirr'd On his perch a sprightlier bird, Courteous-eyed, erect and slim; And I whisper'd: "Fix on _him_!"

Home we brought him, young and fair, Songs to trill in Surrey air.

Here Matthias sang his fill, Saw the cedars of Pains Hill; Here he pour'd his little soul, Heard the murmur of the Mole.

Eight in number now the years He hath pleased our eyes and ears; Other favourites he hath known Go, and now himself is gone.

--Fare thee well, companion dear!

Fare for ever well, nor fear, Tiny though thou art, to stray Down the uncompanion'd way!

We without thee, little friend, Many years have not to spend; What are left, will hardly be Better than we spent with thee.

KAISER DEAD

_April_ 6, 1887.

What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news Post-haste to Cobham calls the Muse, From where in Farringford she brews The ode sublime, Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursues A rival rhyme.

Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet, Were known to all the village-street.

"What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet; "A loss indeed!"

O for the croon pathetic, sweet, Of Robin's reed![37]

Six years ago I brought him down, A baby dog, from London town; Round his small throat of black and brown A ribbon blue, And vouch'd by glorious renown A dachshound true.

His mother, most majestic dame, Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam came; And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same-- No lineage higher.

And so he bore the imperial name.

But ah, his sire!

Soon, soon the days conviction bring.

The collie hair, the collie swing, The tail's indomitable ring, The eye's unrest-- The case was clear; a mongrel thing Kai stood confest.

But all those virtues, which commend The humbler sort who serve and tend, Were thine in store, thou faithful friend.

What sense, what cheer!

To us, declining tow'rds our end, A mate how dear!

For Max, thy brother-dog, began To flag, and feel his narrowing span.

And cold, besides, his blue blood ran, Since, 'gainst the cla.s.ses, He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man Incite the ma.s.ses.

Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad; But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad, Teeming with plans, alert, and glad In work or play, Like sunshine went and came, and bade Live out the day!

Still, still I see the figure smart-- Trophy in mouth, agog to start, Then, home return'd, once more depart; Or prest together Against thy mistress, loving heart, In winter weather.

I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd, In moments of disgrace uncurl'd, Then at a pardoning word re-furl'd, A conquering sign; Crying, "Come on, and range the world, And never pine."

Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone; Thou hadst thine errands, off and on; In joy thy last morn flew; anon, A fit! All's over; And thou art gone where Geist hath gone, And Toss, and Rover.

Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head, Regards his brother's form outspread; Full well Max knows the friend is dead Whose cordial talk, And jokes in doggish language said, Beguiled his walk.

And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate, Thy pa.s.sing by doth vainly wait; And jealous Jock, thy only hate, The chiel from Skye, Lets from his s.h.a.ggy Highland pate Thy memory die.

Well, fetch his graven collar fine, And rub the steel, and make it shine, And leave it round thy neck to twine, Kai, in thy grave.

There of thy master keep that sign, And this plain stave.

NOTES

NOTES

[Footnote 1: NOTE 1, PAGE 2.

_Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen._

The name Europe ([Greek: Europe], _the wide prospect_) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Maeander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them.]

[Footnote 2: NOTE 2, PAGE 8.

_Mycerinus._