Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 8

And let us bear, that they debate Of all the engine-work of state, Of commerce, laws, and policy, The secrets of the world's machine, And what the rights of man may mean, With readier tongue than we.

Only, that with no finer art They cloak the troubles of the heart With pleasant smile, let us take care; Nor with a lighter hand dispose Fresh garlands of this dewy rose, To crown Eugenia's hair.

Of little threads our life is spun, And he spins ill, who misses one.

But is thy fair Eugenia cold?

Yet Helen had an equal grace, And Juliet's was as fair a face, And now their years are told.

The day approaches, when we must Be crumbling bones and windy dust; And scorn us as our mistress may, Her beauty will no better be Than the poor face she slights in thee, When dawns that day, that day.

THE SECOND BEST

Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, Quiet living, strict-kept measure Both in suffering and in pleasure-- 'Tis for this thy nature yearns.

But so many books thou readest, But so many schemes thou breedest, But so many wishes feedest, That thy poor head almost turns.

And (the world's so madly jangled, Human things so fast entangled) Nature's wish must now be strangled For that best which she discerns.

So it _must_ be! yet, while leading A strain'd life, while overfeeding, Like the rest, his wit with reading, No small profit that man earns,

Who through all he meets can steer him, Can reject what cannot clear him, Cling to what can truly cheer him; Who each day more surely learns

That an impulse, from the distance Of his deepest, best existence, To the words, "Hope, Light, Persistence,"

Strongly sets and truly burns.

CONSOLATION

Mist clogs the sunshine.

Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings Pa.s.s countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth convent-roofs, On the gilt terraces, Of holy La.s.sa, Bright shines the sun.

Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses; In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair.

Strange unloved uproar[A]

Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon Kept they more cloudless Their n.o.ble calm.

Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms.

No bolder robber Erst abode ambush'd Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight Spied prey afar.

Saharan sand-winds Sear'd his keen eyeb.a.l.l.s; Spent is the spoil he won.

For him the present Holds only pain.

Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fields Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy.

With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g: "Ah," they cry, "Destiny, Prolong the present!

Time, stand still here!"

The prompt stern G.o.ddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives his hour-gla.s.s Its due reversal; Their hour is gone.

With weak indulgence Did the just G.o.ddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere.

The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end.

The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pa.s.s'd by others In warmth, light, joy.

Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours.

[Footnote A: Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.]

RESIGNATION

TO FAUSTA

_To die be given us, or attain!_ _Fierce work it were, to do again._ So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd At burning noon; so warriors said, Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine;--so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gain'd, may give repose.

So pray they; and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain; Pain to thread back and to renew Past straits, and currents long steer'd through.

But milder natures, and more free-- Whom an unblamed serenity Hath freed from pa.s.sions, and the state Of struggle these necessitate; Whom schooling of the stubborn mind Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd-- These mourn not, that their goings pay Obedience to the pa.s.sing day.

These claim not every laughing Hour For handmaid to their striding power; Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, To await their march; and when appear'd, Through the cold gloom, with measured race, To usher for a destined s.p.a.ce (Her own sweet errands all forgone) The too imperious traveller on.

These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou, Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now!

We left, just ten years since, you say, That wayside inn we left to-day.[5]

Our jovial host, as forth we fare, Shouts greeting from his easy chair.

High on a bank our leader stands, Reviews and ranks his motley bands, Makes clear our goal to every eye-- The valley's western boundary.

A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road.

The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun; And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge.

Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past-- Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores; All past! and through the trees we glide, Emerging on the green hill-side.

There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colour'd line; There winds, upstreaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill.

And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread!

Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells.

Some two hours' march with serious air, Through the deep noontide heats we fare; The red-grouse, springing at our sound, Skims, now and then, the shining ground; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes.

O joy! again the farms appear.

Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; There springs the brook will guide us down, Bright comrade, to the noisy town.

Lingering, we follow down; we gain The town, the highway, and the plain.