MATTHEW ARNOLD'S SOHRAB AND RUSTUM AND OTHER POEMS EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY JUSTUS COLLINS CASTLEMAN HEAD OF ENGLISH DEPARTMENT, SOUTH DIVISIONHIGH SCHOOL, MILWAUKEE 1905 CONTENTS PREFACE INTRODUCTION A Short Life of Arnold Arnold the Poet Arnold the Critic Chronological List of Arnold's Works Contemporary Authors Bibliography SELECTIONS FROM ARNOLD'S POETICAL WORKS NARRATIVE POEMS Sohrab and Rustum Saint Brandan The Forsaken Merman Tristram and Iseult LYRICAL POEMS The Church of Brou Requiescat Consolation A Dream Lines written in Kensington Gardens The Strayed Reveller Morality Dover Beach Philomela Human Life Isolation--To Marguerite Kaiser Dead The Last Word Palladium Revolutions Self-Dependence A Summer Night Geist's Grave Epilogue--To Lessing's Laocoön SONNETS Quiet Work Shakespeare Youth's Agitations Austerity of Poetry Worldly Place East London West London ELEGIAC POEMS Memorial Verses The Scholar-Gipsy Thyrsis Rugby Chapel NOTES INDEX * * * * * INTRODUCTION A SHORT LIFE OF ARNOLD Matthew Arnold, poet and critic, was born in the village of Laleham, Middlesex County, England, December 24, 1822. He was the son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, best remembered as the great Head Master at Rugby andin later years distinguished also as a historian of Rome, and of MaryPenrose Arnold, a woman of remarkable character and intellect. Devoid of stirring incident, and, on the whole, free from theeccentricities so common to men of genius, the story of Arnold's lifeis soon told. As a boy he lived the life of the normal English lad, with its healthy routine of task and play. He was at school at bothLaleham and Winchester, then at Rugby, where he attracted attentionas a student and won a prize for poetry. In 1840 he was elected toan open scholarship at Balliol College, Oxford, and the next yearmatriculated for his university work. Arnold's career at Oxford was amemorable one. While here he was associated with such men as John DukeColeridge, John Shairp, Dean Fraser, Dean Church, John Henry Newman, Thomas Hughes, the Froudes, and, closest of all, with Arthur HughClough, whose early death he lamented in his exquisite elegiacpoem--_Thyrsis_. Among this brilliant company Arnold moved with ease, the recognized favorite. Having taken the Newdigate prize for Englishverse, and also having won a scholarship, he was graduated withhonors in 1844, and in March of the following year had the additionaldistinction of being elected a Fellow of Oriel, the crowning glory ofan Oxford graduate. He afterward taught classics for a short time atRugby, then in 1847 accepted the post of private secretary to theMarquis of Lansdowne, Lord President of the Council, which position heoccupied until 1851, when he was appointed Lay Inspector of Schoolsby the Committee on Education. The same year he married Frances LucyWightman, daughter of Sir William Wightman, judge of the Court of theQueen's Bench. Arnold's record as an educator is unparalleled in the history ofEngland's public schools. For more than thirty-five years he served asinspector and commissioner, which offices he filled with efficiency. As inspector he was earnest, conscientious, versatile; beloved alikeby teachers and pupils. The Dean of Salisbury likened his appearanceto inspect the school at Kiddermaster, to the admission of a rayof light when a shutter is suddenly opened in a darkened room. All-in-all, he valued happy-appearing children, and kindly sympatheticteachers, more than excellence in grade reports. In connection withthe duties of his office as commissioner, he travelled frequently onthe Continent to inquire into foreign methods of primary and secondaryeducation. Here he found much that was worth while, and often carriedback to London larger suggestions and ideas than the national mind wasready to accept. Under his supervision, however, the school system ofEngland was extensively revised and improved. He resigned his positionunder the Committee of Council on Education, in 1886, two years beforehis death. In the meantime Arnold's pen had not been idle. His first volume ofverse, _The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems_, appeared (1848), andalthough quietly received, slowly won its way into public favor. Thenext year the narrative poem, _The Sick King in Bokhara_, came out, and was followed in turn by a third volume in 1853, under the title of_Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems_. By this time Arnold's reputationas a poet was established, and in 1857 he was elected Professor ofPoetry at Oxford, where he began his career as a lecturer, in whichcapacity he twice visited America. _Merope, a Tragedy_ (1856) and avolume under the title of _New Poems_ (1869) finish the list of hispoetical works, with the exception of occasional verses. Arnold's prose works, aside from his letters, consist wholly ofcritical essays, in which he has dealt fearlessly with the greaterissues of his day. As will be seen by their titles (see page xxxviiiof this volume), the subject-matter of these essays is of very greatscope, embracing in theme literature, politics, social conduct, andpopular religion. By them Arnold has exerted a remarkable influence onpublic thought and stamped himself as one of the ablest critics andreformers of the last century. Arnold's life was thus one of manywidely diverse activities and was at all times deeply concerned withpractical as well as with literary affairs; and on no side was itdeficient in human sympathies and relations. He won respect andreputation while he lived, and his works continue to attract men'sminds, although with much unevenness. It has been said of him that, ofall the modern poets, except Goethe, he was the best critic, and ofall the modern critics, with the same exception, he was the best poet. He died at Liverpool, where he had gone to meet his daughter returningfrom America, April 15, 1888. By his death the world lost an acute andcultured critic, a refined writer, an earnest educational reformer, and a noble man. He was buried in his native town, Laleham. Agreeably to his own request, Arnold has never been made the subjectfor a biography. By means of his letters, his official reports, and statements of his friends, however, one is able to trace thesuccessive stages of his career, as he steadily grew in honor andpublic usefulness. Though somewhat inadequate, the picture thuspresented is singularly pleasing and attractive. The subjoinedappreciations have been selected with a view of giving the student aglimpse of Arnold as he appeared to unprejudiced minds. One who knew him at Oxford wrote of him as follows: "His perfectself-possession, the sallies of his ready wit, the humorous turn whichhe could give to any subject that he handled, his gaiety, audacity, and unfailing command of words, made him one of the most popular andsuccessful undergraduates that Oxford has ever known. " "He was beautiful as a young man, strong and manly, yet full of dreamsand schemes. His Olympian manners began even at Oxford: there was noharm in them: they were natural, not put on. The very sound of hisvoice and wave of his arm were Jove-like. "--PROFESSOR MAX MÜLLER. "He was most distinctly on the side of human enjoyment. He conspiredand contrived to make things pleasant. Pedantry he abhorred. He wasa man of this life and this world. A severe critic of this world heindeed was; but, finding himself in it, and not precisely knowing whatis beyond it, like a brave and true-hearted man, he set himself tomake the best of it. Its sights and sounds were dear to him. The'uncrumpling fern, the eternal moonlit snow, ' the red grouse springingat our sound, the tinkling bells of the 'high-pasturing kine, ' thevagaries of men, of women, and dogs, their odd ways and tricks, whether of mind or manner, all delighted, amused, tickled him. * * * * * "In a sense of the word which is noble and blessed, he was of theearth earthy. .. . His mind was based on the plainest possible things. What he hated most was the fantastic--the far-fetched, all-elaboratedfancies and strained interpretations. He stuck to the beaten track ofhuman experience, and the broader the better. He was a plain-sailingman. This is his true note. "--MR. AUGUSTINE BIRRELL. "He was incapable of sacrificing the smallest interest of anybody tohis own; he had not a spark of envy or jealousy; he stood well alooffrom all the bustlings and jostlings by which selfish men push on;he bore life's disappointments--and he was disappointed in somereasonable hopes--with good nature and fortitude; he cast no burdenupon others, and never shrank from bearing his own share of the dailyload to the last ounce of it; he took the deepest, sincerest, andmost active interest in the well-being of his country and hiscountrymen. "--MR. JOHN MORLEY. In his essay on Arnold, George E. Woodberry speaks of the poet'spersonality as revealed by his letters in the following beautifulmanner: "Few who did not know Arnold could have been prepared forthe revelation of a nature so true, so amiable, so dutiful. In everyrelation of private life he is shown to have been a man of exceptionalconstancy and plainness. .. . Every one must take delight in the mentalassociation with Arnold in the scenes of his existence . .. And in hisfamily affections. A nature warm to its own, kindly to all, cheerful, fond of sport and fun, and always fed from pure fountains, and withit a character so founded upon the rock, so humbly serviceable, socontinuing in power and grace, must wake in all the responses of happyappreciation and leave the charm of memory. "He did his duty as naturally as if it required neither resolve noreffort, nor thought of any kind for the morrow, and he never failed, seemingly, in act or word of sympathy, in little or great things; andwhen to this one adds the clear ether of the intellectual life wherehe habitually moved in his own life apart, and the humanity of hishome, the gift that these letters bring may be appreciated. That giftis the man himself, but set in the atmosphere of home, with sonshipand fatherhood, sisters and brothers, with the bereavements of yearsfully accomplished, and those of babyhood and boyhood--a sweet andwholesome English home, with all the cloud and sunshine of the Englishworld drifting over its roof-trees, and the soil of England beneathits stones, and English duties for the breath of its being. To addsuch a home to the household rights of English Literature is perhapssomething from which Arnold would have shrunk, but it endears hismemory. " "It may be overmuch He shunned the common stain and smutch, From soilure of ignoble touch Too grandly free, Too loftily secure in such Cold purity; But he preserved from chance control The fortress of his established soul, In all things sought to see the whole; Brooked no disguise, And set his heart upon the goal, Not on the prize. " --MR. WILLIAM WATSON, _In Laleham Churchyard_. ARNOLD THE POET Matthew Arnold was essentially a man of the intellect. No other authorof modern times, perhaps no other English author of any time, appealsso directly as he to the educated classes. Even a cursory reading ofhis pages, prose or verse, reveals the scholar and the critic. He isalways thinking, always brilliant, never lacks for a word or phrase;and on the whole, his judgments are good. Between his prose and verse, however, there is a marked difference, both in tone and spiritualquality. True, each possesses the note of a lofty, though stoicalcourage; reveals the same grace of finish and exactness of phrase andmanner; and is, in equal degree, the output of a singularly sane andnoble nature; but here the comparison ends; for, while his proseis often stormy and contentious, his poetry has always about it anatmosphere of entire repose. The cause of this difference is not farto seek. His poetry, written in early manhood, reflects his innerself, the more lovable side of his nature; while his prose presentsthe critic and the reformer, pointing out the good and bad, andpermitting at times a spirit of bitterness to creep in, as heendeavors to arouse men out of their easy contentment with themselvesand their surroundings. With the exception of occasional verses, Arnold's poetical careerbegan and ended inside of twenty years. The reason for this can onlybe conjectured, and need not be dwelt upon here. But although hispoetic life was brief, it was of a very high order, his poems rankingwell up among the literary productions of the last century. As apopular poet, however, he will probably never class with Tennyson orLongfellow. His poems are too coldly classical and too unattractive insubject to appeal to the casual reader, who is, generally speaking, inclined toward poetry of the emotions rather than of theintellect--Arnold's usual kind. That he recognized this himself, witness the following quiet statements made in letters to his friends:"My poems are making their way, I think, though slowly, and areperhaps never to make way very far. There must always be some people, however, to whom the literalness and sincerity of them has a charm. .. . They represent, on the whole, the main movement of mind of the lastquarter of a century, and thus they will probably have their day, aspeople become conscious to themselves of what that movement of mindis, and interested in the literary productions which reflect it. " Timehas verified the accuracy of this judgment. In short, Arnold has madea profound rather than a wide impression. To a few, however, of eachgeneration, he will continue to be a "voice oracular, "--a poet with apurpose and a message. =Arnold's Poetic Culture=. --Obviously, the sources of Arnold's culturewere classical. As one critic has tersely said, "He turned over hisGreek models by day and by night. " Here he found his ideal standards, and here he brought for comparison all questions that engrossed histhoughts. Homer (he replied to an inquirer) and Epictetus (of moodcongenial with his own) were props of his mind, as were Sophocles, "who saw life steadily and saw it whole, " and Marcus Aurelius, whom hecalled the purest of men. These like natures afforded him repose andconsolation. Greek epic and dramatic poetry and Greek philosophyappealed profoundly to him. Of the Greek poets he wrote: "No otherpoets have lived so much by the imaginative reason; no other poetshave made their works so well balanced; no other poets have so wellsatisfied the thinking power; have so well satisfied the religioussense. " More than any other English poet he prized the qualities ofmeasure, proportion, and restraint; and to him lucidity, austerity, and high seriousness, conspicuous elements of classic verse, were thesubstance of true poetry. In explaining his own position as to hisart, he says: "In the sincere endeavor to learn and practise, amid thebewildering confusion of our times, what is sound and true in poeticart, I seem, to myself to find the only sure guidance, the only solidfooting, among the ancients. They, at any rate, knew what they wantedin Art, and we do not. It is this uncertainty which is disheartening, and not hostile criticism. " And again: "The radical difference betweenthe poetic theory of the Greeks and our own is this: that with them, the poetical character of the action in itself, and the conduct of it, was the first consideration; with us, attention is fixed mainly on thevalue of separate thoughts and images which occur in the treatment ofan action. They regard the whole; we regard the parts. We have poemswhich seem to exist merely for the sake of single lines and passages, and not for the sake of producing any total impression. We havecritics who seem to direct their attention merely to detachedexpressions, to the language about the action, not the action itself. I verily believe that the majority of them do not believe that thereis such a thing as a total impression to be derived from a poem atall, or to be demanded from a poet. They will permit the poet toselect any action he pleases, and to suffer that action to go asit will, provided he gratifies them with occasional bursts of finewriting, and with a show of isolated thoughts and images; that is, they permit him to leave their poetic sense ungratified, provided thathe gratifies their rhetorical sense and their curiosity. " Arnold has illustrated, with remarkable success, his ideas of thatunity which gratifies the poetical sense, and has approached veryclose to his Greek models in numerous instances; most notably so inhis great epic or narrative poem, _Sohrab and Rustum_, which is dealtwith elsewhere in this introduction. Perhaps we could not do betterthan to quote for our consideration at this time, a fine synthesisof Mr. Arthur Galton. He says: "In Matthew Arnold's style and in hismanner, he seems to me to recall the great masters, and this in astriking and in an abiding way. .. . To recall them at all is a raregift, but to recall them naturally, and with no strained sense norjarring note of imitation, is a gift so exceedingly rare that it isalmost enough in itself to place a writer among the great masters; toproclaim that he is one of them. To recall them at all is a rare gift, though not a unique gift; a few other modern poets recall them too;but with these, with every one of them, it is the exception when theyresemble the great masters. They have their own styles, which abidewith them; it is only now and then, by a flash of genius, that theybreak through their own styles, and attain the one immortal style. Just the contrary of this is true of Matthew Arnold. It is his own, his usual, and his most natural style which recalls the great masters;and only when he does not write like himself, does he cease toresemble them. .. . No man who attains to this great style can fail tohave a distinguished function; and Matthew Arnold, like Milton, willbe 'a leaven and a power, ' because he, too, has made the great stylecurrent in English. With his desire for culture and for perfection, there is no destiny he would prefer to this, for which his nature, histraining, and his sympathies, all prepared him. To convey the messageof those ancients whom he loved so well, in that English tongue whichhe was taught by them to use so perfectly;--to serve as an eternalprotest against charlatanism and vulgarity;--is exactly the missionhe would have chosen for himself. .. . The few writers of our language, therefore, who give us 'an ideal of excellence, the most high and themost rare, ' have an important function; we should study their workscontinually, and it should be a matter of passionate concern with us, that the 'ideals, ' that is, the definite and perfect models, shouldabide with us forever. " The Greeks recognized three kinds ofpoetry, --Lyric, Dramatic, and Epic. Arnold tried all three. First, then, as a lyricist. =Arnold as a Lyricist=. --Lyric poetry is the artistic expression ofthe poet's individual sentiments and emotions, hence it is subjective. The action is usually vapid, the verse musical, the time quick. Unlikethe Epic and Drama, it has no preferred verse or meter, but leaves thepoet free to choose or invent appropriate forms. In this species ofverse Arnold was not wholly at ease. As has been said, one searches invain through the whole course of his poetry for a blithe, musical, gayor serious, offhand poem, the true lyric kind. The reason for this issoon discovered. Obviously, it lies in the fundamental qualitiesof the poet's mind and temperament. Though by no means lacking inemotional sensibility, Arnold was too intellectually self-conscious tobe carried away by the impulsiveness common to the lyrical moods. Withhim the intellect was always master; the emotions, subordinate. Withthe lyricist, the order is, in the main, at least, reversed. The poetthrows off intellectual restraint, and "lets his illumined beingo'errun" with music and song. This Arnold could not or would notdo. Then, too, Arnold's lyrics are often at fault metrically. This, combined with frequent questionable rhymes, argues a not toodiscriminating poetical ear. He also lacked genius in inventing verseforms, and hence found himself under the necessity of employing oradapting those already in use. In this respect he was notably inferiorto Tennyson, many of whose measures are wholly his own. Again, considerable portions of his lyric verse consist merely of prose, cutinto lines of different length, in imitation of the unrhymed measuresof the Greek poet, Pindar. The Bishop of Derry, commenting on theserhythmic novelties, likens them to the sound of a stick drawn by acity gamin sharply across the area railings, --a not inapt comparison. That they were not always successful, witness the following stanzafrom _Merope_:-- "Thou confessest the prize In the rushing, blundering, mad, Cloud-enveloped, obscure, Unapplauded, unsung Race of Calamity, mine!" Surely this is but the baldest prose. At intervals, however, Arnoldwas nobly lyrical, and strangely, too, at times, in those same unevenmeasures in which are found his most signal failures--the unrhymedPindaric. _Philomela_ written in this style is one of the mostexquisite bits of verse in the language. As one critic has put it, "It ought to be written in silver and bound in gold. " In urbanity ofphrase and in depth of genuine pathos it is unsurpassed and showsArnold at his best. _Rugby Chapel, The Youth of Nature, The Youth ofMan_, and _A Dream_ are good examples of his longer efforts in thisverse form. In the more common lyric measures, Arnold was, at times, equally successful. Saintsbury, commenting on _Requiescat_, says thatthe poet has "here achieved the triple union of simplicity, pathos, and (in the best sense) elegance"; and adds that there is not afalse note in the poem. He also speaks enthusiastically of the"honey-dropping trochees" of the _New Sirens_, and of the "chiselledand classic perfection" of the lines of _Resignation_. Herbert W. Paul, writing of _Mycerinus_, declares that no such verse has beenwritten in England since Wordsworth's _Laodamia_; and continues, "The poem abounds in single lines of haunting charm. " Among his moresuccessful longer lyrics are _The Sick King in Bokhara, Switzerland, Faded Leaves_, and _Tristram and Iseult_, and _Epilogue to Lessing'sLaocoön_, included in this volume. =Arnold as a Dramatist=. --The drama is imitated human action, and isintended to exhibit a picture of human life by means of dialogue, acting, and stage accessories. In nature, it partakes of both lyricand epic, thus uniting sentiment and action with narration. Characterslive and act before us, and speak in our presence, the interest beingkept up by constantly shifting situations tending toward some strikingresult. As a dramatist, Arnold achieved no great success. Again thefundamental qualities of his mind stood in the way. An author sosubjective, so absorbed in self-scrutiny and introspection as he, is seldom able to project himself into the minds of others to anyconsiderable extent. His dramas are brilliant with beautiful phrases, his pictures of landscapes and of nature in her various aspectsapproach perfection; but in the main, he fails to handle his plots ina dramatic manner and, as a result, does not secure the totality ofimpression so vital to the drama. Frequently, too, his characters aretedious, and in their dialogue manage to be provokingly unnatural orinsipid. They also lack in individuality and independence in speechand action. Many of his situations, likewise, are at fault. Forinstance, one can scarcely conceive of such characters as Ulysses andCirce playing the subordinate roles assigned to them in _The StrayedReveller_. A true dramatist would hardly have committed so flagrant ablunder. _Merope_ is written in imitation of the Greek tragedians. Ithas dignity of subject, nobility of sentiment, and a classic brevityof style; but it is frigid and artificial, and fails in the mostessential function of drama--to stir the reader's emotions. _Empedocles on Etna_, a half-autobiographical drama, is in somerespects a striking poem. It is replete with brilliant passages, andcontains some of Arnold's best lyric verses and most beautiful naturepictures; but the dialogue is colorless, the rhymes poor, the plot, such as it contains, but indifferently handled, and even Empedocles, the principal character, is frequently tedious and unnatural. Arnold'sdramas show that his forte was not in character-drawing nor indialogue. =Arnold as a Writer of Epic and Elegy=. --Epic poetry narrates in grandstyle the achievements of heroes--the poet telling the story as ifpresent. It is simple in construction and uniform in meter, yet itadmits of the dialogue and the episode, and though not enforcing amoral it may hold one in solution. Elegiac poetry is plaintive intone and expresses sorrow or lamentation. Both epic and elegy areinevitably serious in mood, and slow and stately in action. In thesetwo forms of verse Arnold was at his best. Stockton pronounced _Sohraband Rustum_ the noblest poem in the English language. Another critichas said that "it is the nearest analogue in English to the rapidityof action, plainness of thought, plainness of diction, and noblenessof Homer. " Combining, as it does, classic purity of style withromantic ardor of feeling, it stands a direct exemplification ofArnold's poetic theories, as set forth in the preface of his volume of1853. Especially is it successful in emphasizing his idea of unity ofimpression; "while the truth of its oriental color, the deep pathosof the situation, the fire and intensity of the action, the strongconception of character, and the full, solemn music of the verse, makeit unquestionably the masterpiece of Arnold's longer poems, amongwhich it is the largest in bulk and also the most ambitious inscheme. " _Balder Dead_, a characteristic Arnoldian production, foundedupon the Norse legend of Balder, Lok, and Hader, though not so greatas _Sohrab and Rustum_, has much poetic worth and ranks high among itskind; and _Tristram and Iseult_, with its infinite tragedy, and _TheSick King in Bokhara_, gorgeous in oriental color, are rare examplesof the lyrical epic. _The Forsaken Merman_ and _Saint Brandan_, whichare dealt with elsewhere in this volume, are good examples of hisshorter narrative poems. In _Thyrsis_, the beautiful threnody in whichhe celebrated his dead friend, Clough, Arnold gave to the world one ofits greatest elegies. One finds in this poem and its companion piece, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, the same unity of classic form with romanticfeeling present in _Sohrab and Rustum_. Both are crystal-clear withoutcoldness, and restrained without loss of a full volume of power. Mr. Saintsbury, writing of _The Scholar-Gipsy_, says: "It haseverything--a sufficient scheme, a definite meaning and purpose, asustained and adequate command of poetical presentation, and passagesand phrases of the most exquisite beauty;" and no less praise is due_Thyrsis_. Other of his elegiac poems are _Heine's Grave, Stanzas fromthe Grande Chartreuse, Stanzas in Memory of the Author of "Obermann, "Obermann Once More, Rugby Chapel_, and _Memorial Verses_, the two lastnamed being included in this volume. In such measures as are used inthese poems, in the long, stately, swelling measures, whose gravermovements accord with a serious and elevated purpose, Arnold was mostat ease. =Greek Spirit in Arnold=. --But it is not alone in the fact that heselects classic subjects, and writes after the manner of the greatmasters, that Arnold's affinity with the Greeks is manifested. Hispoems in spirit, as in form, reflect the moods common to the ancientHellenes, "One feels the (Greek) quality, " writes George E. Woodberry, "not as a source, but as a presence. In Tennyson, Keats, and Shelleythere was Greek influence, but in them the result was modern. InArnold the antiquity remains--remains in mood, just as in Landor itremains in form. The Greek twilight broods over all his poetry. It ispagan in philosophic spirit, not Attic, but of later and stoical time;with the patience, endurance, suffering, not in the Christian types, but as they now seem to a post-Christian imagination, looking back tothe past. " Even when his poems treat of modern or romantic subjects, one is impressed with the feeling that he presents them with the samequality of imagination as would the Greek masters themselves: and inthe same form. =Arnold's Attitude toward Nature=. --In his attitude toward NatureArnold is often compared to Wordsworth. A close study, however, reveals a wide difference, both in the way Nature appealed to themand in their mood in her presence. To Arnold she offered a temporaryrefuge from the doubts and distractions of our modern life, --asoothing, consoling, uplifting power; to Wordsworth she was aninspiration, --a presence that disturbed him "with the joy of elevatedthoughts. " Conscious of the help he found in her association, Arnoldurged all men to follow Nature's example; to possess their souls inquietude, despite the storm and turmoil without. Pancoast says: "Hedelights in leading us to contemplate the infinite calm of Nature, beside which man's transitory woes are reduced to a mere fretfulinsignificance. All the beautiful poem of _Tristram and Iseult_ isbuilt upon the skilful alternation of two themes. We pass from thefeverish, wasting, and ephemeral struggle of human passions anddesire, into an atmosphere that shames its heat and fume by animmemorial coolness and repose;" and the same comparison constitutesthe theme for a considerable portion of his poetical work. In hismethod of approaching Nature, Arnold also differed widely fromWordsworth, in that he saw with the outward eye, that is objectively;while Wordsworth saw rather with the inward eye, or subjectively. In this Arnold is essentially Greek and more Tennysonian thanWordsworthian. Many of his poems, in full or in part, are mere naturepictures, and are artistic in the extreme. The pictures of the Oxusstream at the close of _Sohrab and Rustum_; the English garden in_Thyrsis_; and the hunter on the arras, in _Tristram and Iseult_, areall notable examples. This pictorial method Wordsworth seldom used. In spirit, too, the poets differed widely. To Wordsworth, Nature was, first of all, the abiding place of God; but Arnold "finds in thewood and field no streaming forth of beauty and wisdom from thefountainhead of beauty, " no habitancy of Nature's God. =Arnold's Attitude toward Life=. --Arnold's attitude toward life hasbeen dwelt upon in the appreciations under the biographical sketch inthis volume and need only briefly be summed up here. To him, humanlife in its higher developments presented itself as a stern andstrenuous affair; but he never faltered nor sought to escape from hisshare of the burden. "On the contrary, the prevailing note of hispoetry is self-reliance; help must come from the soul itself, for "The fountains of life are all within. " He preaches fortitude and courage in the face of the mysterious andthe inevitable--a courage, indeed, forlorn and pathetic in the eyes ofmany--and he constantly takes refuge from the choking cares of life, in a kind of stoical resignation. " As a reformer, his functionwas especially to stir people up, to make them dissatisfied withthemselves and their institutions, and to force them to think, tobecome individual. Everywhere in his works one is confronted by hisunvarying insistence upon the supremacy of conduct and duty. Themodern tendency to drift away from the old, established religiousfaith was a matter of serious thought to him and led him to give tothe world a rational creed that would satisfy the sceptics and attractthe indifferent. We cannot do better than quote for our closingthought the following pregnant lines from the author's sonnet entitled_The Better Part_:-- "Hath man no second life? _Pitch this one high!_ Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? _More strictly, then, the inward judge obey_! Was Christ a man like us? _Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he!_" * * * * * ARNOLD THE CRITIC The following extracts on Arnold as a critic are quoted fromwell-known authorities. "Arnold's prose has little trace of the wistful melancholy of hisverse. It is almost always urbane, vivacious, light-hearted. Theclassical bent of his mind shows itself here, unmixed with theinheritance of romantic feeling which colors his poetry. Not only ishis prose classical in quality, by virtue of its restraint, of itsdefinite aim, and of the dry white light of intellect which suffusesit; but the doctrine which he spent his life in preaching is basedupon a classical ideal, the ideal of symmetry, wholeness, or, as hedaringly called it, _perfection_. .. . Wherever, in religion, politics, education, or literature, he saw his countrymen under the dominationof narrow ideals, he came speaking the mystic word of deliverance, 'Culture. ' Culture, acquaintance with the best which has been thoughtand done in the world, is his panacea for all ills. .. . In almost allof his prose writing he attacks some form of 'Philistinism, ' by whichword he characterized the narrow-mindedness and self-satisfaction ofthe British middle class. "Arnold's tone is admirably fitted to the peculiar task he had toperform. .. . In _Culture and Anarchy_ and many successive works, hemade his plea for the gospel of ideas with urbanity and playful grace, as befitted the Hellenic spirit, bringing 'sweetness and light' intothe dark places of British prejudice. Sometimes, as in _Literature andDogma_, where he pleads for a more liberal and literary reading of theBible, his manner is quiet, suave, and gently persuasive. At othertimes, as in _Friendship's Garland_, he shoots the arrows of hissarcasm into the ranks of the Philistines with a delicate raillery andscorn, all the more exasperating to his foes, because it is veiled bya mock humility, and is scrupulously polite. "Of Arnold's literary criticism, the most notable single piece is thefamous essay _On Translating Homer_, which deserves careful studyfor the enlightenment it offers concerning many of the fundamentalquestions of style. The essays on Wordsworth and on Byron from _Essaysin Criticism_, and that on Emerson, from _Discourses in America_, furnish good examples of Arnold's charm of manner and weight of matterin this province. "The total impression which Arnold makes in his prose may be describedas that of a spiritual man-of-the-world. In comparison with Carlyle, Buskin, and Newman, he is worldly. For the romantic passion and mysticvision of these men he substitutes an ideal of balanced cultivation, the ideal of the trained, sympathetic, cosmopolitan gentleman. Hemarks a return to the conventions of life after the storm and stressof the romantic age. Yet in his own way he also was a prophet and apreacher, striving whole-heartedly to release his countrymen frombondage to mean things, and pointing their gaze to that symmetry andbalance of character which has seemed to many noble minds the truegoal of human endeavor. "--MOODY AND LOVETT, _A History of EnglishLiterature_. "As a literary critic, his taste, his temper, his judgment were prettynearly infallible. He combined a loyal and reasonable submissionto literary authority, with a free and even daring use of privatejudgment. His admiration for the acknowledged masters of humanutterance--Homer, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe--was genuineand enthusiastic, and incomparably better informed than that of somemore conventional critics. Yet this cordial submission to recognizedauthority, this honest loyalty to established reputation, did notblind him to defects; did not seduce him into indiscriminating praise;did not deter him from exposing the tendency to verbiage in Burke andJeremy Taylor, the excess blankness of much of Wordsworth's blankverse, the undercurrent of mediocrity in Macaulay, the absurdities ofMr. Ruskin's etymology. And as in great matters, so in small. Whateverliterary production was brought under Matthew Arnold's notice, hisjudgment was clear, sympathetic, and independent. He had the readiestappreciation of true excellence, a quick intolerance of turgidity andinflation--of what he called endeavors to render platitude endurableby making it pompous, and lively horror of affectation andunreality. "--Mr. GEORGE RUSSELL. "In his work as literary critic Arnold has occupied a high placeamong the foremost prose writers of the time. His style is in markedcontrast to the dithyrambic eloquence of Carlyle, or to Ruskin'spure and radiant coloring. It is a quiet style, restrained, clear, discriminating, incisive, with little glow of ardor or passion. Notwithstanding its scrupulous assumption of urbanity, it is oftena merciless style, indescribably irritating to an opponent byits undercurrent of sarcastic humor, and its calm air of assuredsuperiority. By his insistence on a high standard of technicalexcellence, and by his admirable presentation of certain principles ofliterary judgment, Arnold performed a great work for literature. Onthe other hand, we miss here, as in his poetry, the human element, thecomprehensive sympathy that we recognize in the criticism of Carlyle. Yet Carlyle could not have written the essay _On Translating Homer_, with all its scholarly discrimination in style and technique, anymore than Arnold could have produced Carlyle's large-hearted essay on_Burns_. Arnold's varied energy and highly trained intelligencehave been felt in many different fields. He has won a peculiar andhonorable place in the poetry of the century; he has excelled asliterary critic, he has labored in the cause of education, andfinally, in his _Culture and Anarchy_, he has set forth his scheme ofsocial reform, and in certain later books has made His contributionto contemporary thought. "--PANCOAST, _Introduction to EnglishLiterature_. * * * * * CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF ARNOLD'S WORKS 1840. Alaric at Rome. (Prize poem at Rugby. )1843. Cromwell. (Prize poem at Oxford. )1849. The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems. Mycerinus. The Strayed Reveller. Fragment of an Antigone. The Sick King in Bokhara. Religious Isolation. To my Friends. A Modern Sappho. The New Sirens. The Voice. To Fausta. Stagyrus. To a Gipsy Child. The Hayswater Boat. The Forsaken Merman. The World and the Quietist. In Utrumque Paratus. Resignation. Sonnets. Quiet Work. To a Friend. Shakespeare. To the Duke of Wellington. Written in Butler's Sermons. Written in Emerson's Essays. To an Independent Preacher. To George Cruikshank. To a Republican Friend. 1852. Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems. Empedocles on Etna. The River. Excuse. Indifference. Too Late. On the Rhine. Longing. The Lake. Parting. Absence. Destiny. (Not reprinted. ) To Marguerite. Human Life. Despondency. Youth's Agitations--A Sonnet. Self-Deception. Lines written by a Death-bed. (Afterward, Youth and Calm. ) Tristram and Iseult. Memorial Verses. (Previously published in _Fraser's Magazine_. ) Courage. (Not reprinted. ) Self-Dependence. A Summer Night. The Buried Life. A Farewell. Stanzas in Memory of the Author of _Obermann_. Consolation. Lines written in Kensington Gardens. The World's Triumphs--A Sonnet. The Second Best. Revolutions. The Youth of Nature. The Youth of Man. Morality. Progress. The Future. 1853. Poems. Sohrab and Rustum. Cadmus and Harmonia. (A fragment of Empedocles on Etna. ) Philomela. Thekla's Answer. The Church of Brou. The Neckan. Switzerland. Richmond Hill. (A fragment of The Youth of Man. ) Requiescat. The Scholar-Gipsy. Stanzas in Memory of the Late Edward Quillman. Power of Youth. (A fragment of The Youth of Man. )1854. A Farewell. 1855. Poems. Balder Dead Separation. 1858. Merope: A Tragedy. 1867. New Poems. Persistency of Poetry. Saint Brandan. _(Fraser's Magazine_, July, 1860. ) Sonnets. A Picture of Newstead. Rachel. (Three Sonnets. ) East London. West London. Anti-Desperation. Immorality. Worldly Place. The Divinity. The Good Shepherd with the Kid. Austerity of Poetry. East and West. Monica's Last Prayer. Calais Sands. Dover Beach. The Terrace at Berne. Stanzas composed at Carnæ. A Southern Night. (Previously published in the _Victoria Regia_, 1861. ) Fragment of Chorus of a "Dejaneira. " Palladium. Early Death and Fame. Growing Old. The Progress of Poesy. A Nameless Epitaph. The Last Word. A Wish. A Caution to Poets. Pis-Aller. Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoön. Bacchanalia. Rugby Chapel. Heine's Grave. Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse. 1860. The Lord's Messengers. (_Cornhill Magazine_, July. )1866. Thyrsis. (_Macmillan's Magazine_, April. )1868. Obermann Once More. 1873. New Rome. (_Cornhill Magazine_, June. )1877. Haworth Churchyard with Epilogue. (_Fraser's Magazine_, May. )1881. Geist's Grave. (_Fortnightly Review_, January. )1882. Westminster Abbey. (_Nineteenth Century Magazine_, January. ) Poor Matthais. (_Macmillan's Magazine_, December. )1887. Horatian Echo. (_The Century Guild Hobby Horse_, July. ) Kaiser Dead. (_Fortnightly Review_, July. ) PROSE WORKS 1859. England and the Italian Question. 1861. Popular Education in France. On Translating Homer. 1864. A French Eton. 1865. Essays in Criticism. 1867. On Study of Celtic Literature. 1868. Schools and Universities on the Continent. 1869. Culture and Anarchy. 1870. St. Paul and Protestantism. 1871. Friendship's Garland. 1873. Literature and Dogma. 1874. Higher Schools and Universities in Germany. 1875. God and the Bible. 1877. Last Essays on Church and Religion. 1879. Mixed Essays. 1882. Irish Essays. 1885. Discourses in America. 1888. Essays in Criticism, Second Series. Special Report on Elementary Education Abroad. Civilization in the United States. CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881). Thomas B. Macaulay (1800-1859). Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861). Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892). Charles R. Darwin (1809-1882). William M. Thackeray (1811-1863). Robert Browning (1812-1889). Charles Dickens (1812-1870). George Eliot (1819-1880). John Ruskin (1819-1900). Herbert Spencer (1820-1903). William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878). Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882). Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864). John G. Whittier (1807-1892). Henry W. Longfellow (1807-1882). Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894). James Russell Lowell (1819-1891). BIBLIOGRAPHY _The Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold_ (The Macmillan Company, one volume). _The English Poets_, Vol. I, by T. H. Ward. _Matthew Arnold and the Spirit of the Age_, edited by the English Club of Sewanee, Tennessee. _Matthew Arnold_, by Sir J. G. Fitch. _Tennyson, Ruskin, and Other Literary Estimates_, by Frederic Harrison. _Studies in Interpretation_, by W. H. Hudson. _Corrected Impressions on Matthew Arnold_, by G. E. B. Saintsbury. _Matthew Arnold_, by Herbert W. Paul. _Matthew Arnold_, by G. E. B. Saintsbury. _Arnold's Letters_, collected and arranged by G. W. E. Russell. _The Bibliography of Matthew Arnold_, edited by T. B. Smart. _Matthew Arnold_, by Andrew Lang, in _Century Magazine_, 1881-1882, p. 849. _The Poetry of Matthew Arnold_, by R. H. Hutton, in _Essays Theological and Literary_, Vol. II. _Religion and Culture_, by John Shairp. _Arnold_, in _Victorian Poets_, by Stedman. _Matthew Arnold, New Poems_, in _Essays and Studies_, by A. C. Swinburne. _Arnold_, in _Our Living Poets_, by Forman. * * * * * SOHRAB AND RUSTUM AND OTHER POEMS * * * * * NARRATIVE POEMS SOHRAB AND RUSTUM° AN EPISODE And the first grey of morning fill'd the east, ° °1And the fog rose out of the Oxus° stream. °2But all the Tartar camp° along the stream °3Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long 5He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 10Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's° tent. °11 Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stoodClustering like bee-hives on the low flat strandOf Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflowWhen the sun melts the snows in high Pamere° °15Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand, And to a hillock came, a little backFrom the stream's brink--the spot where first a boat, Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. The men of former times had crown'd the top 20With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and nowThe Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stoodUpon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 25And found the old man sleeping on his bedOf rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the stepWas dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's sleep;And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:-- 30 "Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?" But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:--"Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 35Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lieTossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab° bid me seek °38Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, ° before the army march'd; °40And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan° first °42I came among the Tartars and bore arms, I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, At my boy's years, ° the courage of a man. °45This too thou know'st, that while I still bear onThe conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, And beat the Persians back on every field, I seek one man, one man, and one alone--Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, 50Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field, His not unworthy, not inglorious son. So I long hoped, but him I never find. Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day; but I 55Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lordsTo meet me, man to man; if I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall--Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. Dim is the rumour of a common fight, ° °60Where host meets host, and many names are sunk°; °61But of a single combat fame speaks clear. " He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the handOf the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said:-- "O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! 65Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle's common chance° with us °67Who love thee, but must press for ever first, In single fight incurring single risk, To find a father thou hast never seen°? °70That were far best, my son, to stay with usUnmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war, And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. But, if this one desire indeed rules all, To seek out Rustum--seek him not through fight! 75Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son!But far hence seek him, for he is not here. For now it is not as when I was young, When Rustum was in front of every fray; 80But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, In Seistan, ° with Zal, his father old. °82Whether that his own mighty strength at lastPeels the abhorr'd approaches of old age, Or in some quarrel° with the Persian King. ° °85There go°!--Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes °86Danger or death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lostTo us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peaceTo seek thy father, not seek single fights 90In vain;--but who can keep the lion's cubFrom ravening, and who govern Rustum's son?Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires. " So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and leftHis bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; 95And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coatHe pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, And threw a white cloak round him, and he tookIn his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword°; °99And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 100Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul°; °101And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'dHis herald to his side, and went abroad. The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fogFrom the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 105And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filedInto the open plain; so Haman° bade-- °107Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruledThe host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd;As when some grey November morn the files, 111In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranesStream over Casbin° and the southern slopes °113Of Elburz, ° from the Aralian estuaries, °114Or some frore° Caspian reed-bed, southward bound °115For the warm Persian sea-board--so they stream'd. The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears;Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara° come °119And Khiva, ° and ferment the milk of mares. ° °120Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns° of the south, °121The Tukas, ° and the lances of Salore, °122And those from Attruck° and the Caspian sands; °123Light men and on light steeds, who only drinkThe acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 125And then a swarm of wandering horse, who cameFrom far, and a more doubtful service own'd;The Tartars of Ferghana, ° from the banks °128Of the Jaxartes, ° men with scanty beards °129And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes 130Who roam o'er Kipchak° and the northern waste, °131Kalmucks° and unkempt Kuzzaks, ° tribes who stray °132Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, ° °133Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere;These all filed out from camp into the plain. 135And on the other side the Persians form'd;--First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd. The Ilyats of Khorassan°; and behind, °138The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 140But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. And when Ferood, who led the Persians, sawThat Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 145He took his spear, and to the front he came, And check'd his ranks, and fix'd° them where they stood. °147And the old Tartar came upon the sandBetwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:-- "Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! 150Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. But choose a champion from the Persian lordsTo fight our champion Sohrab, man to man. " As, in the country, on a morn in June, When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 155A shiver runs through the deep corn° for joy-- °156So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ranOf pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, ° °160Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, ° °161That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow;Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they passLong flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves 165Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries--In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snows--So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 170To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian hostSecond, and was the uncle of the King°; °173These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz said:-- "Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 175Yet champion have we none to match this youth. He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. ° °177But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits° °178And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart. Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 180The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up. " So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and cried:--"Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said! 185Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man. "He spake: and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strodeBack through the opening squadrons to his tent. But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach'd, 190Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, Just pitch'd; the high pavilion in the midstWas Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 195Rustum; his morning meal was done, but stillThe table stood before him, charged with food--A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread;And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate° °199Listless, and held a falcon° on his wrist, °200And play'd with it; but Gudurz came and stoodBefore him; and he look'd, and saw him stand, And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said:-- "Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight. 205What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink. " But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said:--"Not now! a time will come to eat and drink, But not to-day; to-day has other needs. The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze; 210For from the Tartars is a challenge broughtTo pick a champion from the Persian lordsTo fight their champion--and thou know'st his name--Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's! 215He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart;And he is young, and Iran's° chiefs are old, °217Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!" He spoke; but Rustum answer'd with, a smile:-- 220"Go to°! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I °221Am older; if the young are weak, the KingErrs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, ° °223Himself is young, and honours younger men, And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 225Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young--The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame?For would that I myself had such a son, And not that one slight helpless girl° I have-- °230A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, ° °232My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, And he has none to guard his weak old age. 235There would I go, and hang my armour up, And with my great name fence that weak old man, And spend the goodly treasures I have got, And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, 240And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more. " He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply:--"What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeksThee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 245Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say:_Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame, And shuns to peril it with younger men. "_° °248 And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply:--"O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? 250Thou knowest better words than this to say. What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?Are not they mortal, am not I myself?But who for men of nought would do great deeds? 255Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame!But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms°; °257Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'dIn single fight with any mortal man. " He spoke, and frown'd; and Gudurz turn'd, and ran 260Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy--Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'dHis followers in, and bade them bring his arms, And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose 265Were plain, and on his shield was no device, ° °266Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, And, from the fluted spine atop, a plumeOf horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. So arm'd, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, 270Follow'd him like a faithful hound at heel--Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, The horse, whom Rustum on a foray onceDid in Bokhara by the river findA colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 275And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, Dight° with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green °277Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'dAll beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 280The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. And all the Persians knew him, and with shoutsHail'd; but the Tartars knew not who he was. And dear as the wet diver to the eyesOf his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 285By sandy Bahrein, ° in the Persian Gulf, °286Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, Having made up his tale° of precious pearls, °288Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands--So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 290 And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. And as afield the reapers cut a swathDown through the middle of a rich man's corn, And on each side are squares of standing corn, 295And in the midst a stubble, short and bare--So on each side were squares of men, with spearsBristling, and in the midst, the open sand. And Rustum came upon the sand, and castHis eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 300Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudgeWho with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire--At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 305When the frost flowers° the whiten'd window-panes--And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughtsOf that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyedThe unknown adventurous youth, who from afarCame seeking Rustum, and defying forth 310All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused° °311His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd;Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 315Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound--So slender Sohrab seem'd, ° so softly rear'd. °318And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soulAs he beheld him coming; and he stood, 320And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said:-- "O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold!Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. Behold me! I am vast, ° and clad in iron, °325And tried°; and I have stood on many a fieldOf blood, and I have fought with many a foe--Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. ° °327O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?Be govern'd°! quit the Tartar host, and come °330To Iran, and be as my son to me, And fight beneath my banner till I die!There are no youths in Iran brave as thou. " So he spake, mildly; Sohrab heard his voice, The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 335His giant figure planted on the sand, Sole, like some single tower, which a chiefHath builded on the waste in former yearsAgainst the robbers; and he saw that head, Streak'd with its first grey hairs;--hope filled his soul, 340And he ran forward and embraced his knees, And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said:-- "O, by thy father's head°! by thine own soul! °343Art thou not Rustum°? speak! art thou not he?" °344 But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 345And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul:-- "Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean!False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks, And hide it not, but say: _Rustum is here_! 350He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous giftsA belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 355In Samarcand, he will arise and cry:'I challenged once, when the two armies camp'dBeside the Oxus, all the Persian lordsTo cope with me in single fight; but theyShrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I 360Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away. 'So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud;Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me. " And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud:--"Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 365Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call'dBy challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, ° or yield! °367Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee!For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 370Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd, There would be then no talk of fighting more. But being what I am, I tell thee this--Do thou record it in thine inmost soul:Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, 375Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till windsBleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, Oxus in summer wash them all away. " He spoke; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet:--"Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so°! °380I am no girl to be made pale by words. Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum standHere on this field, there were no fighting then. But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I, 385And thou art proved, I know, and I am young--But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sureThy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 390Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. And whether it will heave us up to land, Or whether it will roll us out to sea, Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, 395We know not, and no search will make us know;Only the event will teach us in its hour. " He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'dHis spear; down from the shoulder, down it came, As on some partridge, in the corn a hawk, 400That long has tower'd° in the airy clouds, °401Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spearHiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand, Which it sent flying wide;--then Sohrab threw 405In turn, and full struck° Rustum's shield; sharp rang, °406The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but heCould wield; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge, Still rough--like those which men in treeless plains 410To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis° or Hydaspes, ° when, high up °412By their dark springs, the wind in winter-timeHath made in Himalayan forests wrack, ° °414And strewn the channels with torn boughs--so huge 415The club which Rustum lifted now, and struckOne stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, Lithe as the glancing° snake, and the club came °418Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 420To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand;And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he layDizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 425But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:-- "Thou strik'st too hard! that club of thine will floatUpon the summer-floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I;No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 430Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum; be it so!Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?Boy as I am, I have seen battles too--Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, And heard their hollow° roar of dying men; °435But never was my heart thus touch'd before. Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart?O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 440And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host, Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 445Mayst fight; fight _them_, when they confront thy spear!But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!" He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage; his clubHe left to lie, but had regain'd his spear, 450Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-handBlazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, ° °452The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'dHis stately crest, ° and dimm'd his glittering arms. °454His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice 455Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way:-- "Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more!Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;But on the Oxus-sands, and in the danceOf battle, and with me, who make no playOf war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 465Remember all thy valour°; try thy feints °466And cunning! all the pity I had is gone;Because thou hast shamed me before both the hostsWith thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles. °" °468 He spoke, and Sohrab kindled° at his taunts, °470And he too drew his sword; at once they rush'dTogether, as two eagles on one preyCome rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shieldsBash'd with a clang together, and a din. 475Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcuttersMake often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees--such blowsRustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. And you would say that sun and stars took part 480In that unnatural° conflict; for a cloud° °481Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sunOver the fighters' heads; and a wind roseUnder their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 485In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone;For both the on-looking hosts on either handStood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled° on the Oxus stream. °489But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 490And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shieldWhich Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spearRent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin, And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, ° °495Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crestHe shore° away, and that proud horsehair plume, °497Never till now defiled, sank to the dust;And Rustum bow'd his head°; but then the gloom °499Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 500And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry;--No horse's cry was that, most like the roarOf some pain'd desert-lion, who all dayHath trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, 505And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled° as it cross'd his stream. °508But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, And struck again; and again Rustum bow'd 510His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyesGlared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 515And shouted: _Rustum_°!--Sohrab heard that shout, °516And shrank amazed; back he recoil'd one step, And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing form;And then he stood bewilder'd; and he dropp'dHis covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 520He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground;And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted allThe cloud; and the two armies saw the pair--Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 525And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. Then, with a bitter smile, ° Rustum began:-- °527"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to killA Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 530Or else that the great Rustum would come downHimself to fight, and that thy wiles would moveHis heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then all the Tartar host would praiseThy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 535To glad° thy father in his weak old age. °536Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man!Dearer to the red jackals° shalt thou be °538Than to thy friends, and to thy father old. " And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:-- 540"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vainThou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I match'd with ten such men as thee, And I were that which till to-day I was, 545They should be lying here, I standing thereBut that belovéd name unnerved my arm--That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shieldFall; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 550And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hearThe mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!" 555 As when some hunter° in the spring hath found °556A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And follow'd her to find her where she fell 560Far off;--anon her mate comes winging backFrom hunting, and a great way off descriesHis huddling young left sole°; at that, he checks °563His pinion, and with short uneasy sweepsCircles above his eyry, with loud screams 565Chiding his mate back to her nest; but sheLies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers--never moreShall the lake glass° her, flying over it; °570Never the black and dripping precipicesEcho her stormy scream as she sails by--As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stoodOver his dying son, and knew him not. 575 But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said:--"What prate is this of fathers and revenge?The mighty Rustum never had a son. " And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:--"Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I. 580Surely the news will one day reach his ear, Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;And pierce him like a stab, and make him leapTo arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 585Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son!What will that grief, what will that vengeance be?Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen!Yet him I pity not so much, but her, My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 590With that old king, her father, who grows greyWith age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will seeSohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 595But a dark rumour will be bruited up, ° °596From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;And then will that defenceless woman learnThat Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more, But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain. " He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought. Nor did he yet believe it was his son 605Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew;For he had had sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all--So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 610Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms--And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style° of Rustum's son; °613Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deem'd he; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought 615And his soul set to grief, as the vast tideOf the bright rocking Ocean sets to shoreAt the full moon; tears gather'd in his eyes;For he remember'd his own early youth, And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, 620The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descriesA far, bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds--so Rustum sawHis youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom;And that old king, ° her father, who loved well °625His wandering guest, and gave him his fair childWith joy; and all the pleasant life they led, They three, in that long-distant summer-time--The castle, and the dewy woods, and huntAnd hound, and morn on those delightful hills 630In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, Of age and looks° to be his own dear son, °632Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand;Like some rich hyacinth which by the scytheOf an unskilful gardener has been cut, 635Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying grass--so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:-- 640 "O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a sonWhom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved. Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else menHave told thee false--thou art not Rustum's son. For Rustum had no son; one child he had-- 645But one--a girl; who with her mother nowPlies some light female task, nor dreams of us--Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war. " But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath; for nowThe anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 650And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die--But first he would convince his stubborn foe;And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:-- "Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? 655Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm° I bear °658That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore. " 660 He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks, And his knees totter'd, and he smote his handAgainst his breast, his heavy mailed hand, That the hard iron corslet° clank'd aloud; °663And to his heart he press'd the other hand, 665And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:-- "Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie!If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son. " Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosedHis belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 670And show'd a sign in faint vermilion pointsPrick'd; as a cunning° workman, in Pekin, °672Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, An emperor's gift--at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 675Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands--So delicately prick'd the sign appear'dOn Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, ° which of old rear'd Zal, °679Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 680A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks;Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved--Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes, 685And then he touch'd it with his hand and said:-- "How say'st thou? Is that sign the proper signOf Rustum's son, or of some other man's?" He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stoodSpeechless; and then he utter'd one sharp cry: 690_O boy_--_thy father!_--and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and castHis arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 695And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life; and lifeCame back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror; and he seizedIn both his hands the dust which lay around, 700And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, --His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms;And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, And his sobs choked him; and he clutch'd his sword, To draw it, and for ever let life out. 705But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:-- "Father, forbear! for I but meet to-dayThe doom which at my birth was written downIn Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. ° °710Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, I know it! but fate trod those promptings downUnder its iron heel; fate, fate engagedThe strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. 715But let us speak no more of this! I findMy father; let me feel that I have found!° °717Come, sit beside me on this sand, and takeMy head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say: _My son!_ 720Quick! quick! for number'd are my sands of life, And swift; for like the lightning to this fieldI came, and like the wind I go away--Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. ° °724But it was writ in Heaven that this should be. " 725 So said he, and his voice released the heartOf Rustum, and his tears brake forth; he castHis arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts, When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, 730With his head bowing to the ground and maneSweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woeFirst to the one then to the other movedHis head, as if inquiring what their griefMight mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 735The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked° the sand. °736But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:-- "Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feetShould first have rotted on their nimble joints, Or ere they brought thy master to this field!" 740 But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said:--"Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days, My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, My terrible father's terrible horse! and said, That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 745Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane!O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;For thou hast gone where I shall never go, And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 750And seen the River of Helmund, ° and the Lake °751Of Zirrah°; and the aged Zal himself °752Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, And said: _O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!_--but I 755Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;But lodged among my father's foes, and seenAfrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 760Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunkThe desert rivers, Moorghab° and Tejend, ° °763Kohik, ° and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir°; and this great Oxus stream, °765The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die. " Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd:--"Oh, that its waves were flowing over me!Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow siltRoll tumbling in the current o'er my head!" 770 But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:--"Desire not that, my father! thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live, As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 775And reap a second glory in thine age;Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come! thou seest this great host of menWhich follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!Let me entreat for them; what have they done? 780They follow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, 785Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound° above my bones, °788And plant a far-seen pillar over all. That so the passing horseman on the waste 790May see my tomb a great way off, and cry:_Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill!_And I be not forgotten in my grave. " And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:-- 795"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seistan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 800With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all, And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 805And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go!Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace!What should I do with slaying any more?For would that all that I have ever slainMight be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 810And they who were call'd champions in their time, And through whose death I won that fame I have--And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! 815Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou;And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; 820And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;And say: _O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!_But now in blood and battles was my youth, And full of blood and battles is my age, 825And I shall never end this life of blood. " Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied:--"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, ° °830When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea, From laying thy dear master in his grave. " And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said:-- 835"Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure. " He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and tookThe spear, and drew it from his side, and easedHis wound's imperious anguish; but the blood 840Came welling from the open gash, and lifeFlow'd with the stream;--all down his cold white sideThe crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, Like the soil'd tissue of white violetsLeft, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 845By children whom their nurses call with haste. Indoors from the sun's eye; his head droop'd low, His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay--White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, 850Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them, And fix'd them feebly on his father's face;Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbsUnwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 855And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead;And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloakDown o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 860By Jemshid in Persepolis, ° to bear °861His house, now 'mid their broken flights of stepsLie prone, enormous, down the mountain side--So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, 865And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darken'd all; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and firesBegan to twinkle through the fog; for now 870Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal;The Persians took it on the open sandsSouthward, the Tartars by the river marge;And Rustum and his son were left alone. But the majestic river floated on, 875Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian° waste, °878Under the solitary moon;--he flow'dRight for the polar star, ° past Orgunjè, ° °880Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands beginTo hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a leagueThe shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains alongThrough beds of sand and matted rushy isles-- 885Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he hadIn his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foil'd circuitous wanderer--till at lastThe long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wideHis luminous home° of waters opens, bright °890And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars° °891Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. SAINT BRANDAN° Saint Brandan sails the northern main;The brotherhood of saints are glad. He greets them once, he sails again;So late!--such storms!--The Saint is mad! He heard, across the howling seas, 5Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, ° °7Twinkle the monastery-lights; But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd--And now no bells, no convents more! 10The hurtling Polar lights° are near'd, °11The sea without a human shore. At last--(it was the Christmas night;Stars shone after a day of storm)--He sees float past an iceberg white, 15And on it--Christ!--a living form. That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red° and tufted fell-- °18It is--Oh, where shall Brandan fly?--The traitor Judas, out of hell! 20 Palsied with terror, Brandan sate°; °21The moon was bright, the iceberg near. He hears a voice sigh humbly: "Wait!By high permission I am here. "One moment wait, thou holy man 25On earth my crime, my death, they knew;My name is under all men's ban--Ah, tell them of my respite too! "Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night--(It was the first after I came, 30Breathing self-murder, ° frenzy, spite, °31To rue my guilt in endless flame)-- "I felt, as I in torment lay'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, An angel touch my arm, and say: 35_Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!_ "'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said. _The Leper recollect, _° said he, °38_Who ask'd the passers-by for aid, In Joppa, ° and thy charity. _ °40 "Then I remember'd how I went, In Joppa, through the public street, One morn when the sirocco spentIts storms of dust with burning heat; "And in the street a leper sate, 45Shivering with fever, naked, old;Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. "He gazed upon me as I pass'dAnd murmur'd: _Help me, or I die!_-- 50To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, Saw him look eased, and hurried by. "Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine, What blessing must full goodness shower, When fragment of it small, like mine, 55Hath such inestimable power! "Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, IDid that chance act of good, that one!Then went my way to kill and lie--Forgot my good as soon as done. 60 "That germ of kindness, in the wombOf mercy caught, did not expire;Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom, And friends me in the pit of fire. "Once every year, when carols wake, 65On earth, the Christmas-night's repose, Arising from the sinner's lake, I journey to these healing snows. "I stanch with ice my burning breast, With silence balm my whirling brain. 70Oh, Brandan! to this hour of restThat Joppan leper's ease was pain. "-- Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer--Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies! 75The iceberg, and no Judas there! THE FORSAKEN MERMAN° Come, dear children, let us away;Down and away below!Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; 5Now the wild white horses° play, °6Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away!This way, this way! Call her once before you go-- 10Call once yet!In a voice that she will know:"Margaret°! Margaret!" °13Children's voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother's ear; 15Children's voices, wild with pain--Surely she will come again!Call her once and come away;This way, this way!"Mother dear, we cannot stay! 20The wild white horses foam and fret. "Margaret! Margaret! Come, dear children, come away down;Call no more!One last look at the white-wall'd town, 25And the little grey church on the windy shore;Then come down!She will not come though you call all day;Come away, come away! Children dear, was it yesterday 30We heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged° all round, °39Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 40Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail° and bask in the brine; °42Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? 45When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me, 50On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. ° °54She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 55She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee. "I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 60Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!"She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, were we long alone?"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; 65Long prayers, " I said, "in the world they say;Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town;Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70To the little grey church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 75She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!Dear heart, " I said, "we are long alone;The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. "But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80For her eyes were seal'd° to the holy book! °81Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more!Come away, come down, call no more! Down, down, down! 85Down to the depths of the sea!She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! 90For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun°!" °93And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, 95Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare; 100And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; 105For the cold strange eyes of a little MermaidenAnd the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away, children;Come children, come down!The hoarse wind blows coldly; 110Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. 115We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: "Here came a mortal, 120But faithless was she!And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea. " But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, 125When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low;When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr'd with broom, ° °129And high rocks throw mildly 130On the blanch'd sands a gloom;Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry. 135We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side--And then come back down. Singing: "There dwells a loved one, 140But cruel is she!She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea. " TRISTRAM AND ISEULT° I TRISTRAM _Tristram_. Is she not come°? The messenger was sure--Prop me upon the pillows once again--Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure. --Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!What lights will those out to the northward be°? °5 _The Page_. The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. _Tristram_. Soft--who is that, stands by the dying fire? _The Page_. Iseult. ° °8 _Tristram_. Ah! not the Iseult I desire. * * * * * What Knight is this so weak and pale, Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, 10Propt on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward for the lightOf some ship that fights the galeOn this wild December night?Over the sick man's feet is spread 15A dark green forest-dress;A gold harp leans against the bed, Ruddy in the fire's light. I know him by his harp of gold, Famous in Arthur's court° of old; °20I know him by his forest-dress--The peerless hunter, harper, knight, Tristram of Lyoness. ° °23What Lady is this, whose silk attireGleams so rich in the light of the fire? 25The ringlets on her shoulders lyingIn their flitting lustre vyingWith the clasp of burnish'd goldWhich her heavy robe doth hold. Her looks are mild, her fingers slight 30As the driven snow are white°; °31But her cheeks are sunk and pale. Is it that the bleak sea-galeBeating from the Atlantic seaOn this coast of Brittany, 35Nips too keenly the sweet flower?Is it that a deep fatigueHath come on her, a chilly fear, Passing all her youthful hourSpinning with her maidens here, 40Listlessly through the window-barsGazing seawards many a league, From her lonely shore-built tower, While the knights are at the wars?Or, perhaps, has her young heart 45Felt already some deeper smart, Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?Who is this snowdrop by the sea?--I know her by her mildness rare, 50Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;I know her by her rich silk dress, And her fragile loveliness--The sweetest Christian soul alive, Iseult of Brittany. 55 Iseult of Brittany?--but whereIs that other Iseult fair, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen?She, whom Tristram's ship of yoreFrom Ireland to Cornwall bore, 60To Tyntagel, ° to the side °61Of King Marc, ° to be his bride? °62She who, as they voyaged, quaff'dWith Tristram that spiced magic draught, Which since then for ever rolls 65Through their blood, and binds their souls, Working love, but working teen°?--. °67There were two Iseults who did swayEach her hour of Tristram's day;But one possess'd his waning time, 70The other his resplendent prime. Behold her here, the patient flower, Who possess'd his darker hour!Iseult of the Snow-White HandWatches pale by Tristram's bed. 75She is here who had his gloom, Where art thou who hadst his bloom?One such kiss as those of yoreMight thy dying knight restore!Does the love-draught work no more? 80Art thou cold, or false, or dead, Iseult of Ireland? * * * * * Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, And the knight sinks back on his pillows again. He is weak with fever and pain; 85And his spirit is not clear. Hark! he mutters in his sleep, As he wanders° far from here, °88Changes place and time of year, And his closéd eye doth sweep 90O'er some fair unwintry sea, ° °91Not this fierce Atlantic deep, While he mutters brokenly:-- _Tristram_. The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails;Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 95And overhead the cloudless sky of May. --_"Ah, would I were in those green fields at play, Not pent on ship-board this delicious day!Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, Reach me my golden phial stands by thee, 100But pledge me in it first for courtesy. "_--Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanch'd like mine?Child, 'tis no true draught this, 'tis poison'd wine!Iseult!. .. * * * * * Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! 105Keep his eyelids! let him seemNot this fever-wasted wightThinn'd and paled before his time, But the brilliant youthful knightIn the glory of his prime, 110Sitting in the gilded barge, At thy side, thou lovely charge, Bending gaily o'er thy hand, Iseult of Ireland!And she too, that princess fair, 115If her bloom be now less rare, Let her have her youth again--Let her be as she was then!Let her have her proud dark eyes, And her petulant quick replies-- 120Let her sweep her dazzling handWith its gesture of command, And shake back her raven hairWith the old imperious air!As of old, so let her be, 125That first Iseult, princess bright, Chatting with her youthful knightAs he steers her o'er the sea, Quitting at her father's willThe green isle° where she was bred, °130And her bower in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strandWhere the prince whom she must wedDwells on loud Tyntagel's hill, ° °134High above the sounding sea. 135And that potion rare her motherGave her, that her future lord, Gave her, that King Marc and she, Might drink it on their marriage-day, And for ever love each other-- 140Let her, as she sits on board, Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly!See it shine, and take it up, And to Tristram laughing say:"Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 145Pledge me in my golden cup!"Let them drink it--let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flame, As they feel the fatal bandsOf a love they dare not name, 150With a wild delicious pain, Twine about their hearts again!Let the early summer beOnce more round them, and the seaBlue, and o'er its mirror kind 155Let the breath of the May-wind, Wandering through their drooping sails, Die on the green fields of Wales!Let a dream like this restoreWhat his eye must see no more!° °160 _Tristram_. Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks° are drear-- °161Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here?Were feet like those made for so wild a way?The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, ° °164Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day! 165_"Tristram!--nay, nay--thou must not take my hand!--Tristram!--sweet love!--we are betray'd--out-plann'd. Fly--save thyself--save me!--I dare not stay. "_--One last kiss first!--_"'Tis vain--to horse--away!"_ * * * * * Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth move 170Faster surely than it should, From the fever in his blood!All the spring-time of his loveIs already gone and past, And instead thereof is seen 175Its winter, which endureth still--Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, The flying leaves, the straining blast, And that long, wild kiss--their last. ° °180And this rough December-night, And his burning fever-pain, Mingle with his hurrying dream, Till they rule it, till he seemThe press'd fugitive again, 185The love-desperate banish'd knightWith a fire in his brainFlying o'er the stormy main. --Whither does he wander now?Haply in his dreams the wind 190Wafts him here, and lets him findThe lovely orphan child° again° °192In her castle by the coast;The youngest, fairest chatelaine, ° °194Whom this realm of France can boast, 195Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, Iseult of Brittany. And--for through the haggard air, The stain'd arms, the matted hairOf that stranger-knight ill-starr'd, ° °200There gleam'd something, which recall'dThe Tristram who in better daysWas Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard°-- °203Welcomed here, ° and here install'd, °204Tended of his fever here, 205Haply he seems again to moveHis young guardian's heart with loveIn his exiled loneliness, In his stately, deep distress, Without a word, without a tear. 210--Ah! 'tis well he should retraceHis tranquil life in this lone place;His gentle bearing at the sideOf his timid youthful bride;His long rambles by the shore 215On winter-evenings, when the roarOf the near waves came, sadly grand, Through the dark, up the drown'd sand, Or his endless reveriesIn the woods, where the gleams play 220On the grass under the trees, Passing the long summer's dayIdle as a mossy stoneIn the forest-depths alone, The chase neglected, and his hound 225Couch'd beside him on the ground. ° °226--Ah! what trouble's on his brow?Hither let him wander now;Hither, to the quiet hoursPass'd among these heaths of ours. 230By the grey Atlantic sea;Hours, if not of ecstasy, From violent anguish surely free! _Tristram_. All red with blood the whirling river flows, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. 235Upon us are the chivalry of Rome--Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. ° °237"Up, Tristram, up, " men cry, "thou moonstruck knight°! °238What foul fiend rides thee°? On into the fight!" °239--Above the din her° voice is in my ears; °240I see her form glide through the crossing spears. --Iseult!. .. * * * * * Ah! he wanders forth again°; °243We cannot keep him; now, as then, There's a secret in his breast° °245Which will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green woodThey cloud the brain, they dull the blood!--His sword is sharp, his horse is good;Beyond the mountains will he see 250The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign° °252The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur's side he fights once moreWith the Roman Emperor. ° °255There's many a gay knight where he goesWill help him to forget his care;The march, the leaguer, ° Heaven's blithe air, °258The neighing steeds, the ringing blows--Sick pining comes not where these are. 260Ah! what boots it, ° that the jest °261Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breastDances as the trumpets blow, If one's own heart beats not light 265On the waves of the toss'd fight, If oneself cannot get freeFrom the clog of misery?Thy lovely youthful wife grows paleWatching by the salt sea-tide 270With her children at her sideFor the gleam of thy white sail. Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain! 275 _Tristram_. All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, But it is moonlight in the open glade;And in the bottom of the glade shine clearThe forest-chapel and the fountain near. --I think, I have a fever in my blood; 280Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. --Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light;God! 'tis _her_ face plays in the waters bright. "Fair love, " she says, "canst thou forget so soon, 285At this soft hour under this sweet moon?"--Iseult!. .. * * * * * Ah, poor soul! if this be so, Only death can balm thy woe. The solitudes of the green wood 290 Had no medicine for thy mood; The rushing battle clear'd thy blood As little as did solitude. --Ah! his eyelids slowly break Their hot seals, and let him wake; 295 What new change shall we now see? A happier? Worse it cannot be. _Tristram_. Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;The wind is down--but she'll not come to-night. 300Ah no! she is asleep in Cornwall now, Far hence; her dreams are fair--smooth is her browOf me she recks not, ° nor my vain desire. °303 --I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, Would take a score years from a strong man's age; 305And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, Scant leisure for a second messenger. --My princess, art thou there? Sweet, do not wait!To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;To-night my page shall keep me company. 310Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I;This comes of nursing long and watching late. To bed--good night!° °314 * * * * * She left the gleam-lit fireplace, 315She came to the bed-side;She took his hands in hers--her tearsDown on his wasted fingers rain'd. She raised her eyes upon his face--Not with a look of wounded pride, 320A look as if the heart complained--Her look was like a sad embrace;The gaze of one who can divineA grief, and sympathise. Sweet flower! thy children's eyes 325Are not more innocent than thine. But they sleep in shelter'd rest, Like helpless birds in the warm nest, On the castle's southern side;Where feebly comes the mournful roar 330Of buffeting wind and surging tideThrough many a room and corridor. --Full on their window the moon's rayMakes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walls, 335And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel-heads doth playTurn'd to each other--the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed. Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 340Hardly lets peep the golden hair;Through the soft-open'd lips the airScarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrownAt random on the counterpane, 345And often the fingers close in hasteAs if their baby-owner chasedThe butterflies again. This stir they have, and this alone; 350But else they are so still!--Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;But were you at the window now, To look forth on the fairy sightOf your illumined haunts by night, 355To see the park-glades where you playFar lovelier than they are by day, To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant-boughOf those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 360Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain--How would your voices run again!And far beyond the sparkling treesOf the castle-park one seesThe bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 365Moor behind moor, far, far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there, lock'd by the land, Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, And many a stretch of watery sand 370All shining in the white moon-beams--But you see fairer in your dreams! What voices are these on the clear night-air?What lights in the court--what steps on the stair? II ISEULT OF IRELAND° _Tristram_. Raise the light, my page! that I may see her. -- Thou art come at last, then, haughty Queen!Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever; Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. _Iseult_. Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried; 5 Bound I was, I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present! I am here--we meet--I hold thy hand. _Tristram_. Thou art come, indeed--thou hast rejoin'd me; Thou hast dared it--but too late to save. 10Fear not now that men should tax thine honour! I am dying: build--(thou may'st)--my grave! _Iseult_. Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly! What, I hear these bitter words from thee?Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel-- 15 Take my hand--dear Tristram, look on me! _Tristram_. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage-- Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult! And thy beauty never was more fair. 20 _Iseult_. Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty! I, like thee, have left my youth afar. Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers-- See my cheek and lips, how white they are! _Tristram_. Thou art paler--but thy sweet charm, Iseult! 25 Would not fade with the dull years away. Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight! I forgive thee, Iseult!--thou wilt stay? _Iseult_. Fear me not, I will be always with thee; I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; 30Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, Join'd at evening of their days again. _Tristram_. No, thou shalt not speak! I should be finding Something alter'd in thy courtly tone. Sit--sit by me! I will think, we've lived so 35 In the green wood, all our lives, alone. _Iseult_. Alter'd, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, Love like mine is alter'd in the breast;Courtly life is light and cannot reach it-- Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd! 40 What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled?What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband-- 45 That was bliss to make my sorrows flee!Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings°-- Those were friends to make me false to thee! Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown-- 50Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon my throne? Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd, Both have pass'd a youth consumed and sad, Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 55 And have now short space for being glad! Join'd we are henceforth; nor will thy people, Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, That a former rival shares her office, When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. 60 I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. She will cry: "Is this the foe I dreaded? 65 This his idol? this that royal bride?Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight! Stay, pale queen! for ever by my side. " Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 70Close thine eyes--this flooding moonlight blinds them!-- Nay, all's well again! thou must not weep. _Tristram_. I am happy! yet I feel, there's something Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. Through a mist I see thee; near--come nearer! 75 Bend--bend down!--I yet have much to say. _Iseult_. Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow-- Tristram! Tristram! let thy heart not fail!Call on God and on the holy angels! What, love, courage!--Christ! he is so pale. 80 _Tristram_. Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching! This is what my mother said should be, When the fierce pains took her in the forest, The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. "Son, " she said, "thy name shall be of sorrow; 85 Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake. "So she said, and died in the drear forest. Grief since then his home with me doth make. ° °88 I am dying. --Start not, nor look wildly! Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 90But, since living we were ununited, Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave. Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult; Speak her fair, she is of royal blood!Say, I will'd so, that thou stay beside me-- 95 She will grant it; she is kind and good. Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee-- One last kiss upon the living shore! _Iseult_. Tristram!--Tristram!--stay--receive me with thee! Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! never more. ° °100 * * * * * You see them clear--the moon shines bright. Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground;--her hoodHas fallen back; her arms outspreadStill hold her lover's hand; her head 105Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hairLies in disorder'd streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 110Flash on her white arms still. The very same which yesternightFlash'd in the silver sconces'° light, °113When the feast was gay and the laughter loudIn Tyntagel's palace proud. 115But then they deck'd a restless ghostWith hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tideOf courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, 120The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door. ° °122That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly:"Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! 125But yesternight and she would beAs pale and still as wither'd flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaksAnd has a colour in her cheeks;Christ keep us from such fantasy!"-- 130Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, Which, dogg'd° by fear and fought by shame, °132Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 135And though the bed-clothes hide her face, Yet were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her browWould charm the gazer, till his thoughtErased the ravages of time, 140Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and broughtA freshness back as of her prime--So healing is her quiet now. So perfectly the lines expressA tranquil, settled loveliness, 145Her younger rival's purest grace. The air of the December-nightSteals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be;Swinging with it, in the light 150Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you seeA stately Huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest-scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays, 155With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face, At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, At that bright, iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. 160He gazes down into the roomWith heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say:_"What place is this, and who are they?Who is that kneeling Lady fair? 165And on his pillows that pale KnightWho seems of marble on a tomb?How comes it here, this chamber bright, Through whose mullion'd windows clearThe castle-court all wet with rain, 170The drawbridge and the moat appear, And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray, The sunken reefs, and far awayThe unquiet bright Atlantic plain?--What, has some glamour made me sleep, 175And sent me with my dogs to sweep, By night, with boisterous bugle-peal, Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, Not in the free green wood at all?That Knight's asleep, and at her prayer 180That Lady by the bed doth kneel--Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal!"_--The wild boar rustles in his lair;The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air;But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 185 Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, O Hunter! and without a fearThy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, And through the glades thy pastime take--For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! 190For these thou seest are unmoved;Cold, cold as those who lived and lovedA thousand years ago. ° °193 III ISEULT OF BRITTANY° A year had flown, and o'er the sea away, In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay;In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old--There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, 5Had wander'd forth. Her children were at playIn a green circular hollow in the heathWhich borders the sea-shore--a country pathCreeps over it from the till'd fields behind. The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, 10And to one standing on them, far and nearThe lone unbroken view spreads bright and clearOver the waste. This cirque° of open ground °13Is light and green; the heather, which all roundCreeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass 15Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd massOf vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and thereDotted with holly-trees and juniper. ° °18In the smooth centre of the opening stoodThree hollies side by side, and made a screen, 20Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd greenWith scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's° food. °22Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play; their little handsAre busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 25Of stagshorn° for their hats; anon, with screams °26Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and boundAmong the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rushThe fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 30Out of their glossy coverts;--but when nowTheir cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair--Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three 35Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and sheTold them an old-world Breton history. ° °37 Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air--Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 40Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stay'd still--then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees. But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, 45And still the children listen'd, their blue eyesFix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise;Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away 50From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screamsBore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 55And they would still have listen'd, till dark nightCame keen and chill down on the heather bright;But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, And the grey turrets of the castle oldLook'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, 60Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, And led them home over the darkening heath. And is she happy? Does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and loved 65Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day?Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will--Is it this thought which, makes her mien so still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 70So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meetHer children's? She moves slow; her voice aloneHath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 75And now she will go home, and softly layHer laughing children in their beds, and playAwhile with them before they sleep; and thenShe'll light her silver lamp, which fishermenDragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, 80Along this iron coast, ° know like a star, ° °81And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sitHour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;Lifting her soft-bent head only to mindHer children, or to listen to the wind. 85And when the clock peals midnight, she will moveHer work away, and let her fingers roveAcross the shaggy brows of Tristram's houndWho lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 90Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise, And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she have told °92Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold, Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow'll beTo-day's exact repeated effigy. 95 Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal, ° °97Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, Are there the sole companions to be found. But these she loves; and noiser life than this 100She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children, too, and night and dayIs with them; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, 105These are to her dear as to them; the talesWith which this day the children she beguiledShe gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild. She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, 110Can forget all to hear them, as of old. Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, Not suffering, which shuts up eye and earTo all that has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more. 115No, we may suffer deeply, yet retainPower to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, By what of old pleased us, and will again. No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd 120Until they crumble, or else grow like steel--Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring--Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power--this can avail, By drying up our joy in everything, 125To make our former pleasures all seem stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fitOf passion, which subdues our souls to it, Till for its sake alone we live and move--Call it ambition, or remorse, or love-- 130This too can change us wholly, and make seemAll which we did before, shadow and dream. And yet, I swear, it angers me to seeHow this fool passion gulls° men potently; °134Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, 135And an unnatural overheat at best. How they are full of languor and distressNot having it; which when they do possess, They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, And spend their lives in posting here and there° °140Where this plague drives them; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. Like that bold Cæsar, ° the famed Roman wight, °143Who wept at reading of a Grecian knightWho made a name at younger years than he; 145Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, Prince Alexander, ° Philip's peerless son, °147Who carried the great war from MacedonInto the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on °149To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 150 What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright-winter's day?She told them of the fairy-haunted landAway the other side of Brittany, Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; 155Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, ° °156Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creepsWhere Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. For here he came with the fay° Vivian, °158One April, when the warm days first began. He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, 160On her white palfrey; here he met his end, In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay° °163Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clearBefore the children's fancy him and her. 165 Blowing between the stems, the forest-airHad loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyesSparkled with mocking glee and exercise. Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 170For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. A brier in that tangled wildernessHad scored her white right hand, which she allowsTo rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;The other warded off the drooping boughs. 175But still she chatted on, with her blue eyesFix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face. She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 180Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight;And he grew fond, and eager to obeyHis mistress, use her empire° as she may. °184They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day 185Peer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook;And up as high as where they stood to lookOn the brook's farther side was clear, but thenThe underwood and trees began again. 190This open glen was studded thick with thornsThen white with blossom; and you saw the horns, Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deerWho come at noon down to the water here. You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 195Under the thorns on the green sward; and strongThe blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpeckerRang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 200Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and boughWhich glistering plays all round them, lone and mild. As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here 205The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clearAcross the hollow; white anemonesStarr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primrosesRan out from the dark underwood behind. No fairer resting-place a man could find. 210"Here let us halt, " said Merlin then; and sheNodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. They sate them down together, and a sleepFell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose 215And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it overThe blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° round, °219And made a little plot of magic ground. 220And in that daised circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner° till the judgment-day; °222But she herself whither she will can rove--For she was passing weary of his love. ° °224 LYRICAL POEMS THE CHURCH OF BROU° I THE CASTLE Down the Savoy° valleys sounding, °1 Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets° °3 Hark! what bell for church is toll'd? In the bright October morning 5 Savoy's Duke had left his bride. From the castle, past the drawbridge, Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering; Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 10From her mullion'd chamber-casement Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. From Vienna, by the Danube, Here she came, a bride, in spring. Now the autumn crisps the forest; 15 Hunters gather, bugles ring. Hounds are pulling, prickers° swearing, °17 Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. Off!--They sweep the marshy forests. Westward, on the side of France. 20 Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!-- Down the forest-ridings lone, Furious, single horsemen gallop---- Hark! a shout--a crash--a groan! Pale and breathless, came the hunters; 25 On the turf dead lies the boar--God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him, Senseless, weltering in his gore. * * * * * In the dull October evening, Down the leaf-strewn forest-road, 30To the castle, past the drawbridge, Came the hunters with their load. In the hall, with sconces blazing, Ladies waiting round her seat, Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais° °35 Sate the Duchess Marguerite. Hark! below the gates unbarring! Tramp of men and quick commands!"--'Tis my lord come back from hunting--" And the Duchess claps her hands. 40 Slow and tired, came the hunters-- Stopp'd in darkness in the court. "--Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters! To the hall! What sport? What sport?"-- Slow they enter'd with their master; 45 In the hall they laid him down. On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, On his brow an angry frown. Dead her princely youthful husband Lay before his youthful wife, 50Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces-- And the sight froze all her life. * * * * * In Vienna, by the Danube, Kings hold revel, gallants meet. Gay of old amid the gayest 55 Was the Duchess Marguerite. In Vienna, by the Danube, Feast and dance her youth beguiled. Till that hour she never sorrow'd; But from then she never smiled. 60 'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys Far from town or haunt of man, Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, Which the Duchess Maud began; Old, that Duchess stern began it, 65 In grey age, with palsied hands;But she died while it was building, And the Church unfinish'd stands-- Stands as erst° the builders left it, °69 When she sank into her grave; 70Mountain greensward paves the chancel, ° °71 Harebells flower in the nave. ° °72 "--In my castle all is sorrow, " Said the Duchess Marguerite then;"Guide me, some one, to the mountain! 75 We will build the Church again. "-- Sandall'd palmers, ° faring homeward, °78 Austrian knights from Syria came. "--Austrian wanderers bring, O warders! Homage to your Austrian dame. "-- 80 From the gate the warders answer'd: "--Gone, O knights, is she you knew!Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess; Seek her at the Church of Brou!"-- Austrian knights and march-worn palmers 85 Climb the winding mountain-way. --Reach the valley, where the Fabric Rises higher day by day. Stones are sawing, hammers ringing; On the work the bright sun shines, 90In the Savoy mountain-meadows, By the stream, below the pines. On her palfry white the Duchess Sate and watch'd her working train--Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 95 German masons, smiths from Spain. Clad in black, on her white palfrey, Her old architect beside--There they found her in the mountains, Morn and noon and eventide. 100 There she sate, and watch'd the builders, Till the Church was roof'd and done. Last of all, the builders rear'd her In the nave a tomb of stone. On the tomb two forms they sculptured, 105 Lifelike in the marble pale--One, the Duke in helm and armour; One, the Duchess in her veil. Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork° °109 Was at Easter-tide put on. 110Then the Duchess closed her labours; And she died at the St. John. II THE CHURCH Upon the glistening leaden roofOf the new Pile, the sunlight shines; The stream goes leaping by. The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;'Mid bright green fields, below the pines, 5 Stands the Church on high. What Church is this, from men aloof?--'Tis the Church of Brou. At sunrise, from their dewy lairCrossing the stream, the kine are seen 10 Round the wall to stray--The churchyard wall that clips the squareOf open hill-sward fresh and green Where last year they lay. But all things now are order'd fair 15Round the Church of Brou. On Sundays, at the matin-chime, ° °17The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray;Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, 20Ride out to church from Chambery, ° °21 Dight° with mantles gay. °22But else it is a lonely timeRound the Church of Brou. On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 25From the wall'd town beyond the pass, Down the mountain-way;And then you hear the organ's hum, You hear the white-robed priest say mass, And the people pray. 30But else the woods and fields are dumbRound the Church of Brou. And after church, when mass is done, The people to the nave repair Round the tomb to stray; 35And marvel at the Forms of stone, And praise the chisell'd broideries° rare-- °37 Then they drop away. The princely Pair are left aloneIn the Church of Brou. 40 III THE TOMB So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air, Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come. Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb, From the rich painted windows of the nave, 5On aisle, and transept, ° and your marble grave; °6Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more ariseFrom the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies, On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds, And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 10To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive, Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, Coming benighted to the castle-gate. 15 So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fairOn the carved western front a flood of lightStreams from the setting sun, and colours brightProphets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave, 20In the vast western window of the nave, And on the pavement round the Tomb there glintsA chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints, And amethyst, and ruby--then uncloseYour eyelids on the stone where ye repose, 25And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads, And rise upon your cold white marble beds;And, looking down on the warm rosy tints, Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints, Say: _What is this? we are in bliss--forgiven--_ 30_Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!_Or let it be on autumn nights, when rainDoth rustlingly above your heads complainOn the smooth leaden roof, and on the wallsShedding her pensive light at intervals 35The moon through the clere-story windows shines, And the wind washes through the mountain-pines. Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, The foliaged marble forest° where ye lie, °39_Hush_, ye will say, _it is eternity!_ 40_This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and theseThe columns of the heavenly palaces!_And, in the sweeping of the wind, your earThe passage of the Angels' wings will hear, And on the lichen-crusted leads° above °45The rustle of the eternal rain of love. REQUIESCAT° Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew!In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too! Her mirth the world required; 5 She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. 10But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round. Her cabin'd, ° ample spirit, °13 It flutter'd and fail'd for breathTo-night it doth inherit 15 The vasty° hall of death. °16 CONSOLATION Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf housesHem me round everywhere;A vague dejectionWeighs down my soul. 5 Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countlessProspects unroll themselves, And countless beingsPass countless moods. 10 Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth convent-roofs, On the gilt terraces, Of holy Lassa, ° °14Bright shines the sun. 15 Grey time-worn marblesHold the pure Muses°; °17In their cool gallery, ° °18By yellow Tiber, ° °19They still look fair. 20 Strange unloved uproar° °21Shrills round their portal;Yet not on Helicon° °23Kept they more cloudlessTheir noble calm. 25 Through sun-proof alleysIn a lone, sand-hemm'dCity of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms. 30 No bolder robberErst° abode ambush'd °32Deep in the sandy waste;No clearer eyesightSpied prey afar. 35 Saharan sand-windsSear'd his keen eyeballs;Spent is the spoil he won. For him the presentHolds only pain. 40 Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fieldsPlays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy. 45 With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes brimming:"Ah, " they cry, "Destiny, ° °48Prolong the present!Time, stand still here!" 50 The prompt stern GoddessShakes her head, frowning;Time gives his hour-glassIts due reversal;Their hour is gone. 55 With weak indulgenceDid the just GoddessLengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd alsoDistress elsewhere. 60 The hour, whose happyUnalloy'd momentsI would eternalise, Ten thousand mournersWell pleased see end. 65 The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe momentsI would annihilate, Is pass'd by othersIn warmth, light, joy. 70 Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one manShows partiality, Brings round to all menSome undimm'd hours. 75 A DREAM Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd, Martin and I, down the green Alpine stream, Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun, On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops, On the red pinings of their forest-floor, 5Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pinesThe mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan changeOf bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-treesAnd the frail scarlet-berried ash, began. Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes, 10And from some swarded shelf, high up, there cameNotes of wild pastoral music--over allRanged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow. Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge, Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood, 15Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leavesMuffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roofLay the warm golden gourds; golden, within, Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn. We shot beneath the cottage with the stream. 20On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two formsCame forth--Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine. Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast;Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue, Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd. 25They saw us, they conferred; their bosoms heaved, And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes. Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly, Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed. One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat 30Hung poised--and then the darting river of Life(Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life, Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd, Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone. Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pines 35Faded--the moss--the rocks; us burning plains, Bristled with cities, us the sea received. LINES° WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees° stand! °4 Birds here make song, each bird has his, 5Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is!How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! Sometimes a child will cross the gladeTo take his nurse his broken toy; 10Sometimes a thrush flit overheadDeep in her unknown day's employ. Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here°! °14What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! 15An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. Scarce fresher is the mountain-sodWhere the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 20 In the huge world, ° which roars hard by, °21Be others happy if they can!But in my helpless cradle IWas breathed on by the rural Pan. ° °24 I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 25Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper worldAnd now keeps only in the grave. Yet here is peace for ever new!When I who watch them am away, 30Still all things in this glade go throughThe changes of their quiet day. Then to their happy rest they pass!The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, 35The child sleeps warmly in his bed. Calm soul of all things! make it mineTo feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar. 40 The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give°!Calm, calm me more! nor let me dieBefore I have begun to live. THE STRAYED REVELLER° _The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening. _ A YOUTH. CIRCE. ° _The Youth_. Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright processionOf eddying forms, 5Sweep through my soul! Thou standest, smilingDown on me! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek; 10Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, ° °12I held but now. Is it, then, eveningSo soon? I see, the night-dews, 15Cluster'd in thick beads, dimThe agate brooch-stonesOn thy white shoulder;The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, 20Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe! _Circe_. Whence art thou, sleeper? _The Youth_. When the white dawn firstThrough the rough fir-planks 25Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess!I sprang up, I threw round meMy dappled fawn-skin; 30Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew--Came swift down to join 35The rout° early gather'd °36In the town, round the temple, Iacchus'° white fane° °38On yonder hill. Quick I pass'd, following 40The wood-cutters' cart-trackDown the dark valley;--I sawOn my left, through, the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty! 45Trembling, I enter'd; beheldThe court all silent, The lions sleeping, ° °47On the altar this bowl. I drank, Goddess! 50And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico. _Circe_. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?Thou lovest it, then, my wine?Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 55Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds!Drink, then! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. 60Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so!Drink--drink again! _The Youth_. Thanks, gracious one!Ah, the sweet fumes again!More soft, ah me, 65More subtle-windingThan Pan's flute-music!° °67Faint--faint! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep! _Circe_. Hist! Thou--within there! 70Come forth, Ulysses°! °71Art° tired with hunting? °72While we range° the woodland, °73See what the day brings. ° °74 _Ulysses_. Ever new magic! 75Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus' darling--Or some youth beloved of Pan, 80Of Pan and the Nymphs°? °81That he sits, bending downwardHis white, delicate neckTo the ivy-wreathed margeOf thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 85That crown his hair, Falling forward, minglingWith the dark ivy-plants--His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 90That he sits, overweigh'dBy fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico?What youth, Goddess, --what guestOf Gods or mortals? 95 _Circe_. Hist! he wakes!I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him! _The Youth_. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forthTo thy side, Goddess, from within? 100How shall I name him?This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger?Ah, and I see tooHis sailor's bonnet, 105His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare°!-- °107Art thou not he, whom fameThis long time rumoursThe favour'd guest of Circe, ° brought by the waves? °110Art thou he, stranger?The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son? _Ulysses_. I am Ulysses. And thou, too, sleeper? 115Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast follow'dThrough the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses°; °120And heard him delightingThe chiefs and peopleIn the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts, 125And peopled cities, Inland, or builtBy the grey sea. --If so, then hail!I honour and welcome thee. _The Youth_. The Gods are happy. 130They turn on all sidesTheir shining eyes, And see below themThe earth and men. ° °134 They see Tiresias° °135Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassyAsopus° bank, °138His robe drawn overHis old, sightless head, 140Revolving inlyThe doom of Thebes. ° °142 They see the Centaurs° °143In the upper glensOf Pelion, ° in the streams, °145Where red-berried ashes fringeThe clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and headsRear'd proudly, snuffingThe mountain wind. 150 They see the IndianDrifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moor'd toA floating isle thick-mattedWith large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants, 155And the dark cucumber. He reaps, and stows them, Drifting--drifting;--round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves, 160The mountains ring them. ° They see the ScythianOn the wide stepp, unharnessingHis wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 165Mares' milk, and breadBaked on the embers°;--all around °167The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'dWith saffron and the yellow hollyhockAnd flag-leaved iris-flowers. 170Sitting in his cart, He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards, And the springing bustard-fowl, The track, a straight black line, 175Furrows the rich soil; here and thereClusters of lonely moundsTopp'd with rough-hewn, Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeerThe sunny waste. ° °180 They see the ferryOn the broad, clay-laden. Lone Chorasmian stream°;--thereon, °183With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 185The ferry-boat, with woven ropesTo either bowFirm harness'd by the mane; a chief, With shout and shaken spear, Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 190The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealthOf silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 195Jasper and chalcedony, And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. ° °197The loaded boat swings groaningIn the yellow eddies;The Gods behold them. 200They see the HeroesSitting in the dark shipOn the foamless, long-heavingViolet sea, At sunset nearing 205The Happy Islands. ° °206 These things, Ulysses, The wise bards alsoBehold and sing. But oh, what labour! 210O prince, what pain! They too can seeTiresias;--but the Gods, Who give them vision, Added this law: 215That they should bear tooHis groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs;Bear Hera's anger° °220Through a life lengthen'dTo seven ages. They see the CentaursOn Pelion;--then they feel, They too, the maddening wine 225Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild painThey feel the biting spearsOf the grim Lapithæ, ° and Theseus, ° drive, °228Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel °229High on a jutting rock in the red stream 230Alcmena's dreadful son° °231Ply his bow;--such a priceThe Gods exact for song:To become what we sing. They see the Indian 235On his mountain lake; but squallsMake their skiff reel, and wormsIn the unkind spring have gnawnTheir melon-harvest to the heart. --They seeThe Scythian; but long frosts 240Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass; they crawlLike shadows forth in spring. They see the merchantsOn the Oxus stream°;--but care °245Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burstUpon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 250Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home. They see the Heroes° °254Near harbour;--but they share 255Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°; °257Or where the echoing oarsOf Argo firstStartled the unknown sea. ° °260 The old Silenus° °261Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way, at noon. Sitting by me, while his Fauns 265Down at the water-sideSprinkled and smoothedHis drooping garland, He told me these things. But I, Ulysses, 270Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labour, Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad°-- °275Sometimes a Faun with torches°-- °276And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stemsFlowing-robed, the beloved, The desired, the divine, 280Beloved Iacchus. Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-murmur, Dreaming woods! 285Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer!Who can stand still?Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- 290The cup again! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession 295Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! MORALITY We cannot kindle when we willThe fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight will'd 5 Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. With aching hands and bleeding feetWe dig and heap, lay stone on stone;We bear the burden and the heatOf the long day, and wish 'twere done. 10 Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, Ask, how _she_ view'd thy self-control, 15Thy struggling, task'd morality-- Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air. Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 20See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek! "Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine? "There is no effort on _my_ brow-- 25I do not strive, I do not weep;I rush with the swift spheres and glowIn joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once--but where? 30 "I knew not yet the gauge of time, Nor wore the manacles of space;I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, 35 And lay upon the breast of God. " DOVER BEACH The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits;--on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 5Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, from the long line of sprayWhere the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 10At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles° long ago °15Heard it on the Ægæan, ° and it brought °16Into his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; weFind also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20 The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth's shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hearIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the vast edges drearAnd naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be trueTo one another! for the world, which seems 30To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;And we are here as on a darkling plain 35Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. PHILOMELA° Hark! ah, the nightingale--The tawny-throated!Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!What triumph! hark!--what pain°! °4 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, ° °5Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brainThat wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain°-- °8Say, will it never heal?And can this fragrant lawn 10With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brainAfford no balm? 15 Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild°? °18Dost thou again peruseWith hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 20The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame°? °21Dost thou once more assayThy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery changeOnce more, and once more seem to make resound 25With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, ° and the high Cephissian vale°? °27Listen, Eugenia--How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves°! °29Again--thou hearest? 30Eternal passion!Eternal pain°! °32 HUMAN LIFE What mortal, when he saw, Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly:"I have kept uninfringed my nature's law°; °4The inly-written chart° thou gavest me, 5To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"? Ah! let us make no claim, On life's incognisable° sea, °8To too exact a steering of our way;Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim, 10If some fair coast have lured us to make stay, Or some friend hail'd us to keep company. Ay! we would each fain driveAt random, and not steer by rule. Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain 15Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive, We rush by coasts where we had lief remain;Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool. No! as the foaming swathOf torn-up water, on the main, 20Falls heavily away with long-drawn roarOn either side the black deep-furrow'd pathCut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore, ° °23And never touches the ship-side again; Even so we leave behind, 25As, charter'd by some unknown PowersWe stem° across the sea of life by night °27The joys which were not for our use design'd;--The friends to whom we had no natural right, The homes that were not destined to be ours. 30 ISOLATION TO MARGUERITE Yes°! in the sea of life enisled, °1With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live _alone_. The islands feel the enclasping flow, 5And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon° their hollows lights, °7And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; 10And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour-- Oh! then a longing like despairIs to their farthest caverns sent;For surely once, they feel, we were 15Parts of a single continent!Now round us spreads the watery plain--Oh might our marges meet again! Who order'd, that their longing's fireShould be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? 20Who renders vain their deep desire?--A God, a God their severance ruled!And bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. ° °24 KAISER DEAD° _April_ 6, 1887 What, Kaiser dead? The heavy newsPost-haste to Cobham° calls the Muse, °2From where in Farringford° she brews °3 The ode sublime, Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard° pursues °5 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!" 10O for the croon pathetic, sweet, Of Robin's reed°! °12 Six years ago I brought him down, A baby dog, from London town;Round his small throat of black and brown 15 A ribbon blue, And vouch'd by glorious renown A dachshound true. His mother, most majestic dame, Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam° came; °20And 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. 25The collie hair, the collie swing, The tail's indomitable ring, The eye's unrest--The case was clear; a mongrel thing Kai stood confest. 30 But all those virtues, which commendThe humbler sort who serve and tend, Were thine in store, thou faithful friend. What sense, what cheer!To us, declining tow'rds our end, 35 A mate how dear! For Max, thy brother-dog, beganTo flag, and feel his narrowing span. And cold, besides, his blue blood ran, Since, 'gainst the classes, 40He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man° °41 Incite the masses. Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad;But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad, Teeming with plans, alert, and glad 45 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, °50Then, home return'd, once more depart; Or prest togetherAgainst thy mistress, loving heart, In winter weather. I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd, 55In 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. " 60 Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone;Thou hast 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, °65 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, 70And jokes in doggish language said, Beguiled his walk. And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate, Thy passing by doth vainly wait;And jealous Jock, thy only hate, 75 The chiel° from Skye, ° °76Lets from his shaggy Highland pate Thy memory die. Well, fetch his graven collar fine, And rub the steel, and make it shine, 80And leave it round thy neck to twine, Kai, in thy grave. There of thy master keep that sign, And this plain stave. THE LAST WORD° Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said!Vain thy onset! all stands fast. Thou thyself must break at last. Let the long contention cease! 5Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will!Thou art tired; best be still. They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee?Better men fared thus before thee; 10Fired their ringing shot and pass'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, 15Find thy body by the wall! PALLADIUM° Set where the upper streams of Simois° flow °1Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood;And Hector° was in Ilium° far below, °3And fought, and saw it not--but there it stood! It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light 5On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fightRound Troy--but while this stood, Troy could not fall. So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; 10Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll;We visit it by moments, ah, too rare! We shall renew the battle in the plainTo-morrow;--red with blood will Xanthus° be; °14Hector and Ajax° will be there again, °15Helen° will come upon the wall to see. °16 Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, And fancy that we put forth all our life, And never know how with the soul it fares. 20 Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send. And when it fails, fight as we will, we die;And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. REVOLUTIONS Before man parted for this earthly strand, While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, God put a heap of letters in his hand, And bade him make with them what word he could. And man has turn'd them many times; made Greece, 5Rome, England, France;--yes, nor in vain essay'dWay after way, changes that never cease!The letters have combined, something was made. But ah! an inextinguishable senseHaunts him that he has not made what he should; 10That he has still, though old, to recommence, Since he has not yet found the word God would. And empire after empire, at their heightOf sway, have felt this boding sense come on;Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, 15And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne. One day, thou say'st, there will at last appearThe word, the order, which God meant should be. --Ah! we shall know _that_ well when it comes near;The band will quit man's heart, he will breathe free. 20 SELF-DEPENDENCE° Weary of myself, and sick of askingWhat I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears meForwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. And a look of passionate desire 5O'er the sea and to the stars I send:"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! "Ah, once more, " I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; 10Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!" From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer: 15"Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they. "Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without themYield them love, amusement, sympathy. 20 "And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll;For self-poised they live, nor pine with notingAll the fever of some differing soul. "Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 25In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see. " O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: 30"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he, Who finds himself, loses his misery!" A SUMMER NIGHT In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street, How lonely rings the echo of my feet!Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, Silent and white, unopening down, Repellent as the world;--but see, 5A break between the housetops showsThe moon! and, lost behind her, fading dimInto the dewy dark obscurityDown at the far horizon's rim, Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 10 And to my mind the thoughtIs on a sudden broughtOf a past night, and a far different scene. Headlands stood out into the moonlit deepAs clearly as at noon; 15The spring-tide's brimming flowHeaved dazzlingly between;Houses, with long white sweep, Girdled the glistening bay;Behind, through the soft air, 20The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away, The night was far more fair--But the same restless pacings to and fro, And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, And the same bright, calm moon. 25 And the calm moonlight seems to say:_Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast, Which neither deadens into rest, Nor ever feels the fiery glowThat whirls the spirit from itself away_, 30_But fluctuates to and fro, Never by passion quite possess'dAnd never quite benumb'd by the world's sway?--_And I, I know not if to prayStill to be what I am, or yield and be 35Like all the other men I see. For most men in a brazen prison live, Where, in the sun's hot eye, With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidlyTheir lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 40Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall. And as, year after year, Fresh products of their barren labour fallFrom their tired hands, and restNever yet comes more near, 45Gloom settles slowly down over their breast;A while they try to stemThe waves of mournful thought by which they are prest, And the rest, a few, Escape their prison and depart 50On the wide ocean of life anew. There the freed prisoner, where'er his heartListeth, will sail;Nor doth he know how these prevail, Despotic on that sea, 55Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'dBy thwarting signs, and bravesThe freshening wind and blackening wavesAnd then the tempest strikes him; and between 60The lightning-bursts is seenOnly a driving wreck. And the pale master on his spar-strewn deckWith anguished face and flying hair, Grasping the rudder hard, 65Still bent to make some port he knows not where, Still standing for some false, impossible shore. And sterner comes the roarOf sea and wind, and through the deepening gloomFainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom 70And he, too, disappears and comes no more. Is there no life, but there alone?Madman or slave, must man be one?Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!Clearness divine. 75Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no signOf languor, though so calm, and though so greatAre yet untroubled and unpassionate;Who though so noble, share in the world's toil. And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil! 80 I will not say that your mild deeps retainA tinge, it may he, of their silent painWho have longed deeply once, and longed in vain--But I will rather say that you remainA world above man's head, to let him see 85How boundless might his soul's horizon be, How vast, yet of which clear transparency!How it were good to live there, and breathe free!How fair a lot to fillIs left to each man still! 90 GEIST'S GRAVE° Four years!--and didst thou stay aboveThe ground, which hides thee now, but four?And all that life, and all that love, Were crowded, Geist! into no more? Only four years those winning ways, 5Which make me for thy presence yearn, Call'd us to pet thee or to praise, Dear little friend! at every turn? That loving heart, that patient soul, Had they indeed no longer span, 10To run their course, and reach their goal, And read their homily° to man? °12 That liquid, melancholy eye, From whose pathetic, soul-fed springsSeem'd surging the Virgilian cry, ° °15The sense of tears in mortal things-- That steadfast, mournful strain, consoledBy spirits gloriously gay, And temper of heroic mould--What, was four years their whole short day? 20 Yes, only four!--and not the courseOf all the centuries yet to come, And not the infinite resourceOf Nature, with her countless sum Of figures, with her fulness vast 25Of new creation evermore, Can ever quite repeat the past, Or just thy little self restore. Stern law of every mortal lot!Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, 30And builds himself I know not whatOf second life I know not where. But thou, when struck thine hour to go, On us, who stood despondent by, A meek last glance of love didst throw, 35And humbly lay thee down to die. Yet would we keep thee in our heart--Would fix our favourite on the scene, Nor let thee utterly departAnd be as if thou ne'er hadst been. 40 And so there rise these lines of verseOn lips that rarely form them now°; °42While to each other we rehearse:Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou! We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 45We bid thee to thy vacant chair, We greet thee by the window-pane, We hear thy scuffle on the stair. We see the flaps of thy large earsQuick raised to ask which way we go; 50Crossing the frozen lake, appearsThy small black figure on the snow! Nor to us only art thou dearWho mourn thee in thine English home;Thou hast thine absent master's° tear, 55Dropt by the far Australian foam. Thy memory lasts both here and there, And thou shalt live as long as we. And after that--thou dost not care!In us was all the world to thee. 60 Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, Even to a date beyond our ownWe strive to carry down thy name, By mounded turf, and graven stone. We lay thee, close within our reach, 65Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form, Asleep, yet lending half an earTo travellers on the Portsmouth road;-- 70There build we thee, O guardian dear, Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode! Then some, who through this garden pass, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the grass, 75And stop before the stone, and say: _People who lived here long agoDid by this stone, it seems, intendTo name for future times to knowThe dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend. _ 80 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOÖN° One morn as through Hyde Park° we walk'd, °1My friend and I, by chance we talk'dOf Lessing's famed Laocoön;And after we awhile had goneIn Lessing's track, and tried to see 5What painting is, what poetry--Diverging to another thought, "Ah, " cries my friend, "but who hath taughtWhy music and the other artsOftener perform aright their parts 10Than poetry? why she, than they, Fewer fine successes can display? "For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece, Where best the poet framed his piece, Even in that Phoebus-guarded ground° °15Pausanias° on his travels found °16Good poems, if he look'd, more rare(Though many) than good statues were--For these, in truth, were everywhere. Of bards full many a stroke divine 20In Dante's, ° Petrarch's, ° Tasso's° line, °21The land of Ariosto° show'd; °22And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'dWith triumphs, a yet ampler brood, Of Raphael° and his brotherhood. °25And nobly perfect, in our dayOf haste, half-work, and disarray, Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, Hath risen Goethe's, ° Wordsworth's° song; °29Yet even I (and none will bow 30Deeper to these) must needs allow, They yield us not, to soothe our pains, Such multitude of heavenly strainsAs from the kings of sound are blown, Mozart, ° Beethoven, ° Mendelssohn. °" °35 While thus my friend discoursed, we passOut of the path, and take the grass. The grass had still the green of May, And still the unblackan'd elms were gay;The kine were resting in the shade, 40The flies a summer-murmur made. Bright was the morn and south° the air; °42The soft-couch'd cattle were as fairAs those which pastured by the sea, That old-world morn, in Sicily, 45When on the beach the Cyclops lay, And Galatea from the bayMock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay. ° °48"Behold, " I said, "the painter's sphere!The limits of his art appear. 50The passing group, the summer-morn, The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn--Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise, Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes--These, or much greater things, but caught 55Like these, and in one aspect brought!In outward semblance he must giveA moment's life of things that live;Then let him choose his moment well, With power divine its story tell. " 60 Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood, And now upon the bridge we stood. Full of sweet breathings was the air, Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze 65Came rustling from the garden-treesAnd on the sparkling waters play'd;Light-plashing waves an answer made, And mimic boats their haven near'd. Beyond, the Abbey-towers° appear'd, °70By mist and chimneys unconfined, Free to the sweep of light and wind;While through their earth-moor'd nave belowAnother breath of wind doth blow, Sound as of wandering breeze--but sound 75In laws by human artists bound. "The world of music°!" I exclaimed:-- °77"This breeze that rustles by, that famedAbbey recall it! what a sphereLarge and profound, hath genius here! 80The inspired musician what a range, What power of passion, wealth of changeSome source of feeling he must chooseAnd its lock'd fount of beauty use, And through the stream of music tell 85Its else unutterable spell;To choose it rightly is his part, And press into its inmost heart. "_Miserere Domine°!_ °89The words are utter'd, and they flee. 90Deep is their penitential moan, Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone. They have declared the spirit's soreSore load, and words can do no more. Beethoven takes them then--those two 95Poor, bounded words--and makes them new;Infinite makes them, makes them young;Transplants them to another tongue, Where they can now, without constraint, Pour all the soul of their complaint, 100And roll adown a channel largeThe wealth divine they have in charge. Page after page of music turn, And still they live and still they burn, Eternal, passion-fraught, and free-- 105_Miserere Domine°!"_ °106 Onward we moved, and reach'd the Ride° °107Where gaily flows the human tide. Afar, in rest the cattle lay;We heard, afar, faint music play; 110But agitated, brisk, and near, Men, with their stream of life, were here. Some hang upon the rails, and someOn foot behind them go and come. This through the Ride upon his steed 115Goes slowly by, and this at speed. The young, the happy, and the fair, The old, the sad, the worn, were there;Some vacant, ° and some musing went, And some in talk and merriment. 120Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!And now and then, perhaps, there swellsA sigh, a tear--but in the throngAll changes fast, and hies° along. °124Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground? 125And to what goal, what ending, bound?"Behold, at last the poet's sphere!But who, " I said, "suffices here? "For, ah! so much he has to do;Be painter and musician too°! °130The aspect of the moment show, The feeling of the moment know!The aspect not, I grant, expressClear as the painter's art can dress;The feeling not, I grant, explore 135So deep as the musician's lore--But clear as words can make revealing, And deep as words can follow feeling. But, ah! then comes his sorest spellOf toil--he must life's _movement_° tell! °140The thread which binds it all in one, And not its separate parts alone. The _movement_ he must tell of life, Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;His eye must travel down, at full, 145The long, unpausing spectacle;With faithful unrelaxing forceAttend it from its primal source, From change to change and year to yearAttend it of its mid career, 150Attend it to the last reposeAnd solemn silence of its close. "The cattle rising from the grassHis thought must follow where they pass;The penitent with anguish bow'd 155His thought must follow through the crowd. Yes! all this eddying, motley throngThat sparkles in the sun along, Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold, Master and servant, young and old, 160Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife, He follows home, and lives their life. "And many, many are the soulsLife's movement fascinates, controls;It draws them on, they cannot save 165Their feet from its alluring wave;They cannot leave it, they must goWith its unconquerable flow. But ah! how few, of all that tryThis mighty march, do aught but die! 170For ill-endow'd for such a way, Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they. They faint, they stagger to and fro, And wandering from the stream they go;In pain, in terror, in distress, 175They see, all round, a wilderness. Sometimes a momentary gleamThey catch of the mysterious stream;Sometimes, a second's space, their earThe murmur of its waves doth hear. 180That transient glimpse in song they say, But not of painter can pourtray--That transient sound in song they tell, But not, as the musician, well. And when at last their snatches cease, 185And they are silent and at peace, The stream of life's majestic wholeHath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul. "Only a few the life-stream's shoreWith safe unwandering feet explore; 190Untired its movement bright attend, Follow its windings to the end. Then from its brimming waves their eyeDrinks up delighted ecstasy, And its deep-toned, melodious voice 195For ever makes their ear rejoice. They speak! the happiness divineThey feel, runs o'er in every line;Its spell is round them like a shower--It gives them pathos, gives them power. 200No painter yet hath such a way, Nor no musician made, as they, And gather'd on immortal knollsSuch lovely flowers for cheering souls. Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach 205The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach. To these, to these, their thankful raceGives, then, the first, the fairest place;And brightest is their glory's sheen, For greatest hath their labour been. °" °210 SONNETS QUIET WORK° One lesson, ° Nature, let me learn of thee, °1One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at oneThough the loud° world proclaim their enmity-- °4 Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity! 5Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrowsFar noisier° schemes, accomplish'd in repose, °7Too great for haste, too high for rivalry! Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil, 10Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone. SHAKESPEARE° Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 5Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his baseTo the foil'd searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams knowSelf-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 10Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. --Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bowFind their sole speech in that victorious brow. YOUTH'S AGITATIONS° When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, From this poor present self which I am now;When youth has done its tedious vain expenseOf passions that for ever ebb and flow; Shall I not joy° youth's heats° are left behind, °5And breathe more happy in an even clime°?-- °6Ah no, for then I shall begin to findA thousand virtues in this hated time! Then I shall wish its agitations back, And all its thwarting currents of desire; 10Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, And call this hurrying fever, ° generous fire; °12 And sigh that one thing only has been lentTo youth and age in common--discontent. AUSTERITY OF POETRY° That son of Italy° who tried to blow, °1Ere Dante° came, the trump of sacred song, °2In his light youth° amid a festal throng °3Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 5Youth like a star; and what to youth belong--Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo, 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!Shuddering, they drew her garments off--and found 10A robe of sackcloth° next the smooth, white skin. °11 Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden groundOf thought and of austerity within. WORLDLY PLACE _Even in a palace, life may be led well!_So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. ° But the stifling den °3Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 5And drudge under some foolish° master's ken. ° °6Who rates° us if we peer outside our pen-- °7Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? _Even in a palace!_ On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; 10And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here!The aids to noble life are all within. " EAST LONDON 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overheadSmote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, ° °2And the pale weaver, through his windows seenIn Spitalfields, ° look'd thrice dispirited. °4 I met a preacher there I knew, and said: 5"Ill and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?"--"Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been, Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, _the living bread. "_ O human soul! as long as thou canst soSet up a mark of everlasting light, 10Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam--Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night!Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. WEST LONDON Crouch'd on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, ° °1A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. A babe was in her arms, and at her sideA girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, 5Pass'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hiedAcross and begg'd, and came back satisfied. The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. Thought I: "Above her state this spirit towers;She will not ask of aliens but of friends, 10Of sharers in a common human fate. "She turns from that cold succour, which attendsThe unknown little from the unknowing great, And points us to a better time than ours. " ELEGIAC POEMS MEMORIAL VERSES° _April_, 1850 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, ° and Greece, °1Long since, saw Byron's° struggle cease. °2But one such death remain'd to come;The last poetic voice is dumb--We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 5 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, We bow'd our head and held our breath. He taught us little; but our soulHad _felt_ him like the thunder's roll. With shivering heart the strife we saw 10Of passion with eternal law;And yet with reverential aweWe watch'd the fount of fiery lifeWhich served for that Titanic strife. When Goethe's death was told, we said: 15Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. Physician of the iron age, ° °17Goethe has done his pilgrimage. He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; 20And struck his finger on the place, And said: _Thou ailest here, and here!_He look'd on Europe's dying hourOf fitful dream and feverish power;His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 25The turmoil of expiring life--He said: _The end is everywhere, Art still has truth, take refuge there!_And he was happy, if to knowCauses of things, and far below 30His feet to see the lurid flowOf terror, and insane distress, And headlong fate, be happiness. And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!For never has such soothing voice 35Been to your shadowy world convey'd, Since erst, at morn, some wandering shadeHeard the clear song of Orpheus° come °38Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye, 40Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!He too upon a wintry climeHad fallen--on this iron timeOf doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound 45Our souls in its benumbing round;He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth, Smiles broke from us and we had ease; 50The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o'er the sun-lit fields again;Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. Our youth returned; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead, 55Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, The freshness of the early world. Ah! since dark days still bring to lightMan's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course 60Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force;But where will Europe's latter hourAgain find Wordsworth's healing power?Others will teach us how to dare, And against fear our breast to steel; 65Others will strengthen us to bear--But who, ah! who, will make us feelThe cloud of mortal destiny?Others will front it fearlessly--But who, like him, will put it by? 70 Keep fresh the grass upon his graveO Rotha, ° with thy living wave! °72Sing him thy best! for few or noneHears thy voice right, now he is gone. THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY° Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes°! °2 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head. 5 But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen; Cross and recross° the strips of moon-blanch'd green, °9 Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest! 10 Here, where the reaper was at work of late-- In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse, ° °13 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use-- 15 Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn°-- °19 All the live murmur of a summer's day. 20 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep; 25 And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. ° °30 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book°-- °31 Come, let me read the oft-read tale again! The story of the Oxford scholar poor, Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, 35 One summer-morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore, And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 40 But once, years after, in the country-lanes, Two scholars, whom at college erst° he knew, °42 Met him, and of his way of life enquired; Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew, His mates, had arts to rule as they desired 45 The workings of men's brains, And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. "And I, " he said, "the secret of their art, When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill. °" °50 This said, he left them, and return'd no more. -- But rumours hung about the country-side, That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 55 The same the gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst° in spring; °57 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, ° °58 On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering. 60 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. And I myself seem half to know, thy looks, And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace; And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place; 65 Or in my boat I lie Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills. And watch the warm, green-muffled° Cumner hills, °69 And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 70 For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground! Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer-nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, ° °74 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 75 As the punt's rope chops round; And leaning backward in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 80 And then they land, and thou art seen no more!-- Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come; To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, ° °83 Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store 85 Of flowers--the frail-leaf'd, white anemony, Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves And purple orchises with spotted leaves-- But none hath words she can report of thee. 90 And, above Godstow Bridge, ° when hay-time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, ° °95 Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown; Mark'd thine outlandish° garb, thy figure spare, °98 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air-- But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone! 100 At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late 105 For cresses from the rills, Have known thee eying, all an April-day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 110 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood°-- °111 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd° and shreds of grey, °114 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly°-- °115 The blackbird, picking food, Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 120 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge, Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face tow'rd Hinksey° and its wintry ridge? °125 And thou hast climb'd the hill, And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall°-- °129 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. °130 But what--I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil° did the tale inscribe °133 That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe; 135 And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid-- Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white-flowering nettles wave, Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's° shade. °140 --No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 145 And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, ° °147 And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius° we remit °149 Our worn-out life, and are--what we have been. 150 Thou hast not lived, ° why should'st thou perish, so? °151 Thou hadst _one_ aim, _one_ business, _one_ desire°; °152 Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead! Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire! The generations of thy peers are fled, 155 And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot, And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, Because thou hadst--what we, alas! have not. ° °160 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings°. °165 O life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. ° °170 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, Light half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd; 175 For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-- Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too° °180 Yes, we await it!--but it still delays, And then we suffer! and amongst us one, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he 185 Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes. ° °190 This for our wisest! and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear; With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair-- 195 But none has hope like thine! Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away. 200 O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its head o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife-- 205 Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido° did with gesture stern° °208 From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude! 210 Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, ° °212 With a free, onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silver'd branches° of the glade-- °214 Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, 215 On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales Freshen thy flowers as in former years With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, ° to the nightingales! 220 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from thy own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 225 Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers, And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made; And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 230 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! --As some grave Tyrian° trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow 235 Among the Ægæan isles°; °236 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, ° °238 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies° steep'd in brine-- °239 And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 240 The young light-hearted masters of the waves-- And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail; And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters° with the gale, °244 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 245 To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits°; and unbent sails °247 There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come°; °249 And on the beach undid his corded bales. ° °250 THYRSIS° A MONODY, TO COMMEMORATE THE AUTHOR'S FRIENDARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, WHO DIED AT FLORENCE, 1861 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills°! °1 In the two Hinkseys° nothing keeps the same; °2 The village street its haunted mansion lacks, And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, ° °4 And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks-- 5 Are ye too changed, ye hills°? °6 See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays! Here came I often, often, in old days-- Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then. 10 Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs°? °14 The Vale, ° the three lone weirs, ° the youthful Thames?--, °15 This winter-eve is warm, Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring, The tender purple spray on copse and briers! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, ° °19 She needs not June for beauty's heightening, ° °20 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!-- Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power Befalls me wandering through this upland dim, ° °23 Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour°; °24 Now seldom come I, since I came with him. 25 That single elm-tree bright Against the west--I miss it! is it gone? We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. ° °30 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquaintance made By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. Here, too, our shepherd-pipes° we first assay'd. °35 Ah me! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday! Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart Into the world and wave of men depart; But Thyrsis of his own will went away. ° °40 It irk'd° him to be here, he could not rest. °41 He loved each simple joy the country yields, He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep, ° °43 For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, Here with the shepherds and the silly° sheep. °45 Some life of men unblest He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head. He went; his piping took a troubled sound Of storms° that rage outside our happy ground; He could not wait their passing, he is dead. ° °50 So, some tempestuous morn in early June, When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, Before the roses and the longest day-- When garden-walks and all the grassy floor With blossoms red and white of fallen May° °55 And chestnut-flowers are strewn-- So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze: _The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I°!_ °60 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? Soon will the high Midsummer pomps° come on, °62 Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, 65 And stocks in fragrant blow; Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 70 He hearkens not! light comer, ° he is flown! °71 What matters it? next year he will return, And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days. With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, 75 And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains° shall see; °77 See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, ° °78 And blow a strain the world at last shall heed°-- °79 For Time, not Corydon, ° hath conquer'd thee! °80 Alack, for Corydon no rival now!-- But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Some good survivor with his flute would go, Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate°; °84 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, ° °85 And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the beauteous head Of Proserpine, ° among whose crowned hair °88 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. ° °90 O easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, ° °94 She knew each lily white which Enna yields, 95 Each rose with blushing face°; °96 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. ° °97 But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd; And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! 100 Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill! Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 105 I know the Fyfield tree, ° °106 I know what white, what purple fritillaries The grassy harvest of the river-fields, Above by Ensham, ° down by Sandford, ° yields, °109 And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; 110 I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?-- But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 115 Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team, And only in the hidden brookside gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 120 Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, Above the locks, above the boating throng, Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats, ° °123 Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among And darting swallows and light water-gnats, 125 We track'd the shy Thames shore? Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?-- They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! 130 Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent° with grey; °135 I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train;-- The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. 140 And long the way appears, which seem'd so short To the less practised eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare! 145 Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, And near and real the charm of thy repose, And night as welcome as a friend would fall. ° °150 But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss Of quiet!--Look, adown the dusk hill-side, A troop of Oxford hunters going home, As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! From hunting with the Berkshire° hounds they come. °155 Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field!--'Tis done; and see, Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky, Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! 160 I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, 165 Yet, happy omen, hail! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale° °167 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale), 170 Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!-- Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him; To a boon southern country he is fled, ° °175 And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's° train divine °177 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine, 180 Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!-- Putting his sickle to the perilous grain In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, For thee the Lityerses-song again Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; 185 Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes-- And how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, And all the marvel of the golden skies. ° °190 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here Sole° in these fields! yet will I not despair. Despair I will not, while I yet descry 'Neath the mild canopy of English air That lonely tree against the western sky. 195 Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear, Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee Fields where soft sheep° from cages pull the hay, Woods with anemonies in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?° °200 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, Shy to illumin; and I seek it too. ° °202 This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold-- 205 But the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 210 Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest was bound; Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 215 And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 220 What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat-- 225 It fail'd, and thou wast mute! Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 230 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar, Let in thy voice a whisper often come, 235 To chase fatigue and fear: _Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died. Roam on! The light we sought is shining still. Dost thou ask proof? our tree yet crowns the hill, Our scholar travels yet the loved hill-side. _ 240 RUGBY CHAPEL° _November 1857_ Coldly, sadly descendsThe autumn-evening. The fieldStrewn with its dank yellow driftsOf wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, 5Silent;--hardly a shoutFrom a few boys late at their play!The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows;--but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, 10Through the gathering darkness, ariseThe chapel-walls, in whose boundThou, my father! art laid. ° °13 There thou dost lie, in the gloomOf the autumn evening. But ah! 15That word, _gloom, °_ to my mind °16Brings thee back, in the lightOf thy radiant vigour, again;In the gloom of November we pass'dDays not dark at thy side; 20Seasons impair'd not the rayOf thy buoyant cheerfulness, clear. Such thou wast! and I standIn the autumn evening, and thinkOf bygone autumns with thee. 25 Fifteen years have gone roundSince thou arosest to tread, In the summer-morning, the roadOf death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden. For fifteen years, 30We who till then in thy shadeRested as under the boughsOf a mighty oak, ° have endured °33Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, 35Lacking the shelter of thee. O strong soul, by what shore° °37Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain!Somewhere, surely, afar, 40In the sounding labour-house vastOf being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, 45Still thou performest the wordOf the Spirit in whom thou dost live--Prompt, unwearied, as here!Still thou upraisest with zealThe humble good from the ground, 50Sternly repressest the bad!Still, like a trumpet, doth rouseThose who with half-open eyesTread the border-land dim'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st, 55Succourest!--this was thy work, This was thy life upon earth. ° °57 What is the course of the lifeOf mortal men on the earth°?-- °59Most men eddy about 60Here and there--eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raisedAloft, are hurl'd in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving 65Nothing; and then they die--Perish;--and no one asksWho or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild 70Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, Foam'd for a moment, and gone. And there are some, whom a thirstArdent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, 75Not without aim to go roundIn an eddy of purposeless dust, Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah yes! some of us striveNot without action to die 80Fruitless, but something to snatchFrom dull oblivion, nor allGlut the devouring grave!We, we have chosen our path--Path to a clear-purposed goal, 85Path of advance!--but it leadsA long, steep journey, through sunkGorges, o'er mountains in snow. Cheerful, with friends, we set forth--Then, on the height, comes the storm. 90Thunder crashes from rockTo rock, the cataracts reply, Lightnings dazzle our eyes. ° °93Roaring torrents have breach'dThe track, the stream-bed descends 95In the place where the wayfarer oncePlanted his footstep--the sprayBoils o'er its borders! aloftThe unseen snow-beds dislodgeTheir hanging ruin°; alas, °100Havoc is made in our train! Friends, who set forth at our side, Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left!With frowning foreheads, with lips 105Sternly compress'd, we strain on, On--and at nightfall at lastCome to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;Where the gaunt and taciturn host 110Stands on the threshold, the windShaking his thin white hairs--Holds his lantern to scanOur storm-beat figures, and asks:Whom in our party we bring? 115Whom we have left in the snow? Sadly we answer: We bringOnly ourselves! we lostSight of the rest in the storm. Hardly ourselves we fought through, 120Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side. ° °123 But thou would'st not _alone_Be saved, my father! _alone_ 125Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and to die. 130Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, 135Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing--to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was given 140Many to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. ° °144 And through thee I believe 145In the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honour'd and blestBy former ages, who else--Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see-- 150Seem'd but a dream of the heart, Seem'd but a cry of desire. Yes! I believe that there livedOthers like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd 155Who all round me to-dayBluster or cringe, and make lifeHideous, and arid, and vile;But souls temper'd with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, 160Helpers and friends of mankind. Servants of God!--or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind, 165His, who unwillingly seesOne of his little ones lost--Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died! 170 See! In the rocks° of the worldMarches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line. Where are they tending?--A GodMarshall'd them, gave them their goal. 175Ah, but the way is so long!Years they have been in the wild!Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, Rising all round, overawe;Factions divide them, their host 180Threatens to break, to dissolve. --Ah, keep, keep them combined!Else, of the myriads who fillThat army, not one shall arrive;Sole they shall stray: in the rocks 185Stagger for ever in vain, Die one by one in the waste. Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, ° like angels, appear, 190Radiant with ardour divine!Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. 195Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave! 200Order, courage, return. Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, 205Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. ° °208 * * * * * [149] NOTES * * * * * SOHRAB AND RUSTUM "I am occupied with a thing that gives me more pleasure than anythingI have ever done yet, which is a good sign, but whether I shall notultimately spoil it by being obliged to strike it off in fragmentsinstead of at one heat, I cannot quite say. " (Arnold, in a letter toMrs. Foster, April, 1853. ) "All my spare time has been spent on a poem which I have just finishedand which I think by far the best thing I have yet done, and I thinkit will be generally liked; though one can never be sure of this. Ihave had the greatest pleasure in composing it, a rare thing with me, and, as I think, a good test of the pleasure what you write is likelyto afford to others. But the story is a very noble and excellent one. "(Arnold, in a letter to his mother, May, 1853. ) The following synopsis of the story of Sohrab and Rustum the "talereplete with tears, " is gathered from several sources, chieflyBenjamin's _Persia_, in _The Story of the Nations_, Sir John Malcolm's_History of Persia_, and the great Persian epic poem, _Shah Nameh_. The _Shah Nameh_ the original source of the story, and which purportsto narrate the exploits of Persia's kings and champions over a spaceof thirty-six centuries, bears the same relation to Persian literatureas the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ to the Greek, and the _Æneid_ to theLatin, though in structure it more nearly resembles _Morte d'Arthur_, which records in order the achievements of various heroes. In itthe native poet Mansur ibn Ahmad, afterwards known to literatureas Firdausi, the Paradisaical, has set down the early tales andtraditions of his people with all the vividness and color common tooriental writers. The principal hero of the poem is the mighty Rustum, who, mounted on his famous horse Ruksh, performed prodigies of valorin defence of the Persian throne. Of all his adventures his encounterwith Sohrab is the most dramatic. The poem was probably written inthe latter half of the tenth century. As will be seen, the incidentsnarrated in Arnold's poem form but an episode in the complete story ofthe two champions. [150] Rustum (or Rustem), having killed a wild ass while hunting on theTuranian frontier, and having feasted on its flesh, composed himselfto sleep, leaving his faithful steed, Ruksh (or Raksh), to grazeuntethered. On awakening, he found his horse had disappeared, andbelieving it had been stolen, the warrior proceeded towards Semenjan, a near-by city, in hopes of recovering his property. On the way, helearned that Ruksh had been found by the servants of the king and wasstabled at Semenjan, as he had surmised. Upon Rustum's demand, thesteed was promptly restored to him, and he was about to depart when hewas prevailed upon to accept the king's invitation to tarry awhile andrest himself in feasting and idleness. Now the king of Semenjan had a fair daughter named Tahmineh, who hadbecome enamoured of Rustum because of his mighty exploits. Susceptibleas she was beautiful, she made her attachment so evident that theyoung hero, who was as ardent as he was brave, readily yielded tothe power of her fascination. The consent of the king having beenobtained, Rustum and Tahmineh were married with all the ritesprescribed by the laws of the country. A peculiar feature of thisalliance lay in the fact that the king of Semenjan was feudatory toAfrasiab, the deadly enemy of Persia, while Rustum was her greatestchampion. At this time, however, the two countries were at peace. [151]For a time all went happily, then Rustum found it necessary to leavehis bride, as he thought, for only a short time. At parting he gaveher an onyx, which he wore on his arm, bidding her, if a daughtershould be born to their union, to twine the gem in her hair under afortunate star; but if a son, to bind it on his arm, and he would beinsured a glorious career. Rustum then mounted Ruksh and rode away--astime proved, never to return. The months went by, and to the lonely bride was born a marvellous son, whom, because of his comely features, she named Sohrab. Fearing Rustumwould send for the boy when he grew older, and thus rob her of hertreasure, Tahmineh sent word to him that the child was a girl--"noson, " and Rustum took no further interest in it. While still of tender years, Sohrab showed signs of his noble lineage. He early displayed a love for horses, and at the age of ten years, according to the tradition, was large and handsome and highlyaccomplished in the use of arms. Realizing at length that he was oflofty descent, he insisted that his mother, who had concealed thefact, should inform him of the name of his father. Being told that itwas the renowned Rustum, he exclaimed, "Since he is my father, I shallgo to his aid; he shall become king of Persia and together we shallrule the world. " After this the youth caused a horse worthy of him tobe found, and with the aid of his grandfather, the king of Semenjan, he prepared to go on the quest, attended by a mighty host. When Afrasiab, the Turanian ruler, learned that Sohrab was going towar with the Persians, he was greatly pleased, and after counsellingwith his wise men, decided openly to assist him in his enterprises, with the expectation that both Rustum and Sohrab would fall in battleand Persia be at his mercy. He accordingly sent an army of auxiliariesto Sohrab, accompanied by two astute courtiers, Houman and Barman, who, under the guise of friendship, were to act as counsellors tothe young leader. These he ordered to keep the knowledge of theirrelationship from father and son and to seek to bring about anencounter between them, in the hope that Sohrab would slay Rustum, Afrasiab's most dreaded foeman, after which the unsuspecting youthmight easily be disposed of by treachery. [152] Sohrab, with his army and that of Afrasiab, set out, intending tofight his way until Rustum should be sent against him, when he wouldreveal himself to his father and form an alliance with him that wouldplace the line of Seistan on the throne. On the way southward, Sohraboverthrew and captured the Persian champion, Hujir, and the sameday conquered the warrior maiden Gurdafrid, whose beauty and tears, however, prevailed upon him to release her. Guzdehern, father ofGurdafrid, recognizing Sohrab's prowess, and alarmed for the safetyof the Persian throne, secretly despatched a courier to the king KaiKaoos to warn him of the young Tartar's approach. Kaoos, in greatterror, sent for Rustum to hurry to his aid. Regardless of the king'srequest, Rustum spent eight days in feasting, then presented himselfat the court. Kaoos, angered at the delay, ordered both the championand the messenger to be executed forthwith; but Rustum effected hisescape on Ruksh, and returned to Seistan, leaving Persia to her fate. The king's wrath, however, soon gave place to fear; and recognizingthe danger of his throne unsupported by Rustum's valor, he despatchedmessengers to him with humble petitions and apologies. After muchprotesting, Rustum finally yielded and accompanied the Persian army, under the king Kai Kaoos, which at once set forth to encounter Sohrab. The morning before the opening of hostilities, Sohrab, taking thePersian Hujir, whom he still held a prisoner, to the top of a rockyeminence, ordered him to point out the tents of the chief warriorsof the Persian army, particularly Rustum's. But Hujir, fearing lestSohrab should attack Rustum unexpectedly and so overcome him, declaredthat the great chieftain's tent was not among those on the plainbelow. Disappointed at his failure to find his father, Sohrab led hisarmy in a fierce onslaught on the Persians, driving them in confusionbefore him. In this dire extremity Kai Kaoos sent for Rustum, who wassomewhat apart from the main troop. Exclaiming that the king neversent for him except when he had got himself into trouble, the warriorarmed, mounted Ruksh, and rushed to the combat. By mutual consent thetwo champions withdrew to a retired spot, where, unmolested, theymight fight out their quarrel hand to hand. As they approached eachother, Rustum, moved with compassion by the youth of his foe, triedto dissuade Sohrab from his purpose, and counselled him to retire. Sohrab, filled with sudden hope, --an instinctive feeling that thefather whom he was seeking stood before him, --eagerly demanded whetherthis were Rustum. But Rustum, fearing treachery, said he was only anordinary man, having neither palace nor princely kingdom--not Rustum. They marked off the lists, and, mounted on their powerful horses, fought first with javelins, then with swords, clubs, and bows andarrows. After several hours of fighting both were exhausted, and bytacit consent they retired to opposite sides of the lists for rest. When the combat was renewed, Sohrab gained a slight advantage. A trucewas then made for the night, and the warriors returned to their tentsto prepare for the morrow. With daybreak the struggle was renewed. To prevent the armies fromintervening or engaging in battle, they were removed to a distance ofseveral miles. Midway between, Sohrab and Rustum met in the midst of alonely, treeless waste. More convinced than before that his adversarywas Rustum, Sohrab sought to bring about a reconciliation, but Rustumrefused. This time they fought on foot. From morning till afternoonthey fought, neither gaining any decided advantage. At last Sohrabsucceeded in felling Rustum to the earth, and was about to slay him, when the Persian called out that it was not the custom in chivalrouswarfare to slay a champion until he was thrown the second time. Sohrab, generous as brave, released his prostrate foe; and againfather and son parted. [154] Rustum, scarcely believing himself alive after such an escape, purified himself with water, and prayed that his wounds might behealed and his accustomed strength restored to him. Never before hadhe been so beset in battle. With morning came the renewal of the combat, both championsdetermining to end it that day. Late in the evening Rustum, by asupreme effort, seized Sohrab around the waist and hurled him to theground. Then, fearing lest the youth prove too strong for him in theend, he drew his blade and plunged it into Sohrab's bosom. Sohrab forgave Rustum, but warned him to beware the vengeance of hisfather, the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain hisson Sohrab. "I went out to seek my father, " cried the dying youth, "for my mother had told me by what tokens I should know him, and Iperish for longing after him. .. . Yet I say unto thee, if thou shouldstbecome a fish that swimmeth in the depths of the ocean, if thoushouldst change into a star that is concealed in the farthest heaven, my father would draw thee forth from thy hiding-place, and avenge mydeath upon thee, when he shall learn that the earth is become my bed. For my father is Rustum the Pehliva, and it shall be told unto him, how that Sohrab his son perished in the quest after his face. " Thesewords were as death to the aged hero, who fell senseless at the sideof his wounded son. When he had recovered he called in despair forproofs of what Sohrab had said. The now dying youth tore open his mailand showed his father the onyx which his mother had bound on his armas directed. [155] The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic; he cursedhimself, and would have put an end to his existence but for theefforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's death he burnt his tentsand carried the corpse to his father's home in Seistan, and buriedit there. The Tartar army, agreeable to Sohrab's last request, waspermitted to return home unmolested. When the tidings of Sohrab'sdeath reached his mother, she was inconsolable, and died in less thana year. In the main the story as told by Arnold follows the originalnarrative. A careful investigation of the alterations made, and theeffect thus produced, will lend added interest to the study of thepoem and give ample theme for composition work. =1. And the first grey of morning fill'd the east. = Note the abruptopening. What is gained by its use? At what point in the story as toldin the introductory note does the poem take up the narrative? Be sureto get a clear mental picture of the initiative scene. _And_ is hereused in a manner common in the Scriptures. Cf. "And the Lord spakeunto Moses, " etc. =2. Oxus. = The chief river of Central Asia, which separated Turan fromIran or the Persian Empire, called Oxus by the Greeks and Romans, andthe Jihun or Amu by the Arabs and Persians. It takes its source inLake Sir-i-Kol, in the Pamir table-land, at a height of 15, 600 feet, flows northwest, and empties into the Aral Sea on the south. Itslength is about 1300 miles. "The introduction of the tranquil pictures of the Oxus, both at thebeginning and close of the poem (ll. 875-892), flowing steadily on, unmoved by the tragedy which has been enacted on her shore, forms oneof the most artistic features in the setting of the poem. " =3. Tartar camp. = The Tartars were nomadic tribes of Central Asia andsouthern Russia. The so-called Black Tartars, identified with theScythians of the Greek historians, inhabited the basin of the Aral andCaspian Seas, and are the tribe referred to in the poem. They are afierce, warlike people; hence our expression, "caught a Tartar. " [156]=11. Peran-Wisa. = A celebrated Turanian chief, here in command ofAfrasiab's army, which was composed of representatives of many Tartartribes, as indicated in ll. 119-134. =15. Pamere=, or Pamir. An extensive plateau region of Central Asia, called by the natives the "roof of the world. " Among the rivers havingtheir source in this plateau are the Oxus, l. 2, and the Jaxartes, l. 129. =38. Afrasiab. = The king of the Tartars, and one of the principalheroes of the _Shah Nameh_, the Persian "Book of Kings. " He is reputedto have been strong as a lion and to have had few equals as a warrior. =40. Samarcand. = A city in the district of Serafshan, Turkestan, tothe east of Bokhara; now a considerable commercial and manufacturingcentre, and a centre of Mohammedan learning. =42. Ader-baijan. = The northwest province of Persia, on the Turanianfrontier. =45. At my boy's years. = See introductory note to poem. =60. Common fight. = In the sense of a general engagement. Be sure tocatch the reason why Sohrab makes his request. =61. Sunk. = That is, lost sight of. =67. Common chance. = See note, l. 60. Which would be the moredangerous, a "single" or "common" combat? Why? =70. To find a father thou hast never seen. = See introductory note topoem. =82. Seistan. = A province of southwest Afghanistan bordering on thePersian province of Yezd. It is intersected by the Helmund River (l. 751), which flows into the Hamoon Lake, now scarcely more than amorass. On an island in this lake are ruins of fortifications calledFort Rustum. This territory was long held by Rustum's family, feudatory to the Persian kings. =Zal. = Rustum's father, ruler ofSeistan. See note, l. 232. [157] =83-85. Whether that . .. Or in some quarrel=, etc. Either because hismighty strength . .. Or because of some quarrel, etc. =85. Persian King. = That is, Kai Kaoos (or Kai Khosroo). Seeintroductory note to poem; also note, l. 223. =86-91. There go!= etc. The touching solicitation of these lines iswholly Arnold's. =99. Why ruler's staff, no sword?= =101. Kara Kul. = A district some thirty miles southwest of Bokhara, noted for the excellence of its pasturage, and for its fleeces. =107. Haman. = Next to Peran-Wisa in command of Tartar army. SeeHouman, in introductory note to poem. =113-114. Casbin. = A fortified city in the province of Irak-Ajemi, Persia, situated on the main route from Persia to Europe, and at onetime the capital of the Iranian empire. Just to the north of the cityrise the =Elburz Mountains= (l. 114), which separate the PersianPlateau from the depression containing the Caspian and Aral Seas. =115. Frore. = Frozen, from the Anglo-Saxon _froren_. ". .. The parching air Burns frore, and cold performs the effect of fire. " --MILTON. _Paradise Lost_, ll. 594-595, Book II. =119. Bokhara. = Here the state of Bokhara, an extensive region ofCentral Asia, touching the Aral Sea to the north, the Oxus to thesouth, and Khiva to the west. It has an estimated area of 235, 000square miles, and contains nineteen cities of considerable size, ofwhich the capital, Bokhara, is most important. =120. Khiva. = A khanate situated in the valley of the lower Oxus, bordering Bokhara on the southeast. =ferment the milk of mares. = Anintoxicating drink, _Koumiss_, made of camel's or mare's milk, is inwide use among the steppe tribes. [158]=121. Toorkmuns. = A branch of the Turkish race found chiefly innorthern Persia and Afghanistan. =122. Tukas. = From the province of Azer-baijan. =123. Attruck. = A river of Khorassan, near the frontier of Khiva; ithas a west course, and enters the Caspian Sea on the east side. =128. Ferghana. = A khanate of Turkestan, north of Bokhara, in theupper valley of the Sir Daria. =129. Jaxartes. = The ancient name of the Sir Daria River. It takes itssource in the Thian Shan Mountains, one of the Pamir Plateau ranges, and flows with a general direction north, emptying into the Aral Seaon the east side. =131. Kipchak. = A khanate some seventy miles below Khiva on the Oxus. =132. Kalmucks. = A nomadic branch of the Mongolian race, dwelling inwestern Siberia. =Kuzzaks. = Now commonly called Cossacks; a warlikepeople inhabiting the steppes of southern Russia and extensiveportions of Asia. Their origin is uncertain. =133. Kirghizzes. = A rude nomadic people of Mongolian-Tartar racefound in northern Turkestan. =138. Khorassan. = (That is, the region of the sun. ) A province ofnortheastern Persia, largely desert. The origin of the name is prettily suggested by Moore in the opening poem of _Lalla Rookh_:-- "In the delightful province of the sun The first of Persian lands he shines upon, " etc. =147. Fix'd. = Stopped suddenly, halted. =154-169. = Note the effect the challenge has on the two armies. =156. Corn. = Here used with its European sense of "grain. " It is onlyin America that the word signifies Indian corn or "maize. " [159]=160. Cabool. = Capital of northern Afghanistan, and an importantcommercial city. =161. Indian Caucasus. = A lofty mountain range north of Cabool, whichforms the boundary between Turkestan and Afghanistan. =173. King. = See note, l. 85. =177. Lion's heart. = Explain the line. Why are the terms here used soforcible in the mouth of Gudurz? =178-183. Aloof he sits, etc. = One is reminded by Rustum's deportmenthere, of Achilles sulking in his tent and nursing his wrath againstAgamemnon. --_Iliad_, Book I. =199. Sate. = Old form of "sat, " common in poetry. =200. Falcon. = A kind of hawk trained to catch game birds. =217. Iran. = The official name of Persia. =221. Go to!= Hebraic expression. Frequently found in Shakespeare. =223. Kai Khosroo. = According to the _Shah Nameh_, the thirteenthTuranian king. He reigned in the sixth century B. C. , and has beenidentified with Cyrus the Great. =230. Not that one slight helpless girl, etc. = See ll. 609-611, alsointroduction to the poem. =232. Snow-haired Zal. = According to tradition, Zal was born withsnow-white hair. His father Lahm, believing this an ill omen, doomedthe unfortunate babe to be exposed on the loftiest summit of theElburz Mountains. The Simurgh, a great bird or griffin, found him andcared for him till grown, then restored him to his repentant parent. He subsequently married the Princess Rudabeh of Seistan, by whom hebecame father of Rustum. =243-248. He spoke . .. Men. = Note carefully Gudurz's argument. Why soeffective with Rustum? =257. But I will fight unknown and in plain arms. = The shields andarms of the champions were emblazoned with mottoes and devices. Whydoes Rustum determine to lay aside his accustomed arms and fightincognito? What effect does this determination have upon the ultimateoutcome of the situation? Read the story of the arming of Achilles(Book XIX. , Homer's _Iliad_), and compare with Rustum's preparationfor battle. [160] =266. Device. = See note, l. 257. =277. Dight. = Adorned, dressed. "The clouds in thousand liveries dight. " --MILTON. _L'Allegro, _ l. 62. =286. Bahrein= or Aval. A group of islands in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its pearl fisheries. =288. Tale. = Beckoning, number. "And every shepherd tells his _tale_, Under the hawthorn in the dale. " --MILTON. _L'Allegro, _ ll. 67-68. =306. Flowers. = Decorates, beautifies with floral designs. =311. Perused. = Studied, observed closely. =318. = In a letter dated November, 1852, Mr. Arnold speaks of thefigures in his poem as follows: "I can only say that I took a greatdeal of trouble to orientalize them, because I thought they lookedstrange, and jarred, if western. " What is gained by their use? =325. Vast. = Large, mighty. =326. Tried. = Proved, experienced. =328. Never was that field lost or that foe saved. = Note the powergained in this line by the use of the alliteration. =330. Be govern'd. = Be influenced, persuaded. =343. By thy father's head!= Such oaths are common to the extravagantspeech of the oriental peoples. =344. Art thou not Rustum?= See introductory note to poem. =367. Vaunt. = Boast implied in the challenge. =380. Thou wilt not fright me so!= That is, by such talk. =401. Tower'd. = Remained stationary, poised. =406. Full struck. = Struck squarely. [161]=412. Hyphasis, Hydaspes. = Two of the rivers of the Punjab in northernIndia, now known as the Beas and Jhylum. In 326 B. C. Alexanderdefeated Porus on the banks of the latter stream. =414. Wrack. = Ruin, havoc. (Poetical. ) =418. Glancing. = In the sense of darting aside. =435. Hollow. = Unnatural in tone. =452. Like that autumn-star. = Probably Sirius, the Dog Star, underwhose ascendency, according to ancient beliefs, epidemic diseasesprevailed. =454. Crest. = That is, helmet and plume. =466. Remember all thy valour. = That is, summon up all your courage. =469. Girl's wiles. = Explain the line. =470. Kindled. = Roused, angered. =481. Unnatural. = because of the kinship of the combatants. =481-486. For a cloud=, etc. A distinctly Homeric imitation. Cf. Thecloud that enveloped Paris--Book III. , ll. 465-469, of the _Iliad_. =489. And the sun sparkled=, etc. Why this reference to the clear Oxusstream at this moment of intense tragedy? =495. Helm. = Helmet; defensive armor for the head. =497. Shore. = Past tense of _shear_, to cut. =499. Bow'd his head:= because of the force of the blow. =508. Curdled. = Thickened as with fear. =516. Rustum!= Why did this word so affect Sohrab? Note the author'sskill in working up to this climax in the narrative. =527-539. Then with a bitter smile=, etc. Compare these words ofthe victor, Rustum, with the words of Sohrab, ll. 427-447, when theadvantage was with him. =536. Glad. = Make happy. "That which _gladded_ all the warrior train. " --DRYDEN. [162]=538. Dearer to the red jackals=, etc. Cf. I. Sam. Xvii. 44: "Come tome, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to thebeasts of the field. " Careful investigation will show the poem toabound with Biblical as well as classical parallelisms. =556-575. As when some hunter, etc. = One of the truly great similes inthe English language. =563. Sole. = Alone, solitary. From the Latin _solus_. =570. Glass. = Reflect as in a mirror. =596. Bruited up. = Noised abroad. =613. The style. = The name or title. =625. That old king. = The king of Semenjan. See introductory note topoem. =632. Of age and looks=, etc. That is, of such age as he (Sohrab)would be, if born of his (Rustum's) union with Tahmineh. =658-660. I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm=, etc. This is Arnold'sconception. In the original story Sohrab wore an onyx stone as anamulet. The onyx was supposed to incite the wearer to deeds of valor. =664. Corselet. = Protective armor for the body. =673. Cunning. = Skilful, deft. =679. Griffin. = In the natural history of the ancients, an imaginaryanimal, half lion and half eagle. Here the Simurgh. See note, l. 232. =708-710. Unconscious hand. = Note how the dying Sohrab seeks to console the grief-stricken Rustum. "Such is my destiny, such is the will of fortune. It was decreed that I should perish by the hand of my father. " --_Shah Nameh_. =717. Have found= (him). Note the ellipsis. =723-724. I came . .. Passing wind. = The _Shah Nameh_ has-- "I came like a flash of lightning, and now I depart like the wind. " =736. Caked the sand. = Hardened into cakes. =751. Helmund. = See note, l. 82. [163] =752. Zirrah. = Another lake in Seistan, southeast of Hamoon, nowalmost dry. =763-765. Moorghab, Tejend and Kohik. = Rivers of Turkestan which losethemselves in the deserts to the south of Bokhara. The northern Sir isthe Sir Daria, or Jaxartes. See note, l. 129. =788. And heap a stately mound=, etc. Persian tradition says that alarge monument, in shape like the hoof of a horse, was placed over thespot where Sohrab was buried. =830. On that day. = Shortly after the death of Afrasiab, the Persianmonarch Kai Khosroo, accompanied by a large number of his nobles, wentto a spring far to the north, the location fixed upon as a placefor their repose. Here the king died, and those who went with himafterward perished in a tempest. Sohrab predicted Rustum would be oneof those lost, but tradition does not have it so. =861. Persepolis. = An ancient capital of Persia, the ruins of whichare known as "the throne of Jemshid, " after a mythical king. =878. Chorasma. = A region of Turkestan, the seat of a powerful empirein the twelfth century, but now greatly reduced. Its present limitsare about the same as those of Khiva. See note, l. 120. =880. Right for the polar star. = That is, due north. =Orgunje. = Avillage on the Oxus some seventy miles below Khiva, and near the headof its delta. =890. Luminous home. = The Aral Sea. =891. New bathed stars. = As the stars appear on the horizon, they seemto have come up out of the sea. =875-892. = Discuss the poet's purpose in introducing the remarkableword-picture of these closing lines of the poem. See also note, ll. 231-250, _The Scholar-Gipsy. _ SAINT BRANDAN [164] In this poem Arnold has vividly presented a quaint legend of JudasIscariot, popular in the Middle Ages. Saint Brandan (490-577) wasa celebrated Irish monk, famous for his voyages. "According to thelegendary accounts of his travels, he set sail with others to seek theterrestrial paradise which was supposed to exist in an island of theAtlantic. Various miracles are related of the voyage, but they arealways connected with the great island where the monks are said tohave landed. The legend was current in the time of Columbus andlong after, and many connected St. Brandan's island with the newlydiscovered America. He is commemorated on May 16. "--_The CenturyCyclopedia of Names_. =7. Hebrides. = A group of islands off the northwestern coast ofScotland. =11. Hurtling Polar lights. = A reference to the rapid, changingmovements of the Aurora Borealis. =18. Of hair that red. = According to tradition, Judas Iscariot's hairwas red. =21. Sate. = See note, l. 199, _Sohrab and Rustum_. (Old form of "sat, "common in poetry. ) =31. Self-murder. = After betraying Christ, Judas hanged himself. SeeMatt, xxvii. 5 and Acts i. 18. =38. The Leper recollect. = There is no scriptural authority for thisincident. =40. Joppa=, or Jaffa. A small maritime town of Palestine--the ancientport of Jerusalem. There is also a small village called Jaffa inGalilee, some two miles southwest of Nazareth, which may have been theplace the poet had in mind. Image the situation as presented in the first several stanzas. Whylocate in the sea without a "human shore, " l. 12? Is there anyespecial reason for having the time Christmas night? Note the dramaticintroduction of Judas. What effect did his appearance have on thesaint? How was the latter reassured? Give reasons why Judas feltimpelled to tell his story. Tell the story. Does he praise or belittlehis act of charity? Why does he say "that _chance_ act of good"? Howwas it rewarded? Explain his last expression. Was he about to saymore? If so, what? What effect did Judas's story have on SaintBrandan? Why? What is the underlying thought in the poem? Discuss theform of verse used and its appropriateness to the theme. [165] THE FORSAKEN MERMAN "The title of this poem inevitably brings to mind Tennyson's twopoems, _The Merman_ and _The Mermaid_. A comparison will show that, inthis instance at least, the Oxford poet has touched his subject notless melodiously and with finer and deeper feeling. --Margaret will notlisten to her 'Children's voices, wild with pain';--dearer to her isthe selfish desire to save her own soul than is the light in the eyesof her little Mermaiden, dearer than the love of the king of the sea, who yearns for her with sorrow-laden heart. Here is there an infinitetenderness and an infinite tragedy. " --L. DUPONT SYLE, _From Milton to Tennyson_. Legends of this kind abound among the sea-loving Gaelic and Cymricpeople. Nowhere, perhaps, have they been given a more pleasing andtouching expression than in Arnold's poem. Note carefully the dramaticmanner in which the pathos of the story is presented and developed. =6. Wild white horses. = Breakers, whitecaps. =13. Margaret. = A favorite name with Arnold. See _Isolation_ and _ADream_ in this volume. =39. Ranged. = See note, l. 73, _The Strayed Reveller_. (wanderaimlessly about. ) =42. Mail. = Protective covering. =54. = Why "down swung the sound of a far-off bell"? [166] =81. Seal'd. = Fastened; fixed intently upon, as though spellbound. =89-93. Hark . .. Sun. = In her song Margaret shows she is still keenlyalive to human interests, temporal and spiritual. The priest, bell, and holy well (l. 91) symbolize the church, here Roman Catholic. Thebell is used in the Roman Church to call especial attention to themore important portions of the service; the well is the holy-waterfont. =129. Heaths starr'd with broom. = The flower of the broom plant, common in England, is yellow; hence, _starr'd_. In his work on Matthew Arnold, George Saintsbury speaks of this poemas follows: "It is, I believe, not so 'correct' as it once was toadmire this [poem]; but I confess indocility to correctness, at leastthe correctness which varies with fashion. _The Forsaken Merman_ isnot a perfect poem--it has _tongueurs_, though it is not long; it hasits inadequacies, those incompetences of expression which are so oddlycharacteristic of its author; and his elaborate simplicity, thoughmore at home here than in some other places, occasionally gives adissonance. But it is a great poem, --one by itself, --one which findsand keeps its own place in the fore-ordained gallery or museum, withwhich every true lover of poetry is provided, though he inherits it bydegrees. None, I suppose, will deny its pathos; I should be sorry forany one who fails to perceive its beauty. The brief picture of theland, and the fuller one of the sea, and that (more elaborate still)of the occupations of the fugitive, all have their charm. But thetriumph of the piece is in one of those metrical coups, which givethe triumph of all the greatest poetry, in the sudden change from theslower movements of the earlier stanzas, or strophes, to the quickersweep of the famous conclusions. " [167]What is the opening situation in the poem? Have the merman and hischildren just reached the shore, or have they been there some time?Why so? Why does the merman still linger, when he is convinced thatfurther delay will count for nothing? Why does he urge the children tocall? What is shown by his repeated question--"was it yesterday"? Tellthe story of Margaret's departure for the upper world, and discuss thevalidity of her reason for going. Do you think she intended to return?What is the significance of her smile just before departing? Givea word picture of what the sea-folk saw as they lingered in thechurchyard. Will Margaret ever grieve for the past? If so, when? Why?Who has your sympathy most, Margaret, the forsaken merman, or thechildren? Why? Do you condemn Margaret for the way she has done, or doyou feel she was justified in her actions? Discuss the versification, giving special attention to its effect on the movement of the poem. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT The story of Tristram and Iseult is one of the most vivid andpassionate of the Arthurian cycle of legends, and is a favorite withthe poets. The following version is abridged from Dunlop's _History ofFiction_. "In the court of his uncle, King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who atthis time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expertin all knightly exercises. .. . The king of Ireland, at Tristram'ssolicitation, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage onKing Marc. .. . The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidantea philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of hernuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated theaffections and destiny of the lovers. [168]"After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and thenuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romanceis occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews . .. Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of the displeasureof his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the WhiteHands. He married her, more out of gratitude than love. Afterwardshe proceeded to the dominions of Arthur which became the theatre ofunnumbered exploits. "Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany and tohis long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soonreduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation he despatched a confidantto the queen of Cornwall to try if he could induce her to follow himto Brittany. "Meanwhile Tristram awaited the arrival of the queen with suchimpatience that he employed one of his wife's damsels to watch at theharbor. Through her, Iseult learned Tristram's secret, and filled withjealousy, flew to her husband as the vessel which bore the queen ofCornwall was wafted toward the harbor, and reported that the sailswere black (the signal that Iseult, Marc's queen, had refusedTristram's request to come to him). Tristram, penetrated withinexpressible grief, died. The account of Tristram's death was thefirst intelligence which the queen of Cornwall heard on landing. Shewas conducted to his chamber, and expired holding him in her arms. " =1. Is she not come?= That is, Iseult of Ireland. Arnold's poem takesup the story at the point where Tristram, now on his death-bed, iswatching eagerly for the coming of Iseult, Marc's queen, for whom hehad sent his confidant to Cornwall. Evidently he has just awakenedand is still somewhat confused; see l. 7. Surely none will fail toappreciate so dramatic a situation. =5. What . .. Be?= That is, what lights are those to the northward, thedirection from which Iseult would come? [169]=8. Iseult. = Here Iseult of the White Hands, daughter of King Hoel ofBrittany and wife of Tristram. =20. Arthur's court. = Arthur, the half-mythical king of the Britons, set up his court at Camelot, which Caxton locates in Wales and Malorynear Winchester. Here was gathered the famous company of championsknown as the "Knights of the Round Table, " whose feats have beenextensively celebrated in song and story. Among these knights Tristramheld high rank, both as a warrior and a harpist. See ll. 17-19. =23. Lyoness. = A mythical region near Cornwall, the home country ofArthur and Tristram. =30-31. = Hence the name, Iseult of the White Hands. =56-68. = See introductory note to poem for explanation. =Tyntagel. =A village in Cornwall near the sea. Near it is the ruined TyntagelCastle, the reputed birthplace of Arthur. In the romance of SirTristram it is the castle of King Marc, the cowardly and treacherousking of Cornwall, the southwest county of England. =teen=. See note, l. 147, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. (Grief, sorrow; from the old English_teona_, meaning injury. ) =88. Wanders=, in fancy. Note how the wounded knight's mind flits fromscene to scene, always centring around Iseult of Ireland. =91. O'er . .. Sea. = The Irish Sea. He is dreaming of his return tripfrom Ireland with Iseult, "under the cloudless sky of May" (l. 96). =129-132. = See introductory note to poem. The green isle, Ireland isnoted for its green fields; hence the name, Emerald (green) Isle. =134. On loud Tyntagel's hill. = A high headland on the coast of Wales. Discuss the force of the adjective "loud" in this connection. =137-160. And that . .. More. = See introductory note to poem. =161. Pleasaunce-walks. = A pleasure garden, screened by trees, shrubs, and close hedges--here a trysting-place. After the marriage ofIseult to King Marc, she and Tristram contrived to continue theirrelationship in secret. [170] =164. Fay. = Faith. (Obsolete except in poetry. ) =180. = Tristram, having been discovered by King Marc in his intrigueswith Iseult, was forced to leave Cornwall; hence his visit to Brittanyand subsequent marriage to Iseult of the White Hands. See introductorynote to poem. =192. Lovely orphan child. = Iseult of Brittany. =194. Chatelaine. = From the French, meaning the mistress of achâteau--a castle or fortress. =200. Stranger-knight, ill-starr'd. = That is, Tristram, whose manymishaps argued his being born under an unlucky star. See also theaccount of his birth, note, ll. 81-88, Part II. =203. Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard. = Prior to his visit toBrittany, Tristram had imprisoned his uncle, King Marc, and elopedwith Iseult to the domains of King Arthur. While there he residedat Joyous Gard, the favorite castle of Launcelot, which that knightassigned to the lovers as their abode. =204. Welcomed here. = That is, in Brittany, where he was nursed backto health by Iseult of the White Hands. See introductory note to poem. =215-226. His long rambles . .. Ground. = Account for Tristram'sdiscontent, as indicated in these lines. =234-237. All red . .. Bathed in foam. = The kings of Britain agreedwith Arthur to make war upon Rome. Arthur, leaving Modred in chargeof his kingdom, made war upon the Romans, and, after a numberof encounters, Lucius Tiberius was killed and the Britons werevictorious. --GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH, Book IV, Chapter XV; Book X, Chapters I-XIII. According to Malory, Arthur captured many French andItalian cities (see ll. 250-251); during this continental invasion, and was finally crowned king at Rome. It seems that he afterwarddespatched a considerable number of his knights to carry the Christianfaith among the heathen German tribes. See ll. 252-253. [171] =238. Moonstruck knight. = A reference to the mystical influence theancients supposed the moon to exert over men's minds and actions. =239. What foul fiend rides thee?= What evil spirit possesses you andkeeps you from the fight? =240. Her. = That is, Iseult of Ireland. =243. Wanders forth again=, in fancy. =245. Secret in his breast. = What secret? =250-253. = See note, ll. 234-237. =blessed sign. = The cross. =255. Roman Emperor. = That is, Lucius Tiberius. See note, ll. 234-237. =258. Leaguer. = Consult dictionary. =261. What boots it?= That is, what difference will it make? =303. Recks not. = Has no thought of (archaic). =308-314. My princess . .. Good night. = Are Tristram's words sincere, or has he a motive in thus dismissing Iseult? =373-374. = From a dramatic standpoint, what is the purpose of thesetwo lines? PART II With the opening of Part II the lovers are restored to each other. The dying Tristram, worn with fever and impatient with long waiting, unjustly charges Iseult with cruelty for not having come to him withgreater haste. Her gentle, loving words, however, quickly dispel hisdoubts as to her loyalty to her former vows. A complete reconciliationtakes place, and they die in each other's embrace. The picture of theHuntsman on the arras is one of the most notable in English poetry. =47. Honied nothings=. Explain. Compare with "his tongue Dropt manna. " [172] --_Paradise Lost_, ll. 112-113, Book II. =81-88=. Tristram was born in the forest, where his mother Isabella, sister to King Marc, had gone in search of her recreant husband. =97-100=. Tennyson, in _The Last Tournament_, follows Malory in thestory of Tristram's and Iseult's death. "That traitor, King Mark, slewthe noble knight, Sir Tristram, as he sat harping before his lady, La Beale Isoud, with a trenchant glaive, for whose death was muchbewailing of every knight that ever was in Arthur's days . .. And LaBeale Isoud died swooning upon the cross of Sir Tristram, whereof wasgreat pity. "--Malory's _Morte d' Arthur. _ =113. Sconce=. Consult dictionary. =116-122=. Why this restlessness on the part of Iseult? Why herfrequent glances toward the door? =132. Dogg'd=. Worried, pursued. Coleridge uses the epithet"star-dogged moon, " l. 212, Part III, _The Ancient Mariner. _ =147-193=. For the poet's purpose in introducing the remarkableword-picture of these lines, see notes on the Tyrian trader, ll. 231-250, 232, _The Scholar-Gipsy. _ PART III After the death of Tristram and Iseult of Ireland, our thoughtsinevitably turn to Iseult of the White Hands. The infinite pathos ofher life has aroused our deepest sympathy, and we naturally want toknow further concerning her and Tristram's children. =13. Cirque=. A circle (obsolete or poetical). See l. 7, Part III. =18. Holly-trees and juniper=. Evergreen trees common in Europe andAmerica. [173]=22. Fell-fare= (or field-fare). A small thrush found in NorthernEurope. =26. Stagshorn. = A common club-moss. =37. Old-world Breton history. = That is, the story of Merlin andVivian, ll. 153-224, Part III. =79-81=. Compare with the following lines from Wordsworth's_Michael_:-- "This light was famous in its neighborhood. . .. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single. .. . And from this constant light so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale . .. Was named _The Evening Star_. " =81. Iron coast. = This line inevitably calls to mind a stanza fromTennyson's _Palace of Art_:-- "One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seemed to hear them climb and fall And roar, rock-thwarted, under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall. " =92. Prie-dieu. = Praying-desk. From the French _prier_, pray; _dieu_, God. =97. Seneschal. = A majordomo; a steward. Originally meant _old_ (thatis, _chief) servant_; from the Gothic _sins_, old, and _salks_, aservant. --SKEAT. =134. Gulls. = Deceives, tricks. "The vulgar, _gulled_ into rebellion, armed, " --DRYDEN. =140. = posting here and there. That is, restlessly changing from placeto place and from occupation to occupation. =143-145. Like that bold Cæsar=, etc. Julius Cæsar (100?-44 B. C. ). The incident here alluded to Is mentioned in Suetonius' _Life of theDeified Julius_, Chapter VII. "Farther Spain fell to the lot of Cæsaras questor. When, at the command of the Roman people, he was holdingcourt and had come to Cadiz, he noticed in the temple of Hercules astatue of Alexander the Great. At sight of this statue he sighed, as if disgusted at his own lack of achievement, because he had donenothing of note by the time in life (Cæsar was then thirty-two) thatAlexander had conquered the world. " (Free translation. ) [174] =146-150. Prince Alexander, etc. = Alexander III. , surnamed "TheGreat" (356-323 B. C. ), was the most famous of Macedonian generals andconquerors, and the first in order of time of the four most celebratedcommanders of whom history makes mention. In less than fifteen yearshe extended his domain over the known world and established himself asthe universal emperor. He died at Babylon, his capital city, at theage of thirty-three, having lamented that there were no more worldsfor him to conquer. (For the boundaries of his empire, see any map ofhis time. ) Pope spoke of him as "The youth who all things but himselfsubdued. " =Soudan= (l. 149). An obsolete term for Sultan, the Turkishruler. =153-224=. The story of Merlin, King Arthur's court magician, and theenchantress Vivian is one of the most familiar of the Arthurian cycleof legends. =Broce-liande= (l. 156). In Cornwall. See l. 61, PartI. =fay= (l. 159). Fairy, =empire= (l. 184). That is, power; heresupernatural power. =wimple= (l. 220). A covering for the head. =IsMerlin prisoner=, etc. (l. 223). Merlin, the magician, is thusentrapped by means of a charm he had himself communicated to hismistress, the enchantress Vivian. Malory has Merlin imprisoned under arock; Tennyson, in an oak:-- "And in the hollow oak he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. " --_Merlin and Vivian_. [175]=224=. For she was passing weary, etc. "And she was ever passing weary of him. " --MALORY. PART I. What is the opening situation in the poem? Why have it astormy night? What does Tristram's question (l. 7) reveal of hiscondition physically and mentally? What is the office of the partsof the poem coming between the intervals of conversation? How is thewounded knight identified? How the lady? Follow the wanderings of thesleeping Tristram's mind. Are the incidents he speaks of in the orderof their occurrence? Explain ll. 102-103; ll. 161-169. Tell the storyof Tristram and Iseult of the White Hands. What is shown by the factthat Tristram's mind dwells on Iseult of Ireland even at the time ofbattle? How account for his wanderings? For his morose frame of mind?What change has come over nature when Tristram awakes? Why thischange? What is his mood now? Account for his addressing Iseult ofBrittany as he does. Why his order for her to retire? What is herattitude toward him? Note the manner in which the children areintroduced into the story (ll. 324-325) PART II. Give the openingsituation. Discuss the meeting of Tristram and Iseult. What isrevealed by their conversation? What is the purpose in introducing theHuntsman on the arras? PART III. What is the purpose of ll. 1-4? Givethe opening situation in Part III. How is Iseult trying to entertainher children? What kind of a life does she lead? Discuss ll. 112-150as to meaning and connection with the theme of the poem. Tell thestory of Merlin and Vivian. Why introduced? Compare Arnold's versionof the story of Tristram and Iseult with the version given in theintroductory note to the poem. [176]THE CHURCH OF BROU I. THE CASTLE The church of Brou is actually located in a treeless Burgundian plain, and not in the mountains, as stated by the poet. =1. Savoy=. A mountainous district in eastern France; formerly one ofthe divisions of the Sardinian States. =3. Mountain-chalets=. Properly, herdsmen's huts in the mountains ofSwitzerland. =17. Prickers=. Men sent into the thickets to start the game. =35. Dais=. Here, a canopy or covering. =69. Erst=. See note, l. 42, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. ( Formerly. (Obsolete except in poetry. )) =71. Chancel=. The part of a church in which the altar is placed. =72. Nave=. See note, ll. 70-76, _Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoön_. =77. Palmers=. Wandering religious votaries, especially those who borebranches of palm as a token that they had visited the Holy Land andits sacred places. =109. Fretwork=. Representing open woodwork. II. THE CHURCH =17. Matin-chime=. Bells for morning worship. =21. Chambery=. Capital of the department of Savoy Proper, on theLeysse. =22. Dight=. See l. 277, _Sohrab and Rustum_. (Adorned, dressed. ) =37. Chisell'd broideries=. The carved draperies of the tombs. III. THE TOMB =6. Transept=. The transversal part of a church edifice, which crossesat right angles between the nave and the choir (the upper portion), thus giving to the building the form of a cross. =39. Foliaged marble forest=. Note the epithet. [177]=45. Leads=. That is, the leaden roof. See l. 1, Part II. (Upon theglistening leaden roof). REQUIESCAT This poem, one of Arnold's best-known shorter lyrics, combines withperfect taste, simplicity and elegance, with the truest pathos. It hasbeen said there is not a false note in it. =13. Cabin'd=. Used in the sense of being cramped for space. =16. Vasty=. Spacious, boundless. What is the significance of strewing on the roses? Why "never a sprayof yew"? (See note, l. 140, _The Scholar-Gipsy. )_ What seems to be theauthor's attitude toward death? (Read his poem, _A Wish_. ) Discuss thepoem as to its lyrical qualities. CONSOLATION =14. Holy Lassa= (that is, Land of the Divine Intelligence), thecapital city of Thibet and residence of the Dalai, or Grand Lama, thepontifical sovereign of Thibet and East Asia. Here is located thegreat temple of Buddha, a vast square edifice, surmounted by a gildeddome, the temple, together with its precincts, covering an area ofmany acres. Contiguous to it, on its four sides, are four celebratedmonasteries, occupied by four thousand recluses, and resorted to asschools of the Buddhic religion and philosophy. There is, perhaps, noother one place in the world where so much gold is accumulated forsuperstitious purposes. =17. Muses. = See note, l. 120, _The Strayed Reveller_. =18. In their cool gallery=. That is, in the Vatican art gallery atRome. =19. Yellow Tiber. = So called by the ancients because of theyellowish, muddy appearance of its waters. [178]=21. Strange unloved uproar. = At the time this poem waswritten, --1849, --the French army was besieging Rome. =23. Helicon. = High mountain in Boeotia, legendary home of theMuses. =32. Erst. = See note, l. 32, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. =48. Destiny. = That is, Fate, the goddess of human destiny. In what mood is the author at the opening of the poem? How does heseek consolation? How does the calm of the Muses affect him? Can yousee how he might find help in dwelling on the pictures of the blindbeggar and happy lovers? What is the final thought of the poem? Canyou think of any other poem that has this as its central thought? Whatdo you think of the author's philosophy of life as set forth in thispoem? Discuss the verse form used. LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS The Kensington Gardens form one of the many beautiful public parks ofLondon. They are located in the Kensington parish, a western suburb ofthe city, lying north of the Thames and four miles west-southwest ofSt. Paul's. In his poem Arnold contrasts the serenity of naturewith the restlessness of modern life. "Not Lucan, not Vergil, only Wordsworth, has more beautifully expressed the spirit ofPantheism. "--HERBERT W. PAUL. =4. = The pine trees here mentioned are since dead. =14. What endless active life!= Compare with Arnold's sonnet of thisvolume, entitled _Quiet Work_, ll. 4-7 and 11-12. =21. The huge world. = London. =24. Was breathed on by rural Pan. = Note Arnold's classic way ofaccounting for his great love for nature, Pan being the nature god. See note, l. 67, _The Strayed Reveller_. [179]=37-42. = Compare the thought here presented with the following lines from Wordsworth:-- "These beauteous forms, . .. Have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye. But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, . .. Sensations sweet Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration. " Read also Wordsworth's _Lines to the Daffodil_. What is the dominant mood of the poem? What evidently brought it tothe author's mind? How does he show his interest in nature? In humanbeings? What inspiration does the author seek from nature, ll. 37-42?Explain the meaning of the last two lines. THE STRAYED REVELLER "I have such a love for these forms and this old Greek world, thatperhaps I infuse a little soul into my dealings with them, which savesme from being entirely _ennuyx_, professorial and pedantic. " (MatthewArnold, in a letter to his sister, dated February, 1858. ) Circe, according to Greek mythology, was an enchantress, who dwelt inthe island of Ææa, and who possessed the power to transform meninto beasts. (See any mythological text on Ulysses' wanderings. ) InArnold's fantastic, visionary poem, the magic potion, by which thistransformation is accomplished, affects not the body, but the mind ofthe youth. =12. Ivy-cinctured. = That is, girdled with ivy, symbolic of Bacchus, the god of wine and revelry, whose forehead was crowned with ivy. Seealso l. 33. [180] =36. Rout. = Consult dictionary. =38. Iacchus. = In the Eleusinian mysteries, Bacchus bore the name ofIacchus. =fane. = A temple. From the Latin _fanum_, a place of worshipdedicated to any deity. =48. The lions sleeping. = As Ulysses' companions approached Circe'spalace, following their landing on her island, they found themselves"surrounded by lions, tigers, and wolves, not fierce but tamed byCirce's art, for she was a powerful magician. " =67. Pan's flute music!= Pan, the god of pastures and woodlands, was the inventor of the syrinx, or shepherd's flute, with which heaccompanied himself and his followers in the dance. =71. Ulysses. = The celebrated hero of the Trojan war; also famous forhis wanderings. One of his chief adventures, on his return voyage fromTroy, was with the enchantress Circe, with whom he tarried a year, forgetful of his faithful wife, Penelope, at home. =72. Art. = That is, are you. (Now used only in solemn or poeticstyle. ) =73. Range. = Wander aimlessly about. =74. See what the day brings. = That is, the youth. See ll. 24-52 =81. Nymphs. = Goddesses of the mountains, forests, meadows, or waters, belonging to the lower rank of deities. =102-107. = Compare in thought with Tennyson's poem, _Ulysses_. =110. The favour'd guest of Circe. = Ulysses. See note, l. 71. =120. Muses. = Daughters of Jupiter and Minemosyne, nine in number. According to the earliest writers the Muses were only the inspiringgoddesses of song; but later they were looked to as the divinitiespresiding over the different kinds of poetry, and over the arts andsciences. [181]=130-135. = Note the poet's device for presenting a series of mentalpictures. Compare with Tennyson's plan in his _Palace of Art_. DoesArnold's plan seem more or less mechanical than Tennyson's? =135-142. Tiresias. = The blind prophet of =Thebes= (l. 142), the chiefcity in Boeotia, near the river =Asopus= (l. 138). In his youth, Tiresias unwittingly came upon Athene while she was bathing, and waspunished by the loss of sight. As a recompense for this misfortune, the goddess afterward gave him knowledge of future events. Theinhabitants of Thebes looked to Tiresias for direction in times ofwar. =143. Centaurs. = Monsters, half man, half horse. =145. Pelion. = A mountain in eastern Thessaly, famous in Greekmythology. In the war between the giants and the gods, the former, intheir efforts to scale the heavens, piled Ossa upon Olympus and Pelionupon Ossa. =151-161. = What in these lines enables you to determine the people andcountry alluded to? =162-167. Scythian . .. Embers. = The ancient Greek term for the nomadictribes inhabiting the whole north and northeast Europe and Asia. Asa distinct people they built no cities, and formed no generalgovernment, but wandered from place to place by tribes, in their rude, covered carts (see l. 164), living upon the coarsest kind of food (ll. 166-167). =177-180. Clusters of lonely mounds, etc. = That is, ruins of ancientcities. =183. Chorasmian stream. = See note, l. 878, _Sohrab and Rustum_. =197. Milk-barr'd onyx-stones. = A reference to the white streaks, orbars, common to the onyx. =206. Happy Islands. = Mythical islands lying far to the west, theabode of the heroes after death. =220. Hera's anger. = Hera (or Juno), wife to Jupiter, was noted forher violent temper and jealousy. She is here represented as visitingpunishment upon the bard, perhaps out of jealousy of the gods who hadendowed him with poetic power, and his life, thus afflicted, seemslengthened to seven ages. [182] =228-229. Lapithæ. = In Greek legends, a fierce Thessalian race, governed by Pirothous, a half-brother to the Centaurs. =Theseus. = Thechief hero of Attica, who, according to tradition, united the severaltribes of Attica into one state, with Athens as the capital. His lifewas filled with adventure. The reference here is to the time of themarriage of Pirothous and Hippodamia, on which occasion the Centaurs, who were among the guests, became intoxicated, and offered indignitiesto the bride. In the fight that followed, Theseus joined with theLapithæ, and many of the Centaurs were slain. =231. Alcmena's dreadful son. = Hercules. On his expedition to capturethe Arcadian boar, his third labor, Hercules became involved in abroil with the Centaurs, and in self-defence slew several of them withhis arrows. =245. Oxus stream. = See note, l. 2, _Sohrab and Rustum_. =254. Heroes. = The demigods of mythology. =257. Troy. = The capital of Troas, Asia Minor; the seat of the Trojan war. =254-260. = Shortly after the close of the Trojan war, a party ofheroes from all parts of Greece, many of whom had participated in theexpeditions against Thebes and Troy, set out under the leadership ofJason to capture the Golden Fleece. Leaving the shores of Thessaly, the adventurers sailed eastward and finally came to the entrance ofthe =Euxine Sea= (the =unknown sea=, l. 260), which was guarded bythe Clashing Islands. Following the instructions of the sage Phineus, Jason let fly a dove between the islands, and at the moment ofrebound the expedition passed safely through. The ship in which theadventurers sailed was called the Argo, after its builder, Argus;hence our term Argonauts. [183]=261. Silenus. = A divinity of Asiatic origin; foster-father to Bacchusand leader of the =Fauns= (l. 265), satyr-like divinities, half man, half goat, sometimes represented in art as hearing torches (l. 274). =275. Mænad. = A bacchante, --a priestess or votary of Bacchus. =276. Faun with torches. = See note, l. 261. What is the situation at the beginning of the poem? What effect doesthe "liquor" have upon the youth? Why is the presence of Ulysses somuch in harmony with the situation? How does he greet Circe; how theyouth? What does his presence suggest to the latter? Why? Note thevividness of the pictures he describes; also the swiftness with whichhe changes from one to another. What power is ascribed to the poet?Why his "pain"? What effect is gained by closing the poem with thesame words with which it is opened? Why the irregular verse used? DOVER BEACH In this poem is expressed the peculiar turn of Arnold's mind, at oncereligious and sceptical, philosophical and emotional. It is one of hismost passionate interpretations of life. =15. Sophocles= (495-406 B. C. ). One of the three great tragic poets ofGreece. His rivals were Æschylus (526-456 B. C. ) and Euripides (486-406B. C. ). =16. Ægean Sea. = See note, l. 236, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. * * * * * Image the scene in the opening stanzas. What is the author's mood?Why does he call some one to look on the scene with him? What is the"eternal note of sadness"? Why connect it in thought with the sea? Whydoes this thought suggest Sophocles? What thought next presents itselfto the author's mind? From what source must one's help and comfortthen be drawn? Why so? Why the irregular versification? State thetheme of the poem. [184] PHILOMELA "Philomela unites the sensibilities and intellectual experience ofmodern Englishmen with the luminousness and simplicity of Greekpoetry. "--SAINTSBURY. The myth of the nightingale has long been a favorite with the poets, who have variously interpreted the bird's song. See Coleridge's, Keats's, and Wordsworth's poems on the subject. The most commonversion of the myth, the one followed by Arnold, is as follows:-- "Pandion (son of Erichthonius, special ward to Minerva) had twodaughters, Procne and Philomela, of whom he gave the former inmarriage to Tereus, king of Thrace (or of Daulis in Phocis). Thisruler, after his wife had borne him a son, Itys (or Itylus), weariedof her, plucked out her tongue by the roots to insure her silence, and, pretending that she was dead, took in marriage the other sister, Philomela. Procne, by means of a web, into which she wove her story, informed Philomela of the horrible truth. In revenge upon Tereus, thesisters killed Itylus, and served up the child as food to the father;but the gods, in indignation, transformed Procne into a swallow, Philomela into a nightingale, forever bemoaning the murdered Itylus, and Tereus into a hawk, forever pursuing the sisters. "--GAYLEY'S_Classic Myths_. =4. = Use the subjoined questions in studying the poem. =5. O wanderer from a Grecian shore. = See note, l. 27. =8. = Note the aptness and beauty of the adjectives in this line, notone of which could be omitted without irreparable loss. =18. Thracian wild. = Thrace was the name used by the early Greeks forthe entire region north of Greece. [185]=21. The too clear web=, etc. See introductory note to poem forexplanation of this and the following lines. =27. Daulis. = A city of Phocis, Greece, twelve miles northeast ofDelphi; the scene of the myth of Philomela. =Cephessian vale. = Thevalley of the Cephissus, a small stream running through Doris, Phocis, and Boeotia, into the Euboean Gulf. =29. How thick the bursts=, etc. Compare with the following lines from Coleridge:-- "'Tis the merry nightingale That crowds and hurries and precipitates With fast, thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!" --_The Nightingale_. Also "O Nightingale! thou surely art A creature of a 'fiery heart':-- These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce! Thou sing'st as if the god of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine. " --WORDSWORTH. =31-32. Eternal passion! Eternal pain!= Compare:-- "Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. " --COLERIDGE, _To a Nightingale_. and "Sweet bird . .. Most musical, most melancholy!" --MILTON, _Il Penseroso_. Image the scene in the poem. How does the author secure the properatmosphere for the theme of the poem? Account for the note of triumphin the nightingale's song; note of pain. What is shown by the poet'squestion, ll. 10-15? What new qualities are added to the nightingale'ssong, l. 25? Account for them. Why _eternal_ passion, _eternal_ pain?Do you feel the form of verse used (Pindaric blank) to be adapted tothe theme? [186] HUMAN LIFE =4. Kept uninfringed my nature's law. = That is, have lived a perfectlife. =5. Inly-written chart. = The conscience. =8. Incognisable. = Not to be comprehended by finite mind. =23. Prore. = Poetical word for _prow_, the fore part of a ship. =27. Stem. = Consult dictionary. What important incident in the destiny of the soul is alluded to instanza 1? Interpret ll. 13-14, and apply to your own experience. Whycannot we live "chance's fool"? Is there any hint of fatalism in thepoem, or are we held accountable for our own destiny? ISOLATION TO MARGUERITE, ON RETURNING A VOLUME OF THE LETTERS OF ORTIS This poem, the fifth in a loosely connected group of lyrics, under thegeneral name _Switzerland_, is a continuation of the precedingpoem, _Isolation--to Marguerite_, and is properly entitled, _ToMarguerite--Continued_. When printed separately, the above title isused. Jacopo Ortis was a pseudonym of the Italian poet, Ugo Foscolo. His_Ultime Lettere di Ortis_ was translated into the English in 1818. [187]=1. Yes!= Used in answer to the closing thought of the preceding poem. =7. Moon. = Note the frequency with which reference to the moon, withits light effects, appears in Arnold's lines. Can you give any reasonfor this? =24. = Mr. Herbert W. Paul, commenting on this line, says: "_Isolation_winds up with one of the great poetic phrases of the century--one ofthe 'jewels five (literally five) words long' of English verse--aphrase complete and final, with epithets in unerring cumulation. " Give the poem's theme. To what is each individual likened? Discuss l. 2as to meaning. In what sense do we live "alone, " l. 4? Why "endlessbounds, " l. 6? How account for the feeling of despair, l. 13? Answer thequestions asked in the last stanza. In what frame of mind does thepoem leave you? KAISER DEAD APRIL 6, 1887 Arnold's love for animals, especially his household pets, was mostsincere. Despite the playful irony of his poem, there is in the minorkey an undertone of genuine sorrow. "We have just lost our dear, dearmongrel, Kaiser, " he wrote in a letter dated from his home in Cobham, Kent, April 7, 1887, "and we are very sad. " The poem was written thefollowing July, and was published in the _Fortnightly Review_ for thatmonth. =2. Cobham. = See note above. =3. Farringford, = in the Isle of Wight, was the home of Lord Tennyson. =5. Pen-bryn's bold bard. = Sir Lewis Morris, author of the _Epic ofHades_, lived at Pen-bryn, in Caermarthanshire. [188]=11-12. = In Burns's poem, _Poor Mailie's Elegy_, occur the followinglines:-- "Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed. " =20. Potsdam. = The capital of the government district of Potsdam, inthe province of Brandenburg, Prussia; hence the dog's name, _Kaiser_. =41. The Grand Old Man. = Gladstone. =50. Agog. = In a state of eager excitement. =65. Geist. = Also remembered in a poem entitled _Geist's Grave_, included in this volume. =76. Chiel. = A Scotch word meaning lad, fellow. "Buirdly _chiels_ an clever hizzies. " --BURNS, _The Twa Dogs_. =Skye. = The largest of the Inner Hebrides. See note, l. 7, _SaintBrandan_. THE LAST WORD In this poem Arnold describes the plight of one engaged in a hopelessstruggle against an uncompromising, Philistine world too strong forhim. State the central thought in the poem. To whom is it addressed? Whatis the _narrow bed_, l. 1? Why give up the struggle? With whom has itbeen waged? Explain fully l. 4. What is implied in l. 6? What is meantby _ringing shot_, l. 11? Who are the victors, l. 14? What would theyprobably say on finding the body near the wall? Can you think of anyhistorical characters of whom the poem might aptly have been written? [189]PALLADIUM At the time of the Trojan war there was in the citadel of Troy acelebrated statue of Pallas Athene, called the Palladium. It wasreputed to have fallen from heaven as the gift of Zeus, and the beliefwas that the city could not be taken so long as this statue remainedwithin it. Ulysses and Diomedes, two of the Greek champions, succeededin entering the city in disguise, stole the Palladium and carried itoff to the besiegers' camp at Argos. It was some time, however, beforethe city fell. =1. Simois. = A small river of the Troad which takes its rise in therocky, wooded eminence which, according to Greek tradition, formedthe acropolis of Troy. The Palladium was set up on its banks near itssource, in a temple especially erected for it (l. 6), and from thislofty position was supposed to watch over the safety of the city andher defenders on the plains below. =3. Hector. = Hector, son of Priam, king of Troy (Ilium), and hiswife, Hecuba, was the leader and champion of the Trojan armies. Hedistinguished himself in numerous single combats with the ablest ofthe Greek heroes; and to him was principally due the stubborn defenceof the Trojan capital. He was finally slain by Achilles, aided byAthene, and his body dragged thrice around the walls of Troy behindthe chariot of his conqueror. =14. Xanthus. = The Scamander, the largest and most celebrated river ofthe Troad, near which Troy was situated, was presided over by a deityknown to the gods as Xanthus. His contest with Achilles, whom he sonearly overwhelmed, forms a notable incident of the _Iliad_. =15. Ajax, or Aiax. = One of the leading Greek heroes in the siege ofTroy, famous for his size, physical strength, and beauty. In braveryand feats of valor he was second only to Achilles. Not being awardedthe armor of Achilles after that hero's death, he slew himself. [190]=16. = Helen, the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta, was celebrated forher beauty, by reason of which frequent references are made to her byboth classic and modern writers. Goethe introduces her in the secondpart of _Faust_, and Faustus, in Marlowe's play of that name, addresses her thus:-- "Oh! thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars. " Her abduction by Paris, son of Priam (see note, l. 3), was the causeof the Trojan war, the most notable incident of Greek mythology, whichforms the theme of Homer's greatest poem, the _Iliad_. What is the central thought of the poem? Of what is the Palladiumtypical? Explain the thought in stanza 3. What is the force of thereferences of stanza 4? Discuss the use of the words "rust" and"shine, " l. 17. Just what is meant by "soul" as the word is used inthe poem? SELF-DEPENDENCE _Self-Dependence_ is a poem in every respect characteristic of itsauthor. In it Arnold exhorts mankind to seek refuge from humantroubles in the example of nature. Picture the situation in the poem. What is the poet's mood as shownin the opening stanzas? From what source does he seek aid? Why? Whatanswer does he receive? What is the source of nature's repose? Whereand how must the human soul find its contentment? [191]GEIST'S GRAVE This poem appeared in the January number of the _Fortnightly Review_for 1881. =12. Homily. = Sermon. =15. The Virgilian cry. = _Sunt lacrimæ rerum!_ These words areinterpreted in the following line. =42. On lips that rarely form them now. = Arnold wrote but littlepoetry after 1867. =55-56. Thine absent master. = Richard Penrose Arnold, the poet's onlysurviving son. EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOÖN Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729-1781) was a celebrated German dramatistand critic. For a time he studied theology at Leipsic, then turned hisattention to the stage, and later to criticism. His greatest criticalwork (1766) is a treatise on Art, the famous Greek statuary group, the Laocoön, which gives the work its name, forming the basis for acomparative discussion of Sculpture, Poetry, Painting, and Music. =1. Hyde Park. = The largest park in London, and the principalrecreation ground of that city. =15. Phoebus-guarded ground. = Greece. Phoebus, a name often givenApollo, the sun god. =16. Pausanias. = A noted Greek geographer and writer on art who livedin the second century. "His work, _The Gazetteer of Hellas_, is ourbest repertory of information for the topography, local history, religious observances, architecture, and sculpture of the differentstates of Greece. "--K. O. MÜLLER, _History of the Literature of AncientGreece_. [192]=21-22. Dante= (1265-1321), =Petrarch= (1304-1374), =Tasso= (1544-;1595), =Ariosto= (1475-1533). Celebrated Italian poets. =25. Raphael= (1483-1520). The famous Italian painter. =29. Goethe= (1749-1832). The greatest name in German literature. His works include poetry, dramas, and criticisms. =Wordsworth=(1770-1850). See the poem, _Memorial Verses_, of this volume. =35. Mozart= (1766-1791), =Beethoven= (1770-1827), =Mendelssohn=(1809-1847). Noted musicians and composers. =42. South. = Warm. =43-48. = Cyclops Polyphemus, famous in the story of Ulysses, wasa persistent and jealous suitor of Galatea, the fairest of seadivinities. So ardent was he in his wooings, that he would leave hisflocks to wander at will, while he sang his uncouth lays from thehilltops to Galatea in the bay below. Her only answers were words ofscorn and mockery. See Andrew Lang's translation of Theocritus, IdylVI, for further account. =70-76. Abbey towers. = That is, Westminster Abbey, a mile's distanceto the south and east of Hyde Park. The abbey is built in the form ofa cross, the body or lower part of which is termed the nave (l. 73). The upper portion is occupied by the choir, the anthems of which, withtheir organ accompaniments, are alluded to in ll. 74-77. =89-106. Miserere Domine!= _Lord, have mercy!_ These words are fromthe service of the Church of England. The meaning in these lines isthat Beethoven, in his masterpieces, has transferred the thoughts andfeelings, above inadequately expressed in words, into another and moreemotional tongue; that is, music. =107. Ride. = A famous driveway in Hyde Park, commonly called RottenRow. =119. Vacant. = Thoughtless; not occupied with study or reflection. "For oft, when on my couch I lie In _vacant_ or in pensive mood. " --WORDSWORTH'S _Lines to the Daffodils_, ll. 19-20. =124. Hies. = Hastens (poetical). [193]=130. Painter and musician too!= Arnold held poetry to be equal topainting and music combined. =140. Movement. = Activities. Explained in the following lines. =163-210. = Note carefully the argument used to prove that poetryinterprets life more accurately and effectively than any of the otherarts. =Homer=, the most renowned of all Greek poets. The time in whichhe lived is not definitely known. =Shakespeare= (1504-1616). Give the setting of the story. What was the topic of conversation?What stand did the poet's friend take regarding poetry? Why turn toGreece in considering the arts? What limitations of the painter's artare pointed out by the poet? What is his attitude toward music?What finally is "the poet's sphere, " l. 127? Wherein then is poetrysuperior to the other arts? Does the author prove his point by hispoem? Discuss the poem as to movement, diction, etc. QUIET WORK No poet, not even Wordsworth, was more passionately fond of naturethan Arnold. Note his attitude in the poem. =1. One lesson. = What lesson? =4. = Discuss the use of the adjective "loud"; also "noisier, " l. 7. Note the essential elements of sonnet structure in metre, rhymeformula, and number of lines. See the introduction to Sharp's _Sonnetsof this Century_. SHAKESPEARE Despite this tribute, Arnold considered Homer Shakespeare's equal, ifnot his superior. What do Shakespeare's smile and silence imply onhis part? Explain in full the figure used. Do you consider it apt? Why"Better so, " l. 10? What is there in the poem that helps you to seewherein lay Shakespeare's power to interpret life? Select the lineswhich most impress you, and tell why. [194] YOUTH'S AGITATIONS This sonnet was written in 1852, when the poet was in his thirtiethyear. =5. Joy. = Be glad. =heats. = Passions. =6. Even clime. = That is, in the less emotional years of maturity. =12. Hurrying fever. = See note, l. 6. AUSTERITY OF POETRY =1. That son of Italy. = Giacopone di Todi. =2. Dante= (1265-1321). Best known as the author of _The DivineComedy_. =3. In his light youth. = Explain. =11. Sackcloth. = Symbolic of mourning or mortification of the flesh. Tell the story of the poem and make the application. Explain Arnold'sidea of poetry as set forth in ll. 12-14. WORLDLY PLACE =3. Marcus Aurelius= (121-180 A. D. ), commonly called "the philosopher. "A celebrated Roman emperor, prominent among the ethical teachersof his time. Arnold himself has been aptly styled by Sharp an"impassioned Marcus Aurelius, wrought by poetic vision and emotion topoetic music. " [195] =6. Foolish. = In the sense of unreasonable. =ken. = The Scotch wordmeaning sight. =7. Rates. = Berates, reproves. Give the poem's theme. What is implied by the word "even, " l. 1? Doesthe author agree with the implication? Why so? Discuss l. 5 as to itsmeaning. Interpret the expressions "ill-school'd spirit, " l. 11, and"Some nobler, ampler stage of life, " l. 12. Where finally are the aidsto a nobler life to be found? Do you agree with this philosophy oflife? EAST LONDON =2. Bethnal Green. = An eastern suburb of London. =4. Spitalfields. = A part of northeast London, comprising the parishesof Bethnal Green and Christchurch. Image the scene. What is the purpose of the first four lines? Discussl. 6. What is the import of the preacher's response? What are thepoet's conclusions drawn in ll. 9-14? WEST LONDON =1. Belgrave Square. = An important square in the western part ofLondon. Tell the situation and the story of the poem. Why did the womansolicit aid from the laboring men? Why not from the wealthy? Explainll. 9-11. What is the poet's final conclusion? [196]MEMORIAL VERSES APRIL, 1850 Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount, in the Lake, District, April 23, 1850. These verses, dedicated to his memory, are among Arnold's best-knownlines. For adequacy of meaning and charm of expression, they arealmost unsurpassed; they also contain some of the poet's soundestpoetical criticism. The poem was first published in _Fraser'sMagazine_ for June, 1850, and bore the date of April 27. =1. Goethe in Weimar sleeps. = The tomb of Goethe, the celebratedGerman author (see note, l. 29, _Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoön_), isin Weimar, the capital of the Grand-duchy of Saxe-Weimar. Weimar isnoted as the literary centre of Germany, and for this reason is styledthe German Athens. =2. Byron. = George Gordon Byron (1788-1824), a celebrated English poetof the French Revolutionary period, died at Missolonghi, Greece, wherehe had gone to help the Greeks in their struggle to throw off theTurkish yoke. He was preëminently a poet of passion, and, as such, exerted a marked influence on the literature of his day. His petulant, bitter rebellion against all law has become proverbial; hence theterm "Byronic. " The =Titans= (l. 14) were a race of giants who warredagainst the gods. The aptness of the comparison made here is at onceevident. In Arnold's sonnet, _A Picture at Newstead_, also occur theselines:-- "'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony. " =17. Iron age. = In classic mythology, "The last of the four great agesof the world described by Hesiod. Ovid, etc. It was supposed tobe characterized by abounding oppression, vice, and misery. "--_International Dictionary_. The preceding ages, in order, were theage of gold, the age of silver, and the age of brass. [197] =34-39=. Eurydice, wife of Orpheus, was stung to death by a serpent, and passed to the realm of the dead--Hades. Thither Orpheus descended, and, by the charm of his lyre and song, persuaded Pluto to restore herto life. This he consented to do on condition that she walk behindher husband, who was not to look at her until they had arrived inthe upper world. Orpheus, however, looked back, thus violating theconditions, and Eurydice was caught back into the infernal regions. "The ferry guard Now would not row him o'er the lake again. " --LANDOR. =72. Rotha=. A small stream of the English Lake Region, on which RydalMount, Wordsworth's burial-place, is situated. THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY "There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford who was byhis poverty forced to leave his studies there and at last to joinhimself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagantpeople, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly gotso much of their love and esteem that they discovered to him theirmystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars who had formerly been ofhis acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among thegipsies, and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove himto that kind of life, and told them that the people he went withwere not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had atraditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by thepower of imagination, their fancy binding that of others; that himselfhad learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the wholesecret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give theworld an account of what he had learned. "--GLANVIL'S _Vanity ofDogmatizing_, 1661. [198] =2. Wattled cotes=. Sheepfolds. Probably suggested by Milton's _Comus_, l. 344:-- "The folded flocks, penned in their _wattled cotes_. " =9. Cross and recross=. Infinitives depending upon seen, l. 8. =13. Cruse=. Commonly associated in thought with the story of Elijahand the widow of Zarephath, 1 _Kings_, xvii: 8-16. =19. Corn=. See note, l. 156, _Sohrab and Rustum_. =30. Oxford towers=. "Oxford, the county town of Oxfordshire and theseat of one of the most ancient and celebrated universities in Europe, is situated amid picturesque environs at the confluence of theCherwell and the Thames (often called in its upper course the Isis). It is surrounded by an amphitheatre of gentle hills, the tops ofwhich command a fine view of the city with its domes andtowers. "--BAEDEKER'S _Great Britain_, in his _Handbooks forTravellers_. In writing of Oxford, Hawthorne says: "The world, surely, has not another place like Oxford; it is a despair to see such a placeand ever to leave it, for it would take a lifetime, and more than one, to comprehend and enjoy it satisfactorily. " See also note, l. 19, _Thyrsis_. =31. Glanvil's book=. See introductory note to poem. =42. Erst=. Formerly. (Obsolete except in poetry. ) =44-50=. See introductory note to poem. =57. Hurst=. Cumner (or Cumnor) Hurst, one of the Cumnor range ofhills, some two or three miles south and west of Oxford, is crownedwith a clump of cedars; hence the name "Hurst. " =58. Berkshire moors=. Berkshire is the county, or shire, on the southof Oxford County. =69. Green-muffled=. Explain the epithet. [199]=74. Bablockhithe=. A small town some four miles west and a littlesouth of Oxford, on the Thames, which at that point is a mere streamcrossed by a ferry. This and numerous other points of interest in thevicinity of Oxford are frequented by Oxford students; hence Arnold'sfamiliarity with them and his reference to them in this poem and_Thyrsis_. See any atlas. =79. Wychwood bowers=. That is, Wychwood Forest, ten or twelve milesnorth and west of Oxford. See note, l. 74. =83. To dance around the Fyfield elm in May=. Fyfield, a parish inBerkshire, about six miles southwest of Oxford. The reference here isto the "May-day" celebrations formerly widely observed in Europe, butnow nearly disappeared. The chief features of the celebration in GreatBritain are the gathering of hawthorn blossoms and other flowers, thecrowning of the May-queen and dancing around the May-pole--here theFyfield elm. See note, l. 74. Read Tennyson's poem, _The Queen o' theMay_. =91. Godstow Bridge=. Some two miles up the Thames from Oxford. =95. Lasher pass=. An English term corresponding to our _mill race_. The _lasher_ is the dam, or weir. =98. Outlandish=. Analyze the word and determine meaning. =111. Bagley Wood=. South and west of Oxford, beyond South Hinksey. See note, l. 125; also note, l. 74. =114. Tagg'd=. That is, marked; the leaves being colored by frost. =115. Thessaly=. The northeastern district of ancient Greece, celebrated in mythology. Here a forest ground near Bagley Wood. Seenote, l. 111; also note, l. 74. =125. Hinksey=. North and South Hinksey are unimportant villages ashort distance out from Oxford in the Cumnor Hills. See note, l. 74. [200]=129. Christ Church hall=. The largest and most fashionable collegein Oxford; founded by Cardinal Wolsey in 1525. The chapel of ChristChurch is also the cathedral of the diocese of Oxford. =130. Grange=. Consult dictionary. =133. Glanvil=. Joseph Glanvil, 1636-1680. A noted English divine andphilosopher; author of a defence of belief in witchcraft. =140. Red-fruited yew tree=. The yew tree is very common in Englishburial-grounds. It grows slowly, lives long, has a dark, thickfoliage, and yields a red berry. See Wordsworth's celebrated poem, _The Yew-Tree_. =141-170=. "This note of lassitude is struck often--perhaps toooften--in Arnold's poems. "--DU PONT SYLE. See also _The Stanzas inMemory of the Author of Obermann_. For the author's less despondentmood, see his _Rugby Chapel_, included in this volume. =147. Teen=. Grief, sorrow; from the old English _teona_, meaninginjury. =149. The just-pausing Genius=. Does the author here allude to death? =151. Thou hast not lived= (so). That is, as described in precedingstanza. =152. Thou hadst one aim=, etc. What was the Scholar-Gipsy's _one_motive in life? =157-160. But thou possessest an immortal lot=, etc. Explain. =165. Which much to have tried=, etc. Which many attempts and manyfailures bring. =180. Do not we . .. Await it too=? That is, the spark from heaven. Seel. 171. =182-190=. Possibly Carlyle, although the author may have had in minda type rather than an individual. =208-209. Averse, as Dido did=, etc. Dido, the mythical queen ofCarthage, being deserted by her lover Æneas, slew herself. Sheafterward met him on his journey through Hades, but turned from him inscorn. [201] "In vain he thus attempts her mind to move With tears and prayers and late repenting love; Disdainfully she looked, then turning round But fixed her eyes unmoved upon the ground, And what he says and swears regards no more Than the deaf rocks when the loud billows roar. " --DRYDEN'S _Translation_. For entire episode, see _Æneid_, vi, 450-476. =212. Inviolable shade=. Holy, sacred, not susceptible to corruption. Perhaps no other of Arnold's lines is so much quoted as this and thepreceding line. =214=. Why "silver'd" branches? =220=. Dingles. Wooded dells. =231-250=. Note the force of this elaborate and exquisitely sustainedimage; how the mind is carried back from these turbid days of sickunrest to the clear dawn of a fresh and healthy civilization. In thecourse of an essay on Arnold, the late Mr. Richard Holt Hutton says ofthis poem and this closing picture: "That most beautiful and gracefulpoem on the _Scholar-Gipsy_ (the Oxford student who is said to haveforsaken academic study in order to learn, if it might be, thosepotent secrets of nature, the traditions of which the gypsies aresupposed sedulously to guard) ends in a digression of the most vividbeauty. .. . Nothing could illustrate better than this [closing] passageArnold's genius and his art. .. . His whole drift having been thatcare and effort and gain and pressure of the world are sapping humanstrength, he ends with a picture of the old-world pride and daring, which exhibits human strength in its freshness and vigor. .. . I couldquote poem after poem which Arnold closes by some such buoyantdigression: a buoyant digression intended to shake off the tone ofmelancholy, and to remind us that the world of imaginative life isstill wide open to us. .. . This problem is insoluble, he seems to say, but insoluble or not, let us recall the pristine force of the humanspirit, and not forget that we have access to great resourcesstill. .. . Arnold, exquisite as his poetry is, teaches us first tofeel, and then to put by, the cloud of mortal destiny. But he does notteach us, as Wordsworth does, to bear it. " [202] =232. As some grave Tyrian trader, etc=. Tyre, the second oldest andmost important city of Phoenicia, was, in ancient times, a strongcompetitor for the commercial supremacy of the Mediterranean. =236. Ægean Isles=. The Ægean Sea, that part of the Mediterraneanlying between Greece on the west, European Turkey on the north, andAsia Minor on the east, is dotted with numerous small islands, many ofwhich are famous in Greek mythology. =238. Chian wine=. Chios, or Scio, an island in the Ægean Sea (seenote above), was formerly celebrated for its wine and figs. =239. Tunnies=. A fish belonging to the mackerel family; found in theMediterranean Sea. =244. Midland waters=. The Mediterranean Sea. =245. Syrtes=. The ancient name of Gulf of Sidra, off North Africa, the chief arm of the Mediterranean on the south, =soft Sicily=. Sicilyis noted for its delightful climate; hence the term, "soft Sicily. " =247. Western straits=. Strait of Gibraltar. =250. Iberians=. Inhabitants of the Iberian Peninsula, formed byPortugal and Spain. What atmosphere is given the poem by the first stanza? What quest isto be begun, l. 10? What caused the "Scholar" to join himself to thegipsies? What were his original intentions? Why, then, did he continuewith them till his death? Why would he avoid others than members ofthe gipsy crew? Why his pensive air? To what truth does the authorsuddenly awake? How does the Scholar-Gipsy yet live to him? Explainfully lines 180-200. Note carefully the author's contrast between thelife led by the Scholar-Gipsy and our modern life. Which is better?Why? Make an application of the figure of the Tyrian trader. Is itapt? Why used by the poet? Discuss the verse form used. Is it adaptedto the theme of the poem? [203] THYRSIS A monody to commemorate the author's friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, whodied at Florence, 1861. Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding selection, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, of which it is the companion piece, and, in asense, the sequel. It is one of the four great elegies in the Englishlanguage. Thyrsis is a name common to both ancient and modern literature. Inthe Idyls of Theocritus it is used as the name of a herdsman; in theEclogues of Vergil, of a shepherd; while in later writings it has cometo mean any rustic. Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861), whose poetry is closely akin in spiritto Arnold's, was a young man of genius and promise. He studied at bothRugby and Oxford, where he and Arnold were intimately associated andbecame fast friends. In 1869 his health began to fail, and two yearslater he died in Florence, Italy, where he had gone in the hope ofbeing benefited by the climate. Arnold, in a letter to his mother dated April, 1866, says of his poem:"Tell dear old Edward [Arnold] that the diction of the Thyrsis wasmodelled on that of Theocritus, whom I have been much reading duringthe two years this poem has been forming itself, and that I meant thediction to be so artless as to be almost heedless. However, there isa mean which must not be passed, and before I reprint this I willconsider well all objections. The images are all from actualobservation. .. . The cuckoo in the wet June morning, I heard in thegarden at Woodford, and all those three stanzas, which you like, arereminiscences of Woodford. Edward has, I think, fixed on the twostanzas I myself like best: 'O easy access, ' and 'And long the wayappears. ' I also like 'Where is the girl, ' and the stanza before it;but that is because they bring certain places and moments beforeme. .. . It is probably too quiet a poem for the general taste, but Ithink it will stand wear. " To his friend, John Campbell Shairp, Arnoldwrote, a few days later: "Thyrsis is a very quiet poem, but, I think, solid and sincere. It will not be popular, however. It had long beenin my head to connect Clough with that Cumner country, and, when Ibegan, I was carried irresistibly into this form. You say, truly, thatthere was much in Clough (the whole prophetic side, in fact) which onecannot deal with in this way. .. . Still, Clough had the idyllic side, too; to deal with this suited my desire to deal again with that Cumnercountry. Anyway, only so could I treat the matter this time. _Valeatquantum_. " [204] =1. = Note how the tone of the poem is struck in the first line. =2. In the two Hinkseys. = That is, North and South Hinksey. See note, l. 125, _The Scholar-Gipsy. _ =4. Sibylla's name. = In ancient mythology the Sibyls were certainwomen reputed to possess special powers of prophecy, or divination, and who claimed to make special intercession with the gods in behalfof those who resorted to them. Do you see why their "name" would beused on signs as here mentioned? =6. Ye hills. = See note, l. 30, _The Scholar-Gipsy. _ =14. Ilsley Downs. = The surface of East and West Ilsley parishes, inBerkshire, some twelve or fourteen miles south of Oxford, is broken byranges of plateau-like hills, known in England as _downs_. =15. The Vale. = White Horse Vale; the upper valley of the River Ock, westward from Oxford. =weirs=. See note, l. 95, _The Scholar-Gipsy. _ [205]=19. And that sweet city with her dreaming spires. = Arnold's intenselove for Oxford and the surrounding country appears in many of hisessays and poems. In the introduction to his _Essays on Criticism_, Vol. I, occurs the following tribute: "Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of ourcentury, so serene! 'There are our young barbarians all at play!' And yet, steeped in sentiment as she lies, spreading her garments tothe moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last enchantment ofthe Middle Age, who will deny that Oxford, by her ineffable charm, keeps ever calling us nearer the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection--to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen fromanother side?. .. Home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs andunpopular names and impossible loyalties! what example could ever soinspire us to keep down the Philistine in ourselves, what teachercould ever so save us from that bondage to which we are all prone, that bondage which Goethe, in his incomparable lines on the death ofSchiller, makes it his friend's highest praise . .. To have left milesout of sight behind him: the bondage of 'was uns alle bändigt, DasGemeine'?" =20. = Compare with Lowell's lines on June, in _The Vision of SirLaunfal_. =22-23. = Explain. =24. Once pass'd I blindfold here. = That is, at one time I could havepassed here blindfolded, being so familiar with the country. Can youthink of any other possible interpretation? =26-30. = Explain. =31-40. = Compare the thought here to that of Milton's _Lycidas_, ll. 23-38. A comparison of the two poems entire, in thought and structure, will be found to be both interesting and profitable. =Shepherd-pipe=(l. 35). The term =pipe=, also reed (l. 78), is continually used inpastoral verse as symbolic of poetry and song. [206] =38-45. Needs must I lose them=, etc. That is, I must lose them, etc. Arnold's great ambition was to devote his life to literature, whichcircumstances largely prevented; while Clough was eager to take a moreactive part in life, not being content with the uneventful career of apoet, =irk'd= (l. 40). Annoyed; worried. =keep= (l. 43). Here used inthe sense of remain, =silly= (l. 45). Harmless; senseless. The word hasan interesting history. =46-50=. Like Arnold, Clough held lofty ideals of life, and grieved tosee men living so far below their privileges. This, with his lossof faith in God, tinged his poetry with sadness. The storms (l. 49)allude to the spiritual, political, and social unrest of the last ofthe first half, and first of the last half, of the nineteenth century. =51-60. So . .. So. .. . = Just as the cuckoo departs with the bloom ofthe year, so he (Clough) went, l. 48. =With blossoms red and white=(l. 55). The white thorn, or hawthorn, very common in English gardens. =62. High Midsummer pomps=. Explained in the following lines. =71. Light comer=. That is, the cuckoo. Compare "O blithe New-comer. " --WORDSWORTH, _Lines to the Cuckoo_. =77. Swains=. Consult dictionary. =78. Reed=. See note, l. 35 of poem. =79. And blow a strain the world at last shall heed=. On the whole, Clough's poetry was either ignored or harshly criticised by thereviewers. =80. Corydon=. In the Idyls of Theocritus, Corydon and Thyrsis, shepherd swains, compete for a prize in music. =84. Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate=. Bion of Smyrna, Asia Minor, a celebrated bucolic poet of the second century B. C. , spent the lateryears of his life in Sicily, where it is supposed he was poisoned. His untimely death was lamented by his follower and pupil, Moschus ofSyracuse, in an idyl marked by melody and genuine pathos. =ditty=. In a general sense, any song; usually confined, however, to a songnarrating some heroic deed. [207] =85. Cross the unpermitted ferry's flow=. That is, cross the riverof Woe, over which Charon ferried the shades of the dead to Hades. Mythology records several instances, however, of the ferry beingpassed by mortals. See note, ll. 34-39, _Memorial Verses_; also ll. 207-210, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, of this volume. =88-89. Proserpine=, wife to Pluto (l. 86) and queen of theunderworld, was anciently honored, with flower festivals in Sicily, asthe goddess of the spring. =90. And flute his friend like Orpheus=, etc. See note, ll. 34-39, _Memorial Verses_. =94. She knew the Dorian water's gush divine=. The river Alpheus, in the northwestern part of the Peloponnesus--the country of theDorians--disappears from the surface and flows in subterraneanchannels for some considerable part of its course to the sea. Inancient Greek mythology it was reputed to rise again to the surface incentral Sicily, in the vale of Enna, the favorite haunt of Proserpine, as the fountain of Arethusa. =95-96. She knew each lily white which Enna yields=, etc. According toGreek mythology, Proserpine was gathering flowers in the vale of Ennawhen carried off by Pluto. =97. She loved the Dorian pipe=, etc. What reason or reasons can yougive for Proserpine's love of things Dorian? =106. I know the Fyfield tree=. See l. 83, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. =109. Ensham, Sanford=. Small towns on the Thames; the former, somefour miles above Oxford; the latter, a like distance below. =123. Wytham flats=. Some three miles above Oxford, along the Thames. [208]=135. Sprent. Sprinkled=. The preterit or past participle of _spreng_(obsolete or archaic). =141-150=. Explain. =155. Berkshire=. See note, l. 58, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. =167. Arno-vale=. The valley of the Arno, a river in Tuscany, Italy, on which Florence is situated. =175. To a boon . .. Country he has fled=. That is, to Italy. =177. The great Mother=. Ceres, the earth goddess. =181-190=. Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoralpoetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in thepower of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to makestrangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them todeath if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, like the Linus-song, one of the early, plaintive strains of Greekpopular poetry, and used to be sung by the corn reapers. Othertraditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph, who exacted fromhim an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, andwas struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place fromwhich he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearlysacrifices. See Servius, _Comment, in Vergil. Bucol_. , V, 20, andVIII, 68. =191-200=. Explain the lines. =Sole= (l. 192). See l. 563, _Sohrab andRustum_. =soft sheep= (l. 198). Note the use of the adjective _soft_. Cf. _soft Sicily_, l. 245, _The Scholar-Gipsy_. =201-202. A fugitive and gracious light=, etc. What is the lightsought by the Scholar-Gipsy and by the poet? Beginning with l. 201, explain the succeeding stanzas, sentence by sentence, to the close ofthe poem. Then sum up the thought in a few words. [209]What is the author's mood, as shown by the first stanza? What is hispurpose in recalling the haunts once familiar to him about Oxford?Why the mention of the Scholar-Gipsy? What is the significance of the"tree" so frequently alluded to in the poem? Discuss stanzas 4 and 5as to meaning. To what is Thyrsis (Clough) likened in stanzas 6, 7, and 8? Where, however, is there a difference? Apply ll. 81-84 toClough and Arnold. How do you explain the "easy access" of the Dorianshepherds to Proserpine, l. 91? What digression is made in ll. 131-150? What is the poet's attitude toward life? Why will he notdespair so long as the "lonely tree" remains? What comparison doeshe make between Clough and the Scholar-Gipsy? What is the "graciouslight, " l. 201? Where found? What voice whispers to him amid the"heart-wearying roar" of the city? What effect does it have upon him?Does it give him courage or fortitude? Discuss the verse form anddiction of the poem. RUGBY CHAPEL _Rugby Chapel_ (1857), one of Arnold's best-known and mostcharacteristic productions, was written in memory of his father, Dr. Thomas Arnold, famous as the great head-master at Rugby. Dr. Arnoldwas born at East Cowes in the Isle of Wight, June 13, 1795, and as aboy was at school at Warminster and Winchester. In 1811 he enteredCorpus Christi College, Oxford, and having won recognition as ascholar, was awarded a fellowship of the Oriel in 1815. Three yearslater he settled at Laleham, where, in 1820, he married Mary Penrose, daughter of Justice Penrose, and where, two years later, was bornMatthew, who was destined to win marked distinction among English menof letters. In 1827 he was elected head-master at Rugby, and shortlyafterward began those important reforms which have placed him amongthe greatest educators of his century. Chief among his writings ishis _History of Rome_, published in several volumes. In 1841 he wasappointed Regius Professor of History at Oxford. He died very suddenlyon Sunday, June 12, 1842, and on the following Friday his remainswere interred in the chancel of Rugby Chapel, immediately under thecommunion table. [210] In his poem Arnold has drawn a vivid picture of a strong, helpful, hopeful, unselfish soul, cheering and supporting his weaker comradesin their upward and onward march--a picture of the guide and companionof his earlier years; and in so doing he has preserved his father'smemory to posterity in a striking and an abiding way. =1-13=. Note carefully the tone of these introductory lines, anddetermine the poet's purpose in opening the poem in this mood. Thepicture inevitably calls to mind Bryant's lines, _The Death ofFlowers_. =16. Gloom=. The key-word to the preceding lines. Explain why it callsto mind the poet's father. Keats makes a similar use of the word_forlorn_ in his _Ode to the Nightingale_. ". .. Forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self. " =30-33=. Discuss the figure as to its aptness. =37. Shore=. A word common to hymns. =38-57=. Discuss the poet's idea of the future life as set forth inthese lines. Can you think of any other author or authors who haveheld a like view? =58-59=. The poet asks this question only to answer it in the linesfollowing. Compare and contrast the two classes of men spoken of;their aims in life and their achievements. Why is the path of thosewho have chosen a "clear-purposed goal" pictured so difficult? Who arethey that start well, but fall out by the wayside? [211] =90-93=. Compare with Byron's description of a storm in the Alps, Canto III, _Childe Harold_. "Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder. " =98-101=. So unstable is the hold of the "snow-beds" on the mountainsides that travellers passing beneath them are forbidden by the guidesto speak, lest their voices precipitate an avalanche. See ll. 160-169, _Sohrab and Rustum_. =117-123=. What human frailties are indicated in the answer to thehost's question? Note the contrast in the succeeding lines. =124-144=. The imagery of these lines is drawn from Dr. Arnold'slife at Rugby. Under his care frequent excursions were made into theneighboring Westmoreland Hills. Nothing perhaps gives a better idea ofthe man than the description of his "delight in those long mountainwalks, when they would start with their provisions for the day, himself the guide and life of the party, always on the lookout howbest to break the ascent by gentle stages, comforting the little onesin their falls and helping forward those who were tired, himselfalways keeping with the laggers, that none might strain their strengthby trying to be in front with him; and then, when his assistance wasnot wanted, the liveliest of all--his step so light, his eye soquick in finding flowers to take home to those who were not of theparty. "--ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. =171. In the rocks=. That is, among the rocks. =190. Ye=. Antecedent? =208. City of God=. "There is a river the streams whereof shall make glad the _city of God_. " --_Psalms_, xlvi: 4. * * * * * INDEX TO NOTES Abbey towers, 192. Ader-baijan, 166. Ægean Isles, 202, Afrasiab, 156. Agog, 188. Ajax, 189. Alcmena's dreadful son, 182. All red . .. Bathed in foam, 170. Aloof he sits, etc. , 159. And that . .. More, 169, Ariosto, 192. Arno-vale, 208. Art, 180. Arthur's court, 169. Art them not Rustum? 160. Asopus, 181. As some grave Tyrian trader, etc. , 202As when some hunter, etc. , 162. At my boy's years, 156. Attruck, 158. _Austerity of Poetry_, 194. Averse, as Dido did, etc. , 200. Bablockhithe, 199. Bagley Wood, 199. Bahrein, 160. Beethoven, 192. Be govern'd, 160. Belgrave Square, 195. Bell, 166. Berkshire moors, 198. Bethnal Green, 195. Blessed sign, 171. Blow a strain the world at last shall heed, 206. Bokhara, 157. Bow'd his head, 161. Breathed on by rural Pan, 178. Broce-liande, 174. Bruited up, 162. Byron, 196. By thy father's head, 160. Cabin'd, 177. Cabool, 159. Caked the sand, 163. Casbin, 157. Centaurs, 181. Chambery, 176. Chancel, 176. Chatelaine, 170. Chian wine, 202. Chiel, 188. Chisell'd broideries, 176. Chorasma, 163. Chorasmian stream, 181. Christ Church hall, 199Cirque, 172. City of God, 211. Clusters of lonely mounds, 181Cobham, 187. Common chance, 156. Common fight, 156. _Consolation_, 177. Cool gallery, 177. Corn, 158. Corselet, 162. Corydon, 206. Crest, 161. Cross and recross, 198. Cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, 207. Cruse, 198. Cunning, 162. Curdled, 161. Dais, 176. Dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 199. Dante, 192. Daphnis, 208. Daulis, 185. Dearer to the red jackals, etc. , 162. Destiny, 178. Device, 160. Dight, 160. Dingles, 201. Ditty, 207. Dogg'd, 172. Do not we . .. Await it too? 200. _Dover Beach_, 183. _East London_, 195. Empire, 174. Ensham, 207. _Epilogue to Rising's Laocoön_, 191. Erst, 198. Eternal passion! eternal pain! 185, Eurydice, 197. Even clime, 194. -- Falcon, 159. Fane, 180. Farringford, 187. Faun with torches, 183. Favour'd guest of Circe, 180. Fay, 170. Fay, 174. Fell-fare, 173. Ferghana, 158. Ferment the milk of mares, 157. Fight unknown and in plain arms, 159. Find a father thou hast never seen, 156. First grey of morning fill'd the east, 155. Fix'd, 158. Flowers, 160. Flute his friend, like Orpheus, ' etc. , 207. Foliaged marble forest, 177. Foolish, 195. For a cloud, etc. , 161. Fretwork, 176. Frore, 157. Fugitive and gracious light, etc. 208. Full struck, 161. Geist, 188. _Geist's Grave_, 191. Girl's wiles, 161. Glad, 161. Glancing, 161. Glanvil, 200. Glanvil's book, 198. Glass, 162. Gloom, 210. Godstow Bridge, 199. Goethe, 192. Goethe in Weimar sleeps, 196. Go to! 159. Grand Old Man, 188. Grange, 200. Great Mother, 208. Green isle, 169. Green-muffled, 199. Griffin, 162. Gulls, 173. Hair that red, 164. Haman, 157. Happy Islands, 181. Hark . .. Sun, 166. Have found, 162. Heap a stately mound, etc. , 163. Heaths starr'd with broom, 166. Heats, 194. Hebrides, 164. Hector, 189. Helen, 190. Helm, 161. Helmund, 163. Hera's anger, 181. Heroes, 182. He spoke . .. Men, 159. Hies, 193. High Midsummer pomps, 206. Hinksey, 199. His long rambles . .. Ground, 170. Hollow, 161. Holly trees and juniper, 172. Holy Lassa, 177. Holy well, 166. Homer, 193. Homily, 191. Honied nothings, 172. How thick the bursts, etc. , 185. Huge world, 178. _Human Life_, 186. Hurrying fever, 194. Hurst, 198. Hurtling Polar lights, 164. Hydaspes, 161. Hyde Park, 191. Hyphasis, 161. Iacchus, 180. Iberians, 202. I came . .. Passing wind, 162. I know the Fyfield tree, 207. Ilsley Downs, 204. Incognisable, 186. Indian Caucasus, 159. In his light youth, 194. Inly-written chart, 186. Inviolable shade, 201. Iran, 159. Irk'd, 206. Iron age, 196. Iron coast, 173. Iseult, 169. Is Merlin prisoner, etc. , 174. _Isolation_, 186. Is she not come? 168. Ivy-cinctured, 179. Jaxartes, 158. Joppa, 164. Joy, 194. Just-pausing Genius, 200. Kai Khosroo, 159. _Kaiser Dead_, 187. Kalmucks, 158. Kara Kul, 157. Keep, 206. Ken, 195. Kept uninfringed my nature's law, 186. Khiva, 157. Khorassan, 158. Kindled, 161. King Marc, 169. Kipchak, 158. Kirghizzes, 158. Kohik, 163. Kuzzaks, 158. Lapithæ, 182. Lasher pass, 199. Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard, 170. Leads, 177. Leaguer, 171. Leper recollect, 164. Light comer, 206. Like that autumn star, 161. Like that bold Cæsar, etc. , 173. _Lines Written in Kensington Gardens_, 178. Lion's heart, 159. Lions sleeping, 180. Lips that rarely form them now, 191. Lityerses, 208. Loud Tyntagel's hill, 169. Lovely orphan child, 170. Luminous home, 163. Lyoness, 169. Mænad, 183. Mail, 166. Marcus Aurelius, 194. Margaret, 165. Matin-chime, 176. _Memorial Verses_, 196. Mendelssohn, 192. Midland waters, 202. Milk-barr'd onyx-stones, 181. Miserere Domine, 192. Moon, 187. Moonstruck knight, 171. Moorghab, 163. Mountain-chalets, 176. Movement, 193Mozart, 192. Muses, 180. My princess . .. Good night, 171. Needs must I lose them, etc. , 206. Never was that field lost or that foe saved, 160. New bathed stars, 163. Northern Sir, 163. Nymphs, 180. O'er . .. Sea, 169. Of age and looks, etc. , 162. Old-world Breton history, 173. Once pass'd I blindfold here, 205. One lesson, 193. One slight helpless girl, 159. On that day, 163. Orgunje, 163. Orpheus, 197. Outlandish, 199. Oxford towers, 198. Oxus, 155. O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 184. Painter and musician too, 193. _Palladium_, 189. Palmers, 176. Pamere, 156. Pan's flute music, 180. Passing weary, 175. Pausanias, 191. Pelion, 181. Pen-bryn's bold bard, 187. Peran-Wisa, 156. Persepolis, 163. Persian King, 157. Perused, 160. Petrarch, 192. _Philomela_ 184. Phoebus-guarded ground, 191. Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate, 206. Pleasaunce-walks, 169. Posting here and there, 173. Potsdam, 188. Prick'd upon this arm, etc. , 162. Prickers, 176. Prie-dieu, 173. Priest, 166. Prince Alexander, 174. Prore, 186. Proserpine, 207. _Quiet Work_, 193. Range, 180. Raphael, 192. Rates, 195. Recks not, 171. Red-fruited yew tree, 200. Reed, 205. Remember all thy valour, 161. _Requiescat_, 177. Ride, 192. Right for the polar star, 163. Roman Emperor, 171. Rotha, 197. Rout, 180. _Rugby Chapel_, 209. Rustum! 161. Sackcloth, 194. _Saint Brandan_, 164. Samarcand, 156. Sandford, 207. Sate, 159. Savoy, 176. Sconce, 172. Scythian . .. Embers, 181. Seal'd, 166. Secret in his breast, 171. See what the day brings, 180. Seistan, 156. _Self-Dependence_, 190. Self-murder, 164. Seneschal, 173. Shakespeare, 193. _Shakespeare_, 193. She knew each lily white which Enna yields, etc. , 207. She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, 207. She loved the Dorian pipe, etc. , 207. Shepherd-pipe, 205. Shore, 161. Sibylla's name, 204. Silenus, 183. Silly, 206. Simois, 189. Skye, 188. Snow-haired Zal, 159. Soft sheep, 208. Soft Sicily, 202. _Sohrab and Rustum_, 149. Sole, 162. Son of Italy, 194. Sophocles, 183. So . .. So . .. , 206. Soudan, 174. South, 192. Spitalfields, 195. Sprent, 208. Stagshorn, 173. Stem, 186. Stranger-knight, ill-starr'd, 170. Strange unloved uproar, 178. Style, 162. Sunk, 156. Sun sparkled, etc. , 161. Swains, 206. Syrtes, 202. Tagg'd, 199. Tale, 160. Tartar camp, 155. Tasso, 192. Teen, 200. Tejend, 163. That old king, 162. That sweet city with her dreaming spires, 205. Thebes, 181. _The Church of Brou_, 176. _The Forsaken Merman_, 165. _The Last Word_, 188. There, go! etc. , 157. _The Scholar-Gipsy_, 197. Thessaly, 199. _The Strayed Reveller_, 179. Thine absent master, 191. Thou had'st one aim, etc. , 200. Thou hast not lived, 200. Thou possessest an immortal lot etc. , 200. Thou wilt not fright me so, 160. Thracian wild, 184. _Thyrsis_, 203. Tiresias, 181. Titans, 196. To a boon . .. Country he has fled, 208. Too clear web, etc. , 185. Toorkmuns, 158. Tower'd, 160. Transept, 176. Tried, 160. _Tristram and Iseult_, 167. Troy, 182. Tukas, 158. Tunnies, 202. Tyntagel, 169. Ulysses, 180. Unconscious hand, 162. Unknown sea, 182. Unnatural, 161. Vacant, 192. Vale, 204. Vast, 160. Vasty, 177. Vaunt, 160. Virgilian cry, 191. Wanders, 169. Wattled cotes, 198. Weirs, 204. Welcomed here, 170. Western straits, 202. _West London_, 195. What boots it, 171. What endless active life, 178. What foul fiend rides thee? 171. Whether that . .. Or in some quarrel, 157. Which much to have tried, etc. , 200. Wild white horses, 165. Wimple, 174. With a bitter smile, etc. , 161. With blossoms red and white, 206. Wordsworth, 192. _Worldly Place_, 194. Wrack, 161. Wychwood bowers, 199. Wytham flats, 207. Xanthus, 189. Yellow Tiber, 177. Yes, 187. _Youth's Agitations_, 194. Zal, 157. Zirrah, 163.