Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 40

Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye, Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!

He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen--on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.

He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round; He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.

He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth, Smiles broke from us and we had ease; The hills were round us, and the breeze Went o'er the sun-lit fields again; Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.

Our youth return'd; for there was shed On spirits that had long been dead, Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power?

Others will teach us how to dare, And against fear our breast to steel; Others will strengthen us to bear-- But who, ah! who, will make us feel?

The cloud of mortal destiny, Others will front it fearlessly-- But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the gra.s.s upon his grave O Rotha, with thy living wave!

Sing him thy best! for few or none Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

STANZAS

IN MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN

I saw him sensitive in frame, I knew his spirits low; And wish'd him health, success, and fame-- I do not wish it now.

For these are all their own reward, And leave no good behind; They try us, oftenest make us hard, Less modest, pure, and kind.

Alas! yet to the suffering man, In this his mortal state, Friends could not give what fortune can-- Health, ease, a heart elate.

But he is now by fortune foil'd No more; and we retain The memory of a man unspoil'd, Sweet, generous, and humane--

With all the fortunate have not, With gentle voice and brow.

--Alive, we would have changed his lot, We would not change it now.

STANZAS FROM CARNAC

Far on its rocky knoll descried Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.

I climb'd;--beneath me, bright and wide, Lay the lone coast of Brittany.

Bright in the sunset, weird and still, It lay beside the Atlantic wave, As though the wizard Merlin's will Yet charm'd it from his forest-grave.

Behind me on their gra.s.sy sweep, Bearded with lichen, scrawl'd and grey, The giant stones of Carnac sleep, In the mild evening of the May.

No priestly stern procession now Moves through their rows of pillars old; No victims bleed, no Druids bow-- Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold.

From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, The orchis red gleams everywhere; Gold furze with broom in blossom vies, The blue-bells perfume all the air.

And o'er the glistening, lonely land, Rise up, all round, the Christian spires; The church of Carnac, by the strand, Catches the westering sun's last fires.

And there, across the watery way, See, low above the tide at flood, The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay, Whose beach once ran with loyal blood!

And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!-- All round, no soul, no boat, no hail; But, on the horizon's verge descried, Hangs, touch'd with light, one snowy sail!

Ah! where is he, who should have come[19]

Where that far sail is pa.s.sing now, Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam Of Finistere's unquiet brow,

Home, round into the English wave?

--He tarries where the Rock of Spain Mediterranean waters lave; He enters not the Atlantic main.

Oh, could he once have reach'd this air Freshen'd by plunging tides, by showers!

Have felt this breath he loved, of fair Cool northern fields, and gra.s.s, and flowers!

He long'd for it--press'd on.--In vain!

At the Straits fail'd that spirit brave.

The south was parent of his pain, The south is mistress of his grave.

A SOUTHERN NIGHT

The sandy spits, the sh.o.r.e-lock'd lakes, Melt into open, moonlit sea; The soft Mediterranean breaks At my feet, free.

Dotting the fields of corn and vine, Like ghosts the huge, gnarl'd olives stand.

Behind, that lovely mountain-line!

While, by the strand,

Cette, with its glistening houses white, Curves with the curving beach away To where the lighthouse beacons bright Far in the bay.

Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone, So moonlit, saw me once of yore[20]

Wander unquiet, and my own Vext heart deplore.

But now that trouble is forgot; Thy memory, thy pain, to-night, My brother! and thine early lot,[21]

Possess me quite.

The murmur of this Midland deep Is heard to-night around thy grave, There, where Gibraltar's cannon'd steep O'erfrowns the wave.

For there, with bodily anguish keen, With Indian heats at last fordone, With public toil and private teen-- Thou sank'st, alone.

Slow to a stop, at morning grey, I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come; Slow round her paddles dies away The seething foam.

A boat is lower'd from her side; Ah, gently place him on the bench!

That spirit--if all have not yet died-- A breath might quench.

Is this the eye, the footstep fast, The mien of youth we used to see, Poor, gallant boy!--for such thou wast, Still art, to me.

The limbs their wonted tasks refuse; The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak; And whiter than thy white burnous That wasted cheek!