Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 5

"Come," you say, "the soul is fainting Till she search and learn her own, And the wisdom of man's painting Leaves her riddle half unknown.

Come," you say, "the brain is seeking, While the sovran heart is dead; Yet this glean'd, when G.o.ds were speaking, Rarer secrets than the toiling head.

"Come," you say, "opinion trembles, Judgment s.h.i.+fts, convictions go; Life dries up, the heart dissembles-- Only, what we feel, we know.

Hath your wisdom felt emotions?

Will it weep our burning tears?

Hath it drunk of our love-potions Crowning moments with the wealth of years?"

--I am dumb. Alas, too soon all Man's grave reasons disappear!

Yet, I think, at G.o.d's tribunal Some large answer you shall hear.

But, for me, my thoughts are straying Where at sunrise, through your vines, On these lawns I saw you playing, Hanging garlands on your odorous pines; When your showering locks enwound you, And your heavenly eyes shone through; When the pine-boughs yielded round you, And your brows were starr'd with dew; And immortal forms, to meet you, Down the statued alleys came, And through golden horns, to greet you, Blew such music as a G.o.d may frame.

Yes, I muse! And if the dawning Into daylight never grew, If the glistering wings of morning On the dry noon shook their dew, If the fits of joy were longer, Or the day were sooner done, Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger, No weak nursling of an earthly sun ...

Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk the hall with yew!

For a bound was set to meetings, And the sombre day dragg'd on; And the burst of joyful greetings, And the joyful dawn, were gone.

For the eye grows fill'd with gazing, And on raptures follow calms; And those warm locks men were praising, Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms.

Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys, And made all your cedars frown; Leaves were whirling in the alleys Which your lovers wander'd down.

--Sitting cheerless in your bowers, The hands propping the sunk head, Still they gall you, the long hours, And the hungry thought, that must be fed!

Is the pleasure that is tasted Patient of a long review?

Will the fire joy hath wasted, Mused on, warm the heart anew?

--Or, are those old thoughts returning, Guests the dull sense never knew, Stars, set deep, yet inly burning, Germs, your untrimm'd pa.s.sion overgrew?

Once, like us, you took your station Watchers for a purer fire; But you droop'd in expectation, And you wearied in desire.

When the first rose flush was steeping All the frore peak's awful crown, Shepherds say, they found you sleeping In some windless valley, farther down.

Then you wept, and slowly raising Your dozed eyelids, sought again, Half in doubt, they say, and gazing Sadly back, the seats of men;-- s.n.a.t.c.h'd a turbid inspiration From some transient earthly sun, And proclaim'd your vain ovation For those mimic raptures you had won....

With a sad, majestic motion, With a stately, slow surprise, From their earthward-bound devotion Lifting up your languid eyes-- Would you freeze my too loud boldness, Dumbly smiling as you go, One faint frown of distant coldness Flitting fast across each marble brow?

Do I brighten at your sorrow, O sweet Pleaders?--doth my lot Find a.s.surance in to-morrow Of one joy, which you have not?

O, speak once, and shame my sadness!

Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain, Mock'd and baffled by your gladness, Mar the music of your feasts in vain!

Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!

Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow-- Come, bind up those ringlet showers!

Roses for that dreaming brow!

Come, once more that ancient lightness, Glancing feet, and eager eyes!

Let your broad lamps flash the brightness Which the sorrow-stricken day denies!

Through black depths of serried shadows, Up cold aisles of buried glade; In the midst of river-meadows Where the looming kine are laid; From your dazzled windows streaming, From your humming festal room, Deep and far, a broken gleaming Reels and s.h.i.+vers on the ruffled gloom.

Where I stand, the gra.s.s is glowing; Doubtless you are pa.s.sing fair!

But I hear the north wind blowing, And I feel the cold night-air.

Can I look on your sweet faces, And your proud heads backward thrown, From this dusk of leaf-strewn places With the dumb woods and the night alone?

Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses-- Mad delight, and frozen calms-- Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses, And to-morrow--folded palms; Is this all? this balanced measure?

Could life run no happier way?

Joyous, at the height of pleasure, Pa.s.sive at the nadir of dismay?

But, indeed, this proud possession, This far-reaching, magic chain, Linking in a mad succession Fits of joy and fits of pain-- Have you seen it at the closing?

Have you track'd its clouded ways?

Can your eyes, while fools are dozing, Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days?

When a dreary dawn is wading Through this waste of sunless greens, When the flus.h.i.+ng hues are fading On the peerless cheek of queens; When the mean shall no more sorrow, And the proudest no more smile; As old age, youth's fatal morrow, Spreads its cold light wider all that while?

Then, when change itself is over, When the slow tide sets one way, Shall you find the radiant lover, Even by moments, of to-day?

The eye wanders, faith is failing-- O, loose hands, and let it be!

Proudly, like a king bewailing, O, let fall one tear, and set us free!

All true speech and large avowal Which the jealous soul concedes; All man's heart which brooks bestowal, All frank faith which pa.s.sion breeds-- These we had, and we gave truly; Doubt not, what we had, we gave!

False we were not, nor unruly; Lodgers in the forest and the cave.

Long we wander'd with you, feeding Our rapt souls on your replies, In a wistful silence reading All the meaning of your eyes.

By moss-border'd statues sitting, By well-heads, in summer days.

But we turn, our eyes are flitting-- See, the white east, and the morning rays!

And you too, O wors.h.i.+pp'd Graces, Sylvan G.o.ds of this fair shade!

Is there doubt on divine faces?

Are the blessed G.o.ds dismay'd?

Can men wors.h.i.+p the wan features, The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, Of unsphered, discrowned creatures, Souls as little G.o.dlike as their own?

Come, loose hands! The winged fleetness Of immortal feet is gone; And your scents have shed their sweetness, And your flowers are overblown.

And your jewell'd gauds surrender Half their glories to the day; Freely did they flash their splendour, Freely gave it--but it dies away.

In the pines the thrush is waking-- Lo, yon orient hill in flames!

Scores of true love knots are breaking At divorce which it proclaims.

When the lamps are paled at morning, Heart quits heart and hand quits hand.

Cold in that unlovely dawning, Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand!

Pluck no more red roses, maidens, Leave the lilies in their dew-- Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!

--Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, Her I loved at eventide?

Shall I ask, what faded mourner Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?

Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens!

Dusk the hall with yew!

THE VOICE