Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 72

Predestined to the ray By this dear guest over thy precinct shed-- Fear not but that thy light once more shall burn, Once more thine immemorial gleam return, Though sunk be now this bright, this gracious head!

Let but the light appear And thy transfigured walls be touch'd with flame-- Our Arthur will again be present here, Again from lip to lip will pa.s.s his name.

GEIST'S GRAVE

Four years!--and didst thou stay above The 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, Which 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, To run their course, and reach their goal, And read their homily to man?

That liquid, melancholy eye, From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,[B]

The sense of tears in mortal things--

That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled By spirits gloriously gay, And temper of heroic mould-- What, was four years their whole short day?

Yes, only four!--and not the course Of all the centuries yet to come, And not the infinite resource Of Nature, with her countless sum

Of figures, with her fulness vast Of 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, And builds himself I know not what Of 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, And 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 depart And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse On lips that rarely form them now; While to each other we rehea.r.s.e: _Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!_

We stroke thy broad brown paws again, We 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 ears Quick raised to ask which way we go; Crossing the frozen lake, appears Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear Who mourn thee in thine English home; Thou hast thine absent master's tear, Dropt by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there, And thou shall live as long as we.

And after that--thou dost not care!

In us was all the world to thee.

Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, Even to a date beyond our own We strive to carry down thy name, By mounded turf, and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach, Here, where the gra.s.s is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travellers on the Portsmouth road;-- There build we thee, O guardian dear, Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through this garden pa.s.s, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the gra.s.s, And stop before the stone, and say:

_People who lived here long ago_ _Did by this stone, it seems, intend_ _To name for future times to know_ _The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend._

[Footnote B: _Sunt lacrimae rerum!_]

POOR MATTHIAS

Poor Matthias!--Found him lying Fall'n beneath his perch and dying?

Found him stiff, you say, though warm-- All convulsed his little form?

Poor canary! many a year Well he knew his mistress dear; Now in vain you call his name, Vainly raise his rigid frame, Vainly warm him in your breast, Vainly kiss his golden crest, Smooth his ruffled plumage fine, Touch his trembling beak with wine.

One more gasp--it is the end!

Dead and mute our tiny friend!

--Songster thou of many a year, Now thy mistress brings thee here, Says, it fits that I rehea.r.s.e, Tribute due to thee, a verse, Meed for daily song of yore Silent now for evermore.

Poor Matthias! Wouldst thou have More than pity? claim'st a stave?

--Friends more near us than a bird We dismiss'd without a word.

Rover, with the good brown head, Great Atossa, they are dead; Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme Tells the praises of their prime.

Thou didst know them old and grey, Know them in their sad decay.

Thou hast seen Atossa sage Sit for hours beside thy cage; Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, Flutter, chirp--she never stirr'd!

What were now these toys to her?

Down she sank amid her fur; Eyed thee with a soul resign'd-- And thou deemedst cats were kind!

--Cruel, but composed and bland, Dumb, inscrutable and grand, So Tiberius might have sat, Had Tiberius been a cat.

Rover died--Atossa too.

Less than they to us are you!

Nearer human were their powers, Closer knit their life with ours.

Hands had stroked them, which are cold, Now for years, in churchyard mould; Comrades of our past were they, Of that unreturning day.

Changed and aging, they and we Dwelt, it seem'd, in sympathy.

Alway from their presence broke Somewhat which remembrance woke Of the loved, the lost, the young-- Yet they died, and died unsung.

Geist came next, our little friend; Geist had verse to mourn his end.

Yes, but that enforcement strong Which compell'd for Geist a song-- All that gay courageous cheer, All that human pathos dear; Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn, Pain heroically borne, Faithful love in depth divine-- Poor Matthias, were they thine?

Max and Kaiser we to-day Greet upon the lawn at play; Max a dachshound without blot-- Kaiser should be, but is not.

Max, with s.h.i.+ning yellow coat, Prinking ears and dewlap throat-- Kaiser, with his collie face, Penitent for want of race.

--Which may be the first to die, Vain to augur, they or I!

But, as age comes on, I know, Poet's fire gets faint and low; If so be that travel they First the inevitable way, Much I doubt if they shall have Dirge from me to crown their grave.

Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corse Moves me, somehow, to remorse; Something haunts my conscience, brings Sad, compunctious visitings.

Other favourites, dwelling here, Open lived to us, and near; Well we knew when they were glad, Plain we saw if they were sad, Joy'd with them when they were gay, Soothed them in their last decay; Sympathy could feel and show Both in weal of theirs and woe.

Birds, companions more unknown, Live beside us, but alone; Finding not, do all they can, Pa.s.sage from their souls to man.

Kindness we bestow, and praise, Laud their plumage, greet their lays; Still, beneath their feather'd breast, Stirs a history unexpress'd.

Wishes there, and feelings strong, Incommunicably throng; What they want, we cannot guess, Fail to track their deep distress-- Dull look on when death is nigh, Note no change, and let them die.

Poor Matthias! couldst thou speak, What a tale of thy last week!