Heavens whose pure dark regions have no sign
Of languor, though so calm and though so great,
Yet so untroubled, so unpassionate!
A world above man’s head to let him see
How boundless might his soul’s horizon be;
How it were good to live there and be free.
In Kensington Gardens he says:
In the huge world that roars hard by
Be happy if they can!
Calm soul of all things! Make it mine
To feel, amid the city’s jar
That there abides a peace of thine
Man did not make and cannot mar.
Nowhere in all his pictures of nature, given in the most musical of
English and in style flowing, bright and tender, do we find the deep
gladness of Wordsworth, or the organ-toned joy of Milton. To each, as his
heart is, nature gives. Arnold, sad, unbelieving, self-absorbed, looking
at his own shadow, sees the beautiful and sings it, as he finds it, but,
“life is wanting there.” As our human race appears in his poems, the men
of to-day are of small account. “There has passed away a glory from the
earth.” He has little to say of hope, so much in his eye is the past
better than any possible future. Even his favorite metres are of Greek
pattern. Admitting that the Pagan world, worn and weary, was revived
by Christianity, he thinks this is in its turn “outworn,” and men are
waning now. Therefore he goes to olden time for heroes, for Prometheus
and Pericle, Tristam and Rustum. His only poem truly dramatic, a complete
work of art, is The Sick King in Bokhara. The elements of the story
bring out his genius, and he puts forth the best effort of his mind and
art. Here are that dignified self-poise, that unrest akin to remorse
that frames so strangely with the calm of helplessness, that lip-curling
criticism and that transparent simplicity of which we have been speaking.
All is brilliant in setting and rich in color. All his poems we might
read (and we should then all the more watch for new ones) but in none
shall find the whole of Mr. Arnold as we find it in this.
How beautiful is this from Tristam. It is Iseult after the death of her
husband and rival, living with her children, as in a fading, misty,
moon-lit dream:
Joy hath not found her yet, nor ever will,
Is it this thought that makes her mien so still?
Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,
So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet
Her children’s? She moves slow; her voice alone
Hath yet an infantine and silvery tone,
But even that comes languidly; in truth,
She seems one dying in the mask of youth.
Mr. Arnold does not attain to the first rank of either men or poets, but
there is a charm about him and his poetry. Too bad it is that he has
not the joy and nerve that come of Christian faith “which worketh by
love.” He would diffuse sweetness and light indeed. But is his poetry,
_as poetry_, the worse for his lack of faith? Its plaintive utterance
of the sadness of a soul whose wants are proudly shut from their true
satisfaction, will long be read by those who strive to still the _heart_
with supplies from the _intellect_ and to make genius serve for Living
Bread. No English poet has made the soul-hunger so attractive, or given
airy negatives in forms and colors so fascinating.
* * * * *
It is often found that those feelings which are best, noblest, and most
self-denying, are exactly those which lead to a disastrous issue. It
is as if, by the command of a higher and wiser power, man’s fate were
intentionally brought into variance with his inner feelings, in order
that the latter might acquire a higher value, shine with greater purity,
and thus become more precious by the very privations and sufferings
to him who cherishes such feelings. However benevolent may be the
intentions of Providence, they do not always advance the happiness of the
individual. Providence has always higher ends in view, and works in a
preëminent degree on the inner feelings and disposition.—_Humboldt._