PART II

MATTHEW ARNOLD'S

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM

AND OTHER POEMS

EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY

JUSTUS COLLINS CASTLEMAN

HEAD OF ENGLISH DEPARTMENT, SOUTH DIVISION

HIGH 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 and

in later years distinguished also as a historian of Rome, and of Mary

Penrose Arnold, a woman of remarkable character and intellect.

Devoid of stirring incident, and, on the whole, free from the

eccentricities so common to men of genius, the story of Arnold's life

is 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 both

Laleham and Winchester, then at Rugby, where he attracted attention

as a student and won a prize for poetry. In 1840 he was elected to

an open scholarship at Balliol College, Oxford, and the next year

matriculated for his university work. Arnold's career at Oxford was a

memorable one. While here he was associated with such men as John Duke

Coleridge, John Shairp, Dean Fraser, Dean Church, John Henry Newman,

Thomas Hughes, the Froudes, and, closest of all, with Arthur Hugh

Clough, whose early death he lamented in his exquisite elegiac

poem--_Thyrsis_. Among this brilliant company Arnold moved with ease,

the recognized favorite. Having taken the Newdigate prize for English

verse, and also having won a scholarship, he was graduated with

honors in 1844, and in March of the following year had the additional

distinction of being elected a Fellow of Oriel, the crowning glory of

an Oxford graduate. He afterward taught classics for a short time at

Rugby, then in 1847 accepted the post of private secretary to the

Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord President of the Council, which position he

occupied until 1851, when he was appointed Lay Inspector of Schools

by the Committee on Education. The same year he married Frances Lucy

Wightman, daughter of Sir William Wightman, judge of the Court of the

Queen's Bench.

Arnold's record as an educator is unparalleled in the history of

England's public schools. For more than thirty-five years he served as

inspector and commissioner, which offices he filled with efficiency.

As inspector he was earnest, conscientious, versatile; beloved alike

by teachers and pupils. The Dean of Salisbury likened his appearance

to inspect the school at Kiddermaster, to the admission of a ray

of light when a shutter is suddenly opened in a darkened room.

All-in-all, he valued happy-appearing children, and kindly sympathetic

teachers, more than excellence in grade reports. In connection with

the duties of his office as commissioner, he travelled frequently on

the Continent to inquire into foreign methods of primary and secondary

education. Here he found much that was worth while, and often carried

back to London larger suggestions and ideas than the national mind was

ready to accept. Under his supervision, however, the school system of

England was extensively revised and improved. He resigned his position

under the Committee of Council on Education, in 1886, two years before

his death.

In the meantime Arnold's pen had not been idle. His first volume of

verse, _The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems_, appeared (1848), and

although quietly received, slowly won its way into public favor. The

next 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 reputation

as a poet was established, and in 1857 he was elected Professor of

Poetry at Oxford, where he began his career as a lecturer, in which

capacity he twice visited America. _Merope, a Tragedy_ (1856) and a

volume under the title of _New Poems_ (1869) finish the list of his

poetical works, with the exception of occasional verses.

Arnold's prose works, aside from his letters, consist wholly of

critical essays, in which he has dealt fearlessly with the greater

issues of his day. As will be seen by their titles (see page xxxviii

of this volume), the subject-matter of these essays is of very great

scope, embracing in theme literature, politics, social conduct, and

popular religion. By them Arnold has exerted a remarkable influence on

public thought and stamped himself as one of the ablest critics and

reformers of the last century. Arnold's life was thus one of many

widely diverse activities and was at all times deeply concerned with

practical as well as with literary affairs; and on no side was it

deficient in human sympathies and relations. He won respect and

reputation while he lived, and his works continue to attract men's

minds, although with much unevenness. It has been said of him that, of

all the modern poets, except Goethe, he was the best critic, and of

all the modern critics, with the same exception, he was the best poet.

He died at Liverpool, where he had gone to meet his daughter returning

from America, April 15, 1888. By his death the world lost an acute and

cultured 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 subject

for a biography. By means of his letters, his official reports,

and statements of his friends, however, one is able to trace the

successive stages of his career, as he steadily grew in honor and

public usefulness. Though somewhat inadequate, the picture thus

presented is singularly pleasing and attractive. The subjoined

appreciations have been selected with a view of giving the student a

glimpse of Arnold as he appeared to unprejudiced minds.

One who knew him at Oxford wrote of him as follows: "His perfect

self-possession, the sallies of his ready wit, the humorous turn which

he could give to any subject that he handled, his gaiety, audacity,

and unfailing command of words, made him one of the most popular and

successful undergraduates that Oxford has ever known."

"He was beautiful as a young man, strong and manly, yet full of dreams

and schemes. His Olympian manners began even at Oxford: there was no

harm in them: they were natural, not put on. The very sound of his

voice and wave of his arm were Jove-like."--PROFESSOR MAX MÜLLER.

"He was most distinctly on the side of human enjoyment. He conspired

and contrived to make things pleasant. Pedantry he abhorred. He was

a man of this life and this world. A severe critic of this world he

indeed was; but, finding himself in it, and not precisely knowing what

is beyond it, like a brave and true-hearted man, he set himself to

make the best of it. Its sights and sounds were dear to him. The

'uncrumpling fern, the eternal moonlit snow,' the red grouse springing

at our sound, the tinkling bells of the 'high-pasturing kine,' the

vagaries 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 the

earth earthy.... His mind was based on the plainest possible things.

What he hated most was the fantastic--the far-fetched, all-elaborated

fancies and strained interpretations. He stuck to the beaten track of

human experience, and the broader the better. He was a plain-sailing

man. This is his true note."--MR. AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.

"He was incapable of sacrificing the smallest interest of anybody to

his own; he had not a spark of envy or jealousy; he stood well aloof

from all the bustlings and jostlings by which selfish men push on;

he bore life's disappointments--and he was disappointed in some

reasonable hopes--with good nature and fortitude; he cast no burden

upon others, and never shrank from bearing his own share of the daily

load to the last ounce of it; he took the deepest, sincerest, and

most active interest in the well-being of his country and his

countrymen."--MR. JOHN MORLEY.

In his essay on Arnold, George E. Woodberry speaks of the poet's

personality as revealed by his letters in the following beautiful

manner: "Few who did not know Arnold could have been prepared for

the revelation of a nature so true, so amiable, so dutiful. In every

relation of private life he is shown to have been a man of exceptional

constancy and plainness.... Every one must take delight in the mental

association with Arnold in the scenes of his existence ... and in his

family affections. A nature warm to its own, kindly to all, cheerful,

fond of sport and fun, and always fed from pure fountains, and with

it a character so founded upon the rock, so humbly serviceable, so

continuing in power and grace, must wake in all the responses of happy

appreciation and leave the charm of memory.

"He did his duty as naturally as if it required neither resolve nor

effort, nor thought of any kind for the morrow, and he never failed,

seemingly, in act or word of sympathy, in little or great things; and

when to this one adds the clear ether of the intellectual life where

he habitually moved in his own life apart, and the humanity of his

home, the gift that these letters bring may be appreciated. That gift

is the man himself, but set in the atmosphere of home, with sonship

and fatherhood, sisters and brothers, with the bereavements of years

fully accomplished, and those of babyhood and boyhood--a sweet and

wholesome English home, with all the cloud and sunshine of the English

world drifting over its roof-trees, and the soil of England beneath

its stones, and English duties for the breath of its being. To add

such a home to the household rights of English Literature is perhaps

something from which Arnold would have shrunk, but it endears his

memory."

"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 author

of modern times, perhaps no other English author of any time, appeals

so directly as he to the educated classes. Even a cursory reading of

his pages, prose or verse, reveals the scholar and the critic. He is

always 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 spiritual

quality. True, each possesses the note of a lofty, though stoical

courage; reveals the same grace of finish and exactness of phrase and

manner; and is, in equal degree, the output of a singularly sane and

noble nature; but here the comparison ends; for, while his prose

is often stormy and contentious, his poetry has always about it an

atmosphere of entire repose. The cause of this difference is not far

to seek. His poetry, written in early manhood, reflects his inner

self, the more lovable side of his nature; while his prose presents

the critic and the reformer, pointing out the good and bad, and

permitting at times a spirit of bitterness to creep in, as he

endeavors to arouse men out of their easy contentment with themselves

and their surroundings.

With the exception of occasional verses, Arnold's poetical career

began and ended inside of twenty years. The reason for this can only

be conjectured, and need not be dwelt upon here. But although his

poetic life was brief, it was of a very high order, his poems ranking

well up among the literary productions of the last century. As a

popular poet, however, he will probably never class with Tennyson or

Longfellow. His poems are too coldly classical and too unattractive in

subject to appeal to the casual reader, who is, generally speaking,

inclined toward poetry of the emotions rather than of the

intellect--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 are

perhaps 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 last

quarter of a century, and thus they will probably have their day, as

people become conscious to themselves of what that movement of mind

is, and interested in the literary productions which reflect it." Time

has verified the accuracy of this judgment. In short, Arnold has made

a profound rather than a wide impression. To a few, however, of each

generation, he will continue to be a "voice oracular,"--a poet with a

purpose and a message.

=Arnold's Poetic Culture=.--Obviously, the sources of Arnold's culture

were classical. As one critic has tersely said, "He turned over his

Greek models by day and by night." Here he found his ideal standards,

and here he brought for comparison all questions that engrossed his

thoughts. Homer (he replied to an inquirer) and Epictetus (of mood

congenial with his own) were props of his mind, as were Sophocles,

"who saw life steadily and saw it whole," and Marcus Aurelius, whom he

called the purest of men. These like natures afforded him repose and

consolation. Greek epic and dramatic poetry and Greek philosophy

appealed profoundly to him. Of the Greek poets he wrote: "No other

poets have lived so much by the imaginative reason; no other poets

have made their works so well balanced; no other poets have so well

satisfied the thinking power; have so well satisfied the religious

sense." More than any other English poet he prized the qualities of

measure, proportion, and restraint; and to him lucidity, austerity,

and high seriousness, conspicuous elements of classic verse, were the

substance of true poetry. In explaining his own position as to his

art, he says: "In the sincere endeavor to learn and practise, amid the

bewildering confusion of our times, what is sound and true in poetic

art, I seem, to myself to find the only sure guidance, the only solid

footing, among the ancients. They, at any rate, knew what they wanted

in Art, and we do not. It is this uncertainty which is disheartening,

and not hostile criticism." And again: "The radical difference between

the 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 the

value of separate thoughts and images which occur in the treatment of

an action. They regard the whole; we regard the parts. We have poems

which seem to exist merely for the sake of single lines and passages,

and not for the sake of producing any total impression. We have

critics who seem to direct their attention merely to detached

expressions, to the language about the action, not the action itself.

I verily believe that the majority of them do not believe that there

is such a thing as a total impression to be derived from a poem at

all, or to be demanded from a poet. They will permit the poet to

select any action he pleases, and to suffer that action to go as

it will, provided he gratifies them with occasional bursts of fine

writing, and with a show of isolated thoughts and images; that is,

they permit him to leave their poetic sense ungratified, provided that

he gratifies their rhetorical sense and their curiosity."

Arnold has illustrated, with remarkable success, his ideas of that

unity which gratifies the poetical sense, and has approached very

close to his Greek models in numerous instances; most notably so in

his great epic or narrative poem, _Sohrab and Rustum_, which is dealt

with elsewhere in this introduction. Perhaps we could not do better

than to quote for our consideration at this time, a fine synthesis

of Mr. Arthur Galton. He says: "In Matthew Arnold's style and in his

manner, he seems to me to recall the great masters, and this in a

striking and in an abiding way.... To recall them at all is a rare

gift, but to recall them naturally, and with no strained sense nor

jarring note of imitation, is a gift so exceedingly rare that it is

almost enough in itself to place a writer among the great masters; to

proclaim 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 they

resemble the great masters. They have their own styles, which abide

with them; it is only now and then, by a flash of genius, that they

break 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 to

resemble them.... No man who attains to this great style can fail to

have a distinguished function; and Matthew Arnold, like Milton, will

be 'a leaven and a power,' because he, too, has made the great style

current in English. With his desire for culture and for perfection,

there is no destiny he would prefer to this, for which his nature, his

training, and his sympathies, all prepared him. To convey the message

of those ancients whom he loved so well, in that English tongue which

he was taught by them to use so perfectly;--to serve as an eternal

protest against charlatanism and vulgarity;--is exactly the mission

he would have chosen for himself.... The few writers of our language,

therefore, who give us 'an ideal of excellence, the most high and the

most rare,' have an important function; we should study their works

continually, and it should be a matter of passionate concern with us,

that the 'ideals,' that is, the definite and perfect models, should

abide with us forever." The Greeks recognized three kinds of

poetry,--Lyric, Dramatic, and Epic. Arnold tried all three. First,

then, as a lyricist.

=Arnold as a Lyricist=.--Lyric poetry is the artistic expression of

the poet's individual sentiments and emotions, hence it is subjective.

The action is usually vapid, the verse musical, the time quick. Unlike

the Epic and Drama, it has no preferred verse or meter, but leaves the

poet free to choose or invent appropriate forms. In this species of

verse Arnold was not wholly at ease. As has been said, one searches in

vain through the whole course of his poetry for a blithe, musical, gay

or serious, offhand poem, the true lyric kind. The reason for this is

soon discovered. Obviously, it lies in the fundamental qualities

of the poet's mind and temperament. Though by no means lacking in

emotional sensibility, Arnold was too intellectually self-conscious to

be carried away by the impulsiveness common to the lyrical moods. With

him the intellect was always master; the emotions, subordinate. With

the lyricist, the order is, in the main, at least, reversed. The poet

throws off intellectual restraint, and "lets his illumined being

o'errun" with music and song. This Arnold could not or would not

do. Then, too, Arnold's lyrics are often at fault metrically.

This, combined with frequent questionable rhymes, argues a not too

discriminating poetical ear. He also lacked genius in inventing verse

forms, and hence found himself under the necessity of employing or

adapting those already in use. In this respect he was notably inferior

to Tennyson, many of whose measures are wholly his own. Again,

considerable portions of his lyric verse consist merely of prose, cut

into lines of different length, in imitation of the unrhymed measures

of the Greek poet, Pindar. The Bishop of Derry, commenting on these

rhythmic novelties, likens them to the sound of a stick drawn by a

city gamin sharply across the area railings,--a not inapt comparison.

That they were not always successful, witness the following stanza

from _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, Arnold

was nobly lyrical, and strangely, too, at times, in those same uneven

measures in which are found his most signal failures--the unrhymed

Pindaric. _Philomela_ written in this style is one of the most

exquisite 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 of

phrase and in depth of genuine pathos it is unsurpassed and shows

Arnold at his best. _Rugby Chapel, The Youth of Nature, The Youth of

Man_, and _A Dream_ are good examples of his longer efforts in this

verse form. In the more common lyric measures, Arnold was, at times,

equally successful. Saintsbury, commenting on _Requiescat_, says that

the poet has "here achieved the triple union of simplicity, pathos,

and (in the best sense) elegance"; and adds that there is not a

false note in the poem. He also speaks enthusiastically of the

"honey-dropping trochees" of the _New Sirens_, and of the "chiselled

and classic perfection" of the lines of _Resignation_. Herbert W.

Paul, writing of _Mycerinus_, declares that no such verse has been

written in England since Wordsworth's _Laodamia_; and continues,

"The poem abounds in single lines of haunting charm." Among his more

successful longer lyrics are _The Sick King in Bokhara, Switzerland,

Faded Leaves_, and _Tristram and Iseult_, and _Epilogue to Lessing's

Laocoön_, included in this volume.

=Arnold as a Dramatist=.--The drama is imitated human action, and is

intended to exhibit a picture of human life by means of dialogue,

acting, and stage accessories. In nature, it partakes of both lyric

and epic, thus uniting sentiment and action with narration. Characters

live and act before us, and speak in our presence, the interest being

kept up by constantly shifting situations tending toward some striking

result. As a dramatist, Arnold achieved no great success. Again the

fundamental qualities of his mind stood in the way. An author so

subjective, so absorbed in self-scrutiny and introspection as he,

is seldom able to project himself into the minds of others to any

considerable extent. His dramas are brilliant with beautiful phrases,

his pictures of landscapes and of nature in her various aspects

approach perfection; but in the main, he fails to handle his plots in

a dramatic manner and, as a result, does not secure the totality of

impression so vital to the drama. Frequently, too, his characters are

tedious, and in their dialogue manage to be provokingly unnatural or

insipid. They also lack in individuality and independence in speech

and action. Many of his situations, likewise, are at fault. For

instance, one can scarcely conceive of such characters as Ulysses and

Circe playing the subordinate roles assigned to them in _The Strayed

Reveller_. A true dramatist would hardly have committed so flagrant a

blunder. _Merope_ is written in imitation of the Greek tragedians. It

has dignity of subject, nobility of sentiment, and a classic brevity

of style; but it is frigid and artificial, and fails in the most

essential function of drama--to stir the reader's emotions.

_Empedocles on Etna_, a half-autobiographical drama, is in some

respects a striking poem. It is replete with brilliant passages, and

contains some of Arnold's best lyric verses and most beautiful nature

pictures; 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's

dramas show that his forte was not in character-drawing nor in

dialogue.

=Arnold as a Writer of Epic and Elegy=.--Epic poetry narrates in grand

style the achievements of heroes--the poet telling the story as if

present. It is simple in construction and uniform in meter, yet it

admits of the dialogue and the episode, and though not enforcing a

moral it may hold one in solution. Elegiac poetry is plaintive in

tone and expresses sorrow or lamentation. Both epic and elegy are

inevitably serious in mood, and slow and stately in action. In these

two forms of verse Arnold was at his best. Stockton pronounced _Sohrab

and Rustum_ the noblest poem in the English language. Another critic

has said that "it is the nearest analogue in English to the rapidity

of action, plainness of thought, plainness of diction, and nobleness

of Homer." Combining, as it does, classic purity of style with

romantic ardor of feeling, it stands a direct exemplification of

Arnold's poetic theories, as set forth in the preface of his volume of

1853. Especially is it successful in emphasizing his idea of unity of

impression; "while the truth of its oriental color, the deep pathos

of the situation, the fire and intensity of the action, the strong

conception of character, and the full, solemn music of the verse, make

it unquestionably the masterpiece of Arnold's longer poems, among

which it is the largest in bulk and also the most ambitious in

scheme." _Balder Dead_, a characteristic Arnoldian production, founded

upon the Norse legend of Balder, Lok, and Hader, though not so great

as _Sohrab and Rustum_, has much poetic worth and ranks high among its

kind; and _Tristram and Iseult_, with its infinite tragedy, and _The

Sick King in Bokhara_, gorgeous in oriental color, are rare examples

of the lyrical epic. _The Forsaken Merman_ and _Saint Brandan_, which

are dealt with elsewhere in this volume, are good examples of his

shorter narrative poems. In _Thyrsis_, the beautiful threnody in which

he celebrated his dead friend, Clough, Arnold gave to the world one of

its greatest elegies. One finds in this poem and its companion piece,

_The Scholar-Gipsy_, the same unity of classic form with romantic

feeling present in _Sohrab and Rustum_. Both are crystal-clear without

coldness, and restrained without loss of a full volume of power.

Mr. Saintsbury, writing of _The Scholar-Gipsy_, says: "It has

everything--a sufficient scheme, a definite meaning and purpose, a

sustained and adequate command of poetical presentation, and passages

and phrases of the most exquisite beauty;" and no less praise is due

_Thyrsis_. Other of his elegiac poems are _Heine's Grave, Stanzas from

the Grande Chartreuse, Stanzas in Memory of the Author of "Obermann,"

Obermann Once More, Rugby Chapel_, and _Memorial Verses_, the two last

named being included in this volume. In such measures as are used in

these poems, in the long, stately, swelling measures, whose graver

movements accord with a serious and elevated purpose, Arnold was most

at ease.

=Greek Spirit in Arnold=.--But it is not alone in the fact that he

selects classic subjects, and writes after the manner of the great

masters, that Arnold's affinity with the Greeks is manifested. His

poems in spirit, as in form, reflect the moods common to the ancient

Hellenes, "One feels the (Greek) quality," writes George E. Woodberry,

"not as a source, but as a presence. In Tennyson, Keats, and Shelley

there was Greek influence, but in them the result was modern. In

Arnold the antiquity remains--remains in mood, just as in Landor it

remains in form. The Greek twilight broods over all his poetry. It is

pagan 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 to

the past." Even when his poems treat of modern or romantic subjects,

one is impressed with the feeling that he presents them with the same

quality of imagination as would the Greek masters themselves: and in

the same form.

=Arnold's Attitude toward Nature=.--In his attitude toward Nature

Arnold is often compared to Wordsworth. A close study, however,

reveals a wide difference, both in the way Nature appealed to them

and in their mood in her presence. To Arnold she offered a temporary

refuge from the doubts and distractions of our modern life,--a

soothing, consoling, uplifting power; to Wordsworth she was an

inspiration,--a presence that disturbed him "with the joy of elevated

thoughts." Conscious of the help he found in her association, Arnold

urged all men to follow Nature's example; to possess their souls in

quietude, despite the storm and turmoil without. Pancoast says: "He

delights in leading us to contemplate the infinite calm of Nature,

beside which man's transitory woes are reduced to a mere fretful

insignificance. All the beautiful poem of _Tristram and Iseult_ is

built upon the skilful alternation of two themes. We pass from the

feverish, wasting, and ephemeral struggle of human passions and

desire, into an atmosphere that shames its heat and fume by an

immemorial coolness and repose;" and the same comparison constitutes

the theme for a considerable portion of his poetical work. In his

method of approaching Nature, Arnold also differed widely from

Wordsworth, 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 than

Wordsworthian. Many of his poems, in full or in part, are mere nature

pictures, and are artistic in the extreme. The pictures of the Oxus

stream at the close of _Sohrab and Rustum_; the English garden in

_Thyrsis_; and the hunter on the arras, in _Tristram and Iseult_, are

all 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 the

wood and field no streaming forth of beauty and wisdom from the

fountainhead of beauty," no habitancy of Nature's God.

=Arnold's Attitude toward Life=.--Arnold's attitude toward life has

been dwelt upon in the appreciations under the biographical sketch in

this volume and need only briefly be summed up here. To him, human

life in its higher developments presented itself as a stern and

strenuous affair; but he never faltered nor sought to escape from his

share of the burden. "On the contrary, the prevailing note of his

poetry 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 and

the inevitable--a courage, indeed, forlorn and pathetic in the eyes of

many--and he constantly takes refuge from the choking cares of life,

in a kind of stoical resignation." As a reformer, his function

was especially to stir people up, to make them dissatisfied with

themselves and their institutions, and to force them to think, to

become individual. Everywhere in his works one is confronted by his

unvarying insistence upon the supremacy of conduct and duty. The

modern tendency to drift away from the old, established religious

faith was a matter of serious thought to him and led him to give to

the world a rational creed that would satisfy the sceptics and attract

the indifferent. We cannot do better than quote for our closing

thought 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 from

well-known authorities.

"Arnold's prose has little trace of the wistful melancholy of his

verse. It is almost always urbane, vivacious, light-hearted. The

classical bent of his mind shows itself here, unmixed with the

inheritance of romantic feeling which colors his poetry. Not only is

his prose classical in quality, by virtue of its restraint, of its

definite aim, and of the dry white light of intellect which suffuses

it; but the doctrine which he spent his life in preaching is based

upon a classical ideal, the ideal of symmetry, wholeness, or, as he

daringly called it, _perfection_.... Wherever, in religion, politics,

education, or literature, he saw his countrymen under the domination

of narrow ideals, he came speaking the mystic word of deliverance,

'Culture.' Culture, acquaintance with the best which has been thought

and done in the world, is his panacea for all ills.... In almost all

of his prose writing he attacks some form of 'Philistinism,' by which

word he characterized the narrow-mindedness and self-satisfaction of

the British middle class.

"Arnold's tone is admirably fitted to the peculiar task he had to

perform.... In _Culture and Anarchy_ and many successive works, he

made his plea for the gospel of ideas with urbanity and playful grace,

as befitted the Hellenic spirit, bringing 'sweetness and light' into

the dark places of British prejudice. Sometimes, as in _Literature and

Dogma_, where he pleads for a more liberal and literary reading of the

Bible, his manner is quiet, suave, and gently persuasive. At other

times, as in _Friendship's Garland_, he shoots the arrows of his

sarcasm into the ranks of the Philistines with a delicate raillery and

scorn, all the more exasperating to his foes, because it is veiled by

a mock humility, and is scrupulously polite.

"Of Arnold's literary criticism, the most notable single piece is the

famous essay _On Translating Homer_, which deserves careful study

for the enlightenment it offers concerning many of the fundamental

questions of style. The essays on Wordsworth and on Byron from _Essays

in Criticism_, and that on Emerson, from _Discourses in America_,

furnish good examples of Arnold's charm of manner and weight of matter

in this province.

"The total impression which Arnold makes in his prose may be described

as that of a spiritual man-of-the-world. In comparison with Carlyle,

Buskin, and Newman, he is worldly. For the romantic passion and mystic

vision of these men he substitutes an ideal of balanced cultivation,

the ideal of the trained, sympathetic, cosmopolitan gentleman. He

marks a return to the conventions of life after the storm and stress

of the romantic age. Yet in his own way he also was a prophet and a

preacher, striving whole-heartedly to release his countrymen from

bondage to mean things, and pointing their gaze to that symmetry and

balance of character which has seemed to many noble minds the true

goal of human endeavor."--MOODY AND LOVETT, _A History of English

Literature_.

"As a literary critic, his taste, his temper, his judgment were pretty

nearly infallible. He combined a loyal and reasonable submission

to literary authority, with a free and even daring use of private

judgment. His admiration for the acknowledged masters of human

utterance--Homer, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe--was genuine

and enthusiastic, and incomparably better informed than that of some

more conventional critics. Yet this cordial submission to recognized

authority, this honest loyalty to established reputation, did not

blind him to defects; did not seduce him into indiscriminating praise;

did not deter him from exposing the tendency to verbiage in Burke and

Jeremy Taylor, the excess blankness of much of Wordsworth's blank

verse, the undercurrent of mediocrity in Macaulay, the absurdities of

Mr. Ruskin's etymology. And as in great matters, so in small. Whatever

literary production was brought under Matthew Arnold's notice, his

judgment was clear, sympathetic, and independent. He had the readiest

appreciation of true excellence, a quick intolerance of turgidity and

inflation--of what he called endeavors to render platitude endurable

by making it pompous, and lively horror of affectation and

unreality."--Mr. GEORGE RUSSELL.

"In his work as literary critic Arnold has occupied a high place

among the foremost prose writers of the time. His style is in marked

contrast to the dithyrambic eloquence of Carlyle, or to Ruskin's

pure 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 often

a merciless style, indescribably irritating to an opponent by

its undercurrent of sarcastic humor, and its calm air of assured

superiority. By his insistence on a high standard of technical

excellence, and by his admirable presentation of certain principles of

literary judgment, Arnold performed a great work for literature. On

the other hand, we miss here, as in his poetry, the human element, the

comprehensive 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, any

more than Arnold could have produced Carlyle's large-hearted essay on

_Burns_. Arnold's varied energy and highly trained intelligence

have been felt in many different fields. He has won a peculiar and

honorable place in the poetry of the century; he has excelled as

literary critic, he has labored in the cause of education, and

finally, in his _Culture and Anarchy_, he has set forth his scheme of

social reform, and in certain later books has made His contribution

to contemporary thought."--PANCOAST, _Introduction to English

Literature_.

* * * * *

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,° °1

And the fog rose out of the Oxus° stream. °2

But all the Tartar camp° along the stream °3

Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;

Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long 5

He 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, 10

Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's° tent. °11

Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood

Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand

Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow

When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere° °15

Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand,

And to a hillock came, a little back

From 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 20

With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now

The 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 stood

Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 25

And found the old man sleeping on his bed

Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.

And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step

Was 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 35

Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie

Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.

For so did King Afrasiab° bid me seek °38

Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,

In Samarcand,° before the army march'd; °40

And I will tell thee what my heart desires.

Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan° first °42

I 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. °45

This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on

The 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, 50

Should 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 55

Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords

To 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,° °60

Where host meets host, and many names are sunk°; °61

But of a single combat fame speaks clear."

He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand

Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said:--

"O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! 65

Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,

And share the battle's common chance° with us °67

Who love thee, but must press for ever first,

In single fight incurring single risk,

To find a father thou hast never seen°? °70

That were far best, my son, to stay with us

Unmurmuring; 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! 75

Seek 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; 80

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home,

In Seistan,° with Zal, his father old. °82

Whether that his own mighty strength at last

Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age,

Or in some quarrel° with the Persian King.° °85

There go°!--Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes °86

Danger or death awaits thee on this field.

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost

To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace

To seek thy father, not seek single fights 90

In vain;--but who can keep the lion's cub

From 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 left

His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; 95

And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat

He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet,

And threw a white cloak round him, and he took

In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword°; °99

And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 100

Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul°; °101

And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd

His herald to his side, and went abroad.

The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog

From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 105

And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed

Into the open plain; so Haman° bade-- °107

Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled

The 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, 111

In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes

Stream over Casbin° and the southern slopes °113

Of Elburz,° from the Aralian estuaries, °114

Or some frore° Caspian reed-bed, southward bound °115

For 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 °119

And Khiva,° and ferment the milk of mares.° °120

Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns° of the south, °121

The Tukas,° and the lances of Salore, °122

And those from Attruck° and the Caspian sands; °123

Light men and on light steeds, who only drink

The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 125

And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came

From far, and a more doubtful service own'd;

The Tartars of Ferghana,° from the banks °128

Of the Jaxartes,° men with scanty beards °129

And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes 130

Who roam o'er Kipchak° and the northern waste, °131

Kalmucks° and unkempt Kuzzaks,° tribes who stray °132

Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,° °133

Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere;

These all filed out from camp into the plain. 135

And on the other side the Persians form'd;--

First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd.

The Ilyats of Khorassan°; and behind, °138

The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,

Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 140

But 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, saw

That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 145

He took his spear, and to the front he came,

And check'd his ranks, and fix'd° them where they stood. °147

And the old Tartar came upon the sand

Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:--

"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! 150

Let there be truce between the hosts to-day.

But choose a champion from the Persian lords

To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man."

As, in the country, on a morn in June,

When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 155

A shiver runs through the deep corn° for joy-- °156

So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,

A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran

Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved.

But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool,° °160

Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,° °161

That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow;

Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass

Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow,

Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves 165

Slake 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 170

To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came,

And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host

Second, and was the uncle of the King°; °173

These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz said:--

"Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 175

Yet champion have we none to match this youth.

He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart.° °177

But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits° °178

And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart.

Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 180

The 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! 185

Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man."

He spake: and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strode

Back 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, 190

Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents.

Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay,

Just pitch'd; the high pavilion in the midst

Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around.

And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 195

Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still

The table stood before him, charged with food--

A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread;

And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate° °199

Listless, and held a falcon° on his wrist, °200

And play'd with it; but Gudurz came and stood

Before 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. 205

What 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; 210

For from the Tartars is a challenge brought

To pick a champion from the Persian lords

To 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! 215

He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart;

And he is young, and Iran's° chiefs are old, °217

Or 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 °221

Am older; if the young are weak, the King

Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo,° °223

Himself is young, and honours younger men,

And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 225

Rustum 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-- °230

A son so famed, so brave, to send to war,

And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal,° °232

My 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. 235

There 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, 240

And 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 seeks

Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 245

Hidest 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? 250

Thou 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? 255

Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame!

But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms°; °257

Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'd

In single fight with any mortal man."

He spoke, and frown'd; and Gudurz turn'd, and ran 260

Back 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'd

His followers in, and bade them bring his arms,

And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose 265

Were plain, and on his shield was no device,° °266

Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,

And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume

Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume.

So arm'd, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, 270

Follow'd him like a faithful hound at heel--

Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth,

The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once

Did in Bokhara by the river find

A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 275

And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest,

Dight° with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green °277

Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd

All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know.

So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 280

The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd.

And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts

Hail'd; but the Tartars knew not who he was.

And dear as the wet diver to the eyes

Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 285

By sandy Bahrein,° in the Persian Gulf, °286

Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night,

Having made up his tale° of precious pearls, °288

Rejoins 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 swath

Down through the middle of a rich man's corn,

And on each side are squares of standing corn, 295

And in the midst a stubble, short and bare--

So on each side were squares of men, with spears

Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand.

And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast

His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 300

Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came.

As some rich woman, on a winter's morn,

Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge

Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire--

At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 305

When the frost flowers° the whiten'd window-panes--

And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts

Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed

The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar

Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 310

All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused° °311

His 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 315

Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound--

So slender Sohrab seem'd,° so softly rear'd. °318

And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul

As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 320

And 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, °325

And tried°; and I have stood on many a field

Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe--

Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.° °327

O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?

Be govern'd°! quit the Tartar host, and come °330

To 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 335

His giant figure planted on the sand,

Sole, like some single tower, which a chief

Hath builded on the waste in former years

Against the robbers; and he saw that head,

Streak'd with its first grey hairs;--hope filled his soul, 340

And 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! °343

Art thou not Rustum°? speak! art thou not he?" °344

But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 345

And 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_! 350

He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,

But he will find some pretext not to fight,

And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts

A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.

And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 355

In Samarcand, he will arise and cry:

'I challenged once, when the two armies camp'd

Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords

To cope with me in single fight; but they

Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I 360

Changed 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 365

Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call'd

By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt,° or yield! °367

Is 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 370

Before 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, 375

Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds

Bleach 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°! °380

I am no girl to be made pale by words.

Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand

Here 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, 385

And 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 sure

Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know.

For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 390

Poised 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, 395

We 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'd

His spear; down from the shoulder, down it came,

As on some partridge, in the corn a hawk, 400

That long has tower'd° in the airy clouds, °401

Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come,

And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear

Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand,

Which it sent flying wide;--then Sohrab threw 405

In turn, and full struck° Rustum's shield; sharp rang, °406

The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear.

And Rustum seized his club, which none but he

Could wield; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge,

Still rough--like those which men in treeless plains 410

To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,

Hyphasis° or Hydaspes,° when, high up °412

By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time

Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack,° °414

And strewn the channels with torn boughs--so huge 415

The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck

One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,

Lithe as the glancing° snake, and the club came °418

Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand.

And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 420

To 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 lay

Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;

But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 425

But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:--

"Thou strik'st too hard! that club of thine will float

Upon 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. 430

Thou 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; °435

But 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, 440

And 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 445

Mayst 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 club

He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear, 450

Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand

Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star,° °452

The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd

His stately crest,° and dimm'd his glittering arms. °454

His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice 455

Was 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 460

With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;

But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance

Of battle, and with me, who make no play

Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand.

Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 465

Remember all thy valour°; try thy feints °466

And cunning! all the pity I had is gone;

Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts

With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.°" °468

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled° at his taunts, °470

And he too drew his sword; at once they rush'd

Together, as two eagles on one prey

Come rushing down together from the clouds,

One from the east, one from the west; their shields

Bash'd with a clang together, and a din 475

Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters

Make often in the forest's heart at morn,

Of hewing axes, crashing trees--such blows

Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd.

And you would say that sun and stars took part 480

In that unnatural° conflict; for a cloud° °481

Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun

Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose

Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 485

In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone;

For both the on-looking hosts on either hand

Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,

And the sun sparkled° on the Oxus stream. °489

But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 490

And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shield

Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear

Rent 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,° °495

Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest

He shore° away, and that proud horsehair plume, °497

Never till now defiled, sank to the dust;

And Rustum bow'd his head°; but then the gloom °499

Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 500

And 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 roar

Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day

Hath trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, 505

And 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. °508

But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on,

And struck again; and again Rustum bow'd 510

His 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 eyes

Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 515

And shouted: _Rustum_°!--Sohrab heard that shout, °516

And 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'd

His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 520

He 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 all

The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair--

Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 525

And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.

Then, with a bitter smile,° Rustum began:-- °527

"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill

A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,

And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 530

Or else that the great Rustum would come down

Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move

His heart to take a gift, and let thee go.

And then that all the Tartar host would praise

Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 535

To glad° thy father in his weak old age. °536

Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man!

Dearer to the red jackals° shalt thou be °538

Than to thy friends, and to thy father old."

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:-- 540

"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain

Thou 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, 545

They should be lying here, I standing there

But that belovéd name unnerved my arm--

That name, and something, I confess, in thee,

Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield

Fall; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 550

And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate.

But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear

The 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 °556

A 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 560

Far off;--anon her mate comes winging back

From hunting, and a great way off descries

His huddling young left sole°; at that, he checks °563

His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps

Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 565

Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she

Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,

In some far stony gorge out of his ken,

A heap of fluttering feathers--never more

Shall the lake glass° her, flying over it; °570

Never the black and dripping precipices

Echo 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 stood

Over 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. 580

Surely 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 leap

To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 585

Fierce 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 590

With that old king, her father, who grows grey

With age, and rules over the valiant Koords.

Her most I pity, who no more will see

Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,

With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 595

But a dark rumour will be bruited up,° °596

From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;

And then will that defenceless woman learn

That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more,

But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600

By 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 605

Who 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 610

Rustum 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; °613

Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.

So deem'd he; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought 615

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide

Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore

At 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, 620

The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries

A far, bright city, smitten by the sun,

Through many rolling clouds--so Rustum saw

His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom;

And that old king,° her father, who loved well °625

His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child

With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,

They three, in that long-distant summer-time--

The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt

And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 630

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth,

Of age and looks° to be his own dear son, °632

Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand;

Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe

Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 635

Mowing 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 son

Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved.

Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men

Have told thee false--thou art not Rustum's son.

For Rustum had no son; one child he had-- 645

But one--a girl; who with her mother now

Plies 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 now

The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 650

And 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? 655

Truth 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 °658

That 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 hand

Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand,

That the hard iron corslet° clank'd aloud; °663

And to his heart he press'd the other hand, 665

And 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 loosed

His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 670

And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points

Prick'd; as a cunning° workman, in Pekin, °672

Pricks 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 675

Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands--

So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd

On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal.

It was that griffin,° which of old rear'd Zal, °679

Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 680

A 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, 685

And then he touch'd it with his hand and said:--

"How say'st thou? Is that sign the proper sign

Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?"

He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood

Speechless; 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 cast

His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 695

And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,

Trying to call him back to life; and life

Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,

And they stood wide with horror; and he seized

In both his hands the dust which lay around, 700

And 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. 705

But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands,

And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:--

"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day

The doom which at my birth was written down

In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand.° °710

Surely 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 down

Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged

The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. 715

But let us speak no more of this! I find

My father; let me feel that I have found!° °717

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take

My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,

And wash them with thy tears, and say: _My son!_ 720

Quick! quick! for number'd are my sands of life,

And swift; for like the lightning to this field

I came, and like the wind I go away--

Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.° °724

But it was writ in Heaven that this should be." 725

So said he, and his voice released the heart

Of Rustum, and his tears brake forth; he cast

His 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, 730

With his head bowing to the ground and mane

Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe

First to the one then to the other moved

His head, as if inquiring what their grief

Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 735

The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked° the sand. °736

But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:--

"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet

Should 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. 745

Come, 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, 750

And seen the River of Helmund,° and the Lake °751

Of Zirrah°; and the aged Zal himself °752

Has 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 755

Have 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 seen

Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 760

Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,

And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk

The desert rivers, Moorghab° and Tejend,° °763

Kohik,° and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,

The northern Sir°; and this great Oxus stream, °765

The 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 silt

Roll 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, 775

And reap a second glory in thine age;

Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.

But come! thou seest this great host of men

Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!

Let me entreat for them; what have they done? 780

They 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, 785

Thou, 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, °788

And plant a far-seen pillar over all.

That so the passing horseman on the waste 790

May 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, 800

With 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. 805

And 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 slain

Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 810

And 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! 815

Or 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; 820

And 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, 825

And 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,° °830

When 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 took

The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased

His wound's imperious anguish; but the blood 840

Came welling from the open gash, and life

Flow'd with the stream;--all down his cold white side

The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd,

Like the soil'd tissue of white violets

Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 845

By 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, 850

Convulsed 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 limbs

Unwillingly the spirit fled away,

Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 855

And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.

So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead;

And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak

Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.

As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 860

By Jemshid in Persepolis,° to bear °861

His house, now 'mid their broken flights of steps

Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side--

So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.

And night came down over the solemn waste, 865

And 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 fires

Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 870

Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal;

The Persians took it on the open sands

Southward, the Tartars by the river marge;

And Rustum and his son were left alone.

But the majestic river floated on, 875

Out of the mist and hum of that low land,

Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,

Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian° waste, °878

Under the solitary moon;--he flow'd

Right for the polar star,° past Orgunjè,° °880

Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin

To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,

And split his currents; that for many a league

The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along

Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles-- 885

Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had

In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,

A foil'd circuitous wanderer--till at last

The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide

His luminous home° of waters opens, bright °890

And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars° °891

Emerge, 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, 5

Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;

He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,° °7

Twinkle the monastery-lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd--

And now no bells, no convents more! 10

The hurtling Polar lights° are near'd, °11

The 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, 15

And on it--Christ!--a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,

Of hair that red° and tufted fell-- °18

It is--Oh, where shall Brandan fly?--

The traitor Judas, out of hell! 20

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate°; °21

The 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 25

On 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, 30

Breathing self-murder,° frenzy, spite, °31

To 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 spent

Its storms of dust with burning heat;

"And in the street a leper sate, 45

Shivering 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'd

And murmur'd: _Help me, or I die!_-- 50

To 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, 55

Hath such inestimable power!

"Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I

Did 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 womb

Of 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, 65

On 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. 70

Oh, Brandan! to this hour of rest

That 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! 75

The 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; 5

Now the wild white horses° play, °6

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away!

This way, this way!

Call her once before you go-- 10

Call once yet!

In a voice that she will know:

"Margaret°! Margaret!" °13

Children's voices should be dear

(Call once more) to a mother's ear; 15

Children'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! 20

The 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, 25

And 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 30

We 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, 35

Where 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, °39

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 40

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,

Dry their mail° and bask in the brine; °42

Where great whales come sailing by,

Sail and sail, with unshut eye,

Round the world for ever and aye? 45

When 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, 50

On 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.° °54

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 55

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray

In 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; 60

Say 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; 65

Long 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 down

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town;

Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70

To 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. 75

She 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, 80

For her eyes were seal'd° to the holy book! °81

Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.

Come away, children, call no more!

Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down! 85

Down 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! 90

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;

For the wheel where I spun,

And the blessed light of the sun°!" °93

And so she sings her fill,

Singing most joyfully, 95

Till 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; 100

And 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; 105

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden

And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children;

Come children, come down!

The hoarse wind blows coldly; 110

Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber

When gusts shake the door;

She will hear the winds howling,

Will hear the waves roar. 115

We shall see, while above us

The waves roar and whirl,

A ceiling of amber,

A pavement of pearl.

Singing: "Here came a mortal, 120

But faithless was she!

And alone dwell for ever

The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow, 125

When clear falls the moonlight,

When spring-tides are low;

When sweet airs come seaward

From heaths starr'd with broom,° °129

And high rocks throw mildly 130

On the blanch'd sands a gloom;

Up the still, glistening beaches,

Up the creeks we will hie,

Over banks of bright seaweed

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135

We 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, 140

But cruel is she!

She left lonely for ever

The 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, 10

Propt on pillows in his bed,

Gazing seaward for the light

Of some ship that fights the gale

On this wild December night?

Over the sick man's feet is spread 15

A 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; °20

I know him by his forest-dress--

The peerless hunter, harper, knight,

Tristram of Lyoness.° °23

What Lady is this, whose silk attire

Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? 25

The ringlets on her shoulders lying

In their flitting lustre vying

With the clasp of burnish'd gold

Which her heavy robe doth hold.

Her looks are mild, her fingers slight 30

As the driven snow are white°; °31

But her cheeks are sunk and pale.

Is it that the bleak sea-gale

Beating from the Atlantic sea

On this coast of Brittany, 35

Nips too keenly the sweet flower?

Is it that a deep fatigue

Hath come on her, a chilly fear,

Passing all her youthful hour

Spinning with her maidens here, 40

Listlessly through the window-bars

Gazing seawards many a league,

From her lonely shore-built tower,

While the knights are at the wars?

Or, perhaps, has her young heart 45

Felt 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, 50

Her 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 where

Is that other Iseult fair,

That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen?

She, whom Tristram's ship of yore

From Ireland to Cornwall bore, 60

To Tyntagel,° to the side °61

Of King Marc,° to be his bride? °62

She who, as they voyaged, quaff'd

With Tristram that spiced magic draught,

Which since then for ever rolls 65

Through their blood, and binds their souls,

Working love, but working teen°?--. °67

There were two Iseults who did sway

Each her hour of Tristram's day;

But one possess'd his waning time, 70

The other his resplendent prime.

Behold her here, the patient flower,

Who possess'd his darker hour!

Iseult of the Snow-White Hand

Watches pale by Tristram's bed. 75

She is here who had his gloom,

Where art thou who hadst his bloom?

One such kiss as those of yore

Might thy dying knight restore!

Does the love-draught work no more? 80

Art 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; 85

And his spirit is not clear.

Hark! he mutters in his sleep,

As he wanders° far from here, °88

Changes place and time of year,

And his closéd eye doth sweep 90

O'er some fair unwintry sea,° °91

Not 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, 95

And 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, 100

But 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! 105

Keep his eyelids! let him seem

Not this fever-wasted wight

Thinn'd and paled before his time,

But the brilliant youthful knight

In the glory of his prime, 110

Sitting 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, 115

If 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-- 120

Let her sweep her dazzling hand

With its gesture of command,

And shake back her raven hair

With the old imperious air!

As of old, so let her be, 125

That first Iseult, princess bright,

Chatting with her youthful knight

As he steers her o'er the sea,

Quitting at her father's will

The green isle° where she was bred, °130

And her bower in Ireland,

For the surge-beat Cornish strand

Where the prince whom she must wed

Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill,° °134

High above the sounding sea. 135

And that potion rare her mother

Gave 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-- 140

Let 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, 145

Pledge me in my golden cup!"

Let them drink it--let their hands

Tremble, and their cheeks be flame,

As they feel the fatal bands

Of a love they dare not name, 150

With a wild delicious pain,

Twine about their hearts again!

Let the early summer be

Once more round them, and the sea

Blue, and o'er its mirror kind 155

Let the breath of the May-wind,

Wandering through their drooping sails,

Die on the green fields of Wales!

Let a dream like this restore

What his eye must see no more!° °160

_Tristram_. Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks° are drear-- °161

Madcap, 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,° °164

Had 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 170

Faster surely than it should,

From the fever in his blood!

All the spring-time of his love

Is already gone and past,

And instead thereof is seen 175

Its 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.° °180

And this rough December-night,

And his burning fever-pain,

Mingle with his hurrying dream,

Till they rule it, till he seem

The press'd fugitive again, 185

The love-desperate banish'd knight

With a fire in his brain

Flying o'er the stormy main.

--Whither does he wander now?

Haply in his dreams the wind 190

Wafts him here, and lets him find

The lovely orphan child° again° °192

In her castle by the coast;

The youngest, fairest chatelaine,° °194

Whom this realm of France can boast, 195

Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,

Iseult of Brittany.

And--for through the haggard air,

The stain'd arms, the matted hair

Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd,° °200

There gleam'd something, which recall'd

The Tristram who in better days

Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard°-- °203

Welcomed here,° and here install'd, °204

Tended of his fever here, 205

Haply he seems again to move

His young guardian's heart with love

In his exiled loneliness,

In his stately, deep distress,

Without a word, without a tear. 210

--Ah! 'tis well he should retrace

His tranquil life in this lone place;

His gentle bearing at the side

Of his timid youthful bride;

His long rambles by the shore 215

On winter-evenings, when the roar

Of the near waves came, sadly grand,

Through the dark, up the drown'd sand,

Or his endless reveries

In the woods, where the gleams play 220

On the grass under the trees,

Passing the long summer's day

Idle as a mossy stone

In the forest-depths alone,

The chase neglected, and his hound 225

Couch'd beside him on the ground.° °226

--Ah! what trouble's on his brow?

Hither let him wander now;

Hither, to the quiet hours

Pass'd among these heaths of ours. 230

By 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. 235

Upon 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°! °238

What foul fiend rides thee°? On into the fight!" °239

--Above the din her° voice is in my ears; °240

I see her form glide through the crossing spears.--

Iseult!...

* * * * *

Ah! he wanders forth again°; °243

We cannot keep him; now, as then,

There's a secret in his breast° °245

Which will never let him rest.

These musing fits in the green wood

They cloud the brain, they dull the blood!

--His sword is sharp, his horse is good;

Beyond the mountains will he see 250

The famous towns of Italy,

And label with the blessed sign° °252

The heathen Saxons on the Rhine.

At Arthur's side he fights once more

With the Roman Emperor.° °255

There's many a gay knight where he goes

Will help him to forget his care;

The march, the leaguer,° Heaven's blithe air, °258

The neighing steeds, the ringing blows--

Sick pining comes not where these are. 260

Ah! what boots it,° that the jest °261

Lightens every other brow,

What, that every other breast

Dances as the trumpets blow,

If one's own heart beats not light 265

On the waves of the toss'd fight,

If oneself cannot get free

From the clog of misery?

Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale

Watching by the salt sea-tide 270

With her children at her side

For 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 clear

The forest-chapel and the fountain near.

--I think, I have a fever in my blood; 280

Come, 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, 285

At 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. 300

Ah no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,

Far hence; her dreams are fair--smooth is her brow

Of 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; 305

And 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. 310

Where 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, 315

She came to the bed-side;

She took his hands in hers--her tears

Down on his wasted fingers rain'd.

She raised her eyes upon his face--

Not with a look of wounded pride, 320

A look as if the heart complained--

Her look was like a sad embrace;

The gaze of one who can divine

A grief, and sympathise.

Sweet flower! thy children's eyes 325

Are 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 330

Of buffeting wind and surging tide

Through many a room and corridor.

--Full on their window the moon's ray

Makes their chamber as bright as day.

It shines upon the blank white walls, 335

And on the snowy pillow falls,

And on two angel-heads doth play

Turn'd to each other--the eyes closed,

The lashes on the cheeks reposed.

Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 340

Hardly lets peep the golden hair;

Through the soft-open'd lips the air

Scarcely moves the coverlet.

One little wandering arm is thrown

At random on the counterpane, 345

And often the fingers close in haste

As if their baby-owner chased

The butterflies again.

This stir they have, and this alone; 350

But else they are so still!

--Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;

But were you at the window now,

To look forth on the fairy sight

Of your illumined haunts by night, 355

To see the park-glades where you play

Far lovelier than they are by day,

To see the sparkle on the eaves,

And upon every giant-bough

Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 360

Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain--

How would your voices run again!

And far beyond the sparkling trees

Of the castle-park one sees

The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 365

Moor 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 370

All 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. 10

Fear 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; 30

Sing 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-- 50

Thee, 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. 70

Close 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. 90

But, 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 hood

Has fallen back; her arms outspread

Still hold her lover's hand; her head 105

Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed.

O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair

Lies in disorder'd streams; and there,

Strung like white stars, the pearls still are,

And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 110

Flash on her white arms still.

The very same which yesternight

Flash'd in the silver sconces'° light, °113

When the feast was gay and the laughter loud

In Tyntagel's palace proud. 115

But then they deck'd a restless ghost

With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes,

And quivering lips on which the tide

Of courtly speech abruptly died,

And a glance which over the crowded floor, 120

The dancers, and the festive host,

Flew ever to the door.° °122

That the knights eyed her in surprise,

And the dames whispered scoffingly:

"Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! 125

But yesternight and she would be

As pale and still as wither'd flowers,

And now to-night she laughs and speaks

And has a colour in her cheeks;

Christ keep us from such fantasy!"-- 130

Yes, now the longing is o'erpast,

Which, dogg'd° by fear and fought by shame, °132

Shook her weak bosom day and night,

Consumed her beauty like a flame,

And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 135

And though the bed-clothes hide her face,

Yet were it lifted to the light,

The sweet expression of her brow

Would charm the gazer, till his thought

Erased the ravages of time, 140

Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought

A freshness back as of her prime--

So healing is her quiet now.

So perfectly the lines express

A tranquil, settled loveliness, 145

Her younger rival's purest grace.

The air of the December-night

Steals coldly around the chamber bright,

Where those lifeless lovers be;

Swinging with it, in the light 150

Flaps the ghostlike tapestry.

And on the arras wrought you see

A stately Huntsman, clad in green,

And round him a fresh forest-scene.

On that clear forest-knoll he stays, 155

With 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. 160

He gazes down into the room

With 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? 165

And on his pillows that pale Knight

Who seems of marble on a tomb?

How comes it here, this chamber bright,

Through whose mullion'd windows clear

The castle-court all wet with rain, 170

The drawbridge and the moat appear,

And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray,

The sunken reefs, and far away

The unquiet bright Atlantic plain?

--What, has some glamour made me sleep, 175

And 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 180

That 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 fear

Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow,

And through the glades thy pastime take--

For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! 190

For these thou seest are unmoved;

Cold, cold as those who lived and loved

A 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, 5

Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play

In a green circular hollow in the heath

Which borders the sea-shore--a country path

Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind.

The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, 10

And to one standing on them, far and near

The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear

Over the waste. This cirque° of open ground °13

Is light and green; the heather, which all round

Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass 15

Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass

Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there

Dotted with holly-trees and juniper.° °18

In the smooth centre of the opening stood

Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, 20

Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green

With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's° food. °22

Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands,

Watching her children play; their little hands

Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 25

Of stagshorn° for their hats; anon, with screams °26

Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound

Among the holly-clumps and broken ground,

Racing full speed, and startling in their rush

The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 30

Out of their glossy coverts;--but when now

Their 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 35

Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she

Told 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 40

Which 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, 45

And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes

Fix'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 50

From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,

Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams

Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,

Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,

The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 55

And they would still have listen'd, till dark night

Came 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 old

Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, 60

Then 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 unmoved

The days in which she might have lived and loved 65

Slip 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, 70

So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet

Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone

Hath yet an infantine and silver tone,

But even that comes languidly; in truth,

She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 75

And now she will go home, and softly lay

Her laughing children in their beds, and play

Awhile with them before they sleep; and then

She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen

Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, 80

Along this iron coast,° know like a star,° °81

And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit

Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;

Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind

Her children, or to listen to the wind. 85

And when the clock peals midnight, she will move

Her work away, and let her fingers rove

Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound

Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;

Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 90

Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise,

And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she have told °92

Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold,

Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow'll be

To-day's exact repeated effigy. 95

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.

The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal,° °97

Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound,

Are there the sole companions to be found.

But these she loves; and noiser life than this 100

She would find ill to bear, weak as she is.

She has her children, too, and night and day

Is 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, 105

These are to her dear as to them; the tales

With which this day the children she beguiled

She 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, 110

Can forget all to hear them, as of old.

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,

Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear

To all that has delighted them before,

And lets us be what we were once no more. 115

No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain

Power 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 120

Until 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, 125

To make our former pleasures all seem stale.

This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit

Of passion, which subdues our souls to it,

Till for its sake alone we live and move--

Call it ambition, or remorse, or love-- 130

This too can change us wholly, and make seem

All which we did before, shadow and dream.

And yet, I swear, it angers me to see

How this fool passion gulls° men potently; °134

Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, 135

And an unnatural overheat at best.

How they are full of languor and distress

Not 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° °140

Where this plague drives them; and have little ease,

Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.

Like that bold Cæsar,° the famed Roman wight, °143

Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight

Who made a name at younger years than he; 145

Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry,

Prince Alexander,° Philip's peerless son, °147

Who carried the great war from Macedon

Into the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on °149

To 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 land

Away the other side of Brittany,

Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; 155

Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,° °156

Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps

Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.

For here he came with the fay° Vivian, °158

One April, when the warm days first began.

He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, 160

On her white palfrey; here he met his end,

In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.

This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay° °163

Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear

Before the children's fancy him and her. 165

Blowing between the stems, the forest-air

Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair,

Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes

Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.

Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 170

For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet.

A brier in that tangled wilderness

Had scored her white right hand, which she allows

To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;

The other warded off the drooping boughs. 175

But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes

Fix'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 180

Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight;

And he grew fond, and eager to obey

His mistress, use her empire° as she may. °184

They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day 185

Peer'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 look

On the brook's farther side was clear, but then

The underwood and trees began again. 190

This open glen was studded thick with thorns

Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns,

Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer

Who come at noon down to the water here.

You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 195

Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong

The blackbird whistled from the dingles near,

And the weird chipping of the woodpecker

Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair,

And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 200

Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow,

To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough

Which 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 205

The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear

Across the hollow; white anemones

Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses

Ran out from the dark underwood behind.

No fairer resting-place a man could find. 210

"Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and she

Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.

They sate them down together, and a sleep

Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.

Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose 215

And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws,

And takes it in her hand, and waves it over

The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.

Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° round, °219

And made a little plot of magic ground. 220

And in that daised circle, as men say,

Is Merlin prisoner° till the judgment-day; °222

But 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, 10

From 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, 30

To 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, 50

Bloody, '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; 70

Mountain 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, 90

In 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. 110

Then the Duchess closed her labours;

And she died at the St. John.

II

THE CHURCH

Upon the glistening leaden roof

Of 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 lair

Crossing the stream, the kine are seen 10

Round the wall to stray--

The churchyard wall that clips the square

Of open hill-sward fresh and green

Where last year they lay.

But all things now are order'd fair 15

Round the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, at the matin-chime,° °17

The Alpine peasants, two and three,

Climb up here to pray;

Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, 20

Ride out to church from Chambery,° °21

Dight° with mantles gay. °22

But else it is a lonely time

Round the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 25

From 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. 30

But else the woods and fields are dumb

Round the Church of Brou.

And after church, when mass is done,

The people to the nave repair

Round the tomb to stray; 35

And marvel at the Forms of stone,

And praise the chisell'd broideries° rare-- °37

Then they drop away.

The princely Pair are left alone

In 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, 5

On aisle, and transept,° and your marble grave; °6

Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more arise

From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,

On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,

And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 10

To 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 fair

On the carved western front a flood of light

Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright

Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave, 20

In the vast western window of the nave,

And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints

A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,

And amethyst, and ruby--then unclose

Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, 25

And 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 rain

Doth rustlingly above your heads complain

On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls

Shedding her pensive light at intervals 35

The 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 these

The columns of the heavenly palaces!_

And, in the sweeping of the wind, your ear

The passage of the Angels' wings will hear,

And on the lichen-crusted leads° above °45

The 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. 10

But 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 breath

To-night it doth inherit 15

The vasty° hall of death. °16

CONSOLATION

Mist clogs the sunshine.

Smoky dwarf houses

Hem me round everywhere;

A vague dejection

Weighs down my soul. 5

Yet, while I languish,

Everywhere countless

Prospects unroll themselves,

And countless beings

Pass countless moods. 10

Far hence, in Asia,

On the smooth convent-roofs,

On the gilt terraces,

Of holy Lassa,° °14

Bright shines the sun. 15

Grey time-worn marbles

Hold the pure Muses°; °17

In their cool gallery,° °18

By yellow Tiber,° °19

They still look fair. 20

Strange unloved uproar° °21

Shrills round their portal;

Yet not on Helicon° °23

Kept they more cloudless

Their noble calm. 25

Through sun-proof alleys

In a lone, sand-hemm'd

City of Africa,

A blind, led beggar,

Age-bow'd, asks alms. 30

No bolder robber

Erst° abode ambush'd °32

Deep in the sandy waste;

No clearer eyesight

Spied prey afar. 35

Saharan sand-winds

Sear'd his keen eyeballs;

Spent is the spoil he won.

For him the present

Holds only pain. 40

Two young, fair lovers,

Where the warm June-wind,

Fresh from the summer fields

Plays fondly round them,

Stand, tranced in joy. 45

With sweet, join'd voices,

And with eyes brimming:

"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,° °48

Prolong the present!

Time, stand still here!" 50

The prompt stern Goddess

Shakes her head, frowning;

Time gives his hour-glass

Its due reversal;

Their hour is gone. 55

With weak indulgence

Did the just Goddess

Lengthen their happiness,

She lengthen'd also

Distress elsewhere. 60

The hour, whose happy

Unalloy'd moments

I would eternalise,

Ten thousand mourners

Well pleased see end. 65

The bleak, stern hour,

Whose severe moments

I would annihilate,

Is pass'd by others

In warmth, light, joy. 70

Time, so complain'd of,

Who to no one man

Shows partiality,

Brings round to all men

Some 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, 5

Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines

The mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan change

Of bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees

And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.

Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes, 10

And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came

Notes of wild pastoral music--over all

Ranged, 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, 15

Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves

Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof

Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within,

Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn.

We shot beneath the cottage with the stream. 20

On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two forms

Came 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. 25

They 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 30

Hung 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 35

Faded--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, 5

Across 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 glade

To take his nurse his broken toy; 10

Sometimes a thrush flit overhead

Deep in her unknown day's employ.

Here at my feet what wonders pass,

What endless, active life is here°! °14

What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! 15

An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.

Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod

Where 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, °21

Be others happy if they can!

But in my helpless cradle I

Was breathed on by the rural Pan.° °24

I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 25

Think often, as I hear them rave,

That peace has left the upper world

And now keeps only in the grave.

Yet here is peace for ever new!

When I who watch them am away, 30

Still all things in this glade go through

The 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, 35

The child sleeps warmly in his bed.

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. 40

The will to neither strive nor cry,

The power to feel with others give°!

Calm, calm me more! nor let me die

Before 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 procession

Of eddying forms, 5

Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me! thy right arm,

Lean'd up against the column there,

Props thy soft cheek; 10

Thy left holds, hanging loosely,

The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,° °12

I held but now.

Is it, then, evening

So soon? I see, the night-dews, 15

Cluster'd in thick beads, dim

The agate brooch-stones

On thy white shoulder;

The cool night-wind, too,

Blows through the portico, 20

Stirs thy hair, Goddess,

Waves thy white robe!

_Circe_. Whence art thou, sleeper?

_The Youth_. When the white dawn first

Through the rough fir-planks 25

Of my hut, by the chestnuts,

Up at the valley-head,

Came breaking, Goddess!

I sprang up, I threw round me

My dappled fawn-skin; 30

Passing 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 35

The rout° early gather'd °36

In the town, round the temple,

Iacchus'° white fane° °38

On yonder hill.

Quick I pass'd, following 40

The wood-cutters' cart-track

Down the dark valley;--I saw

On my left, through, the beeches,

Thy palace, Goddess,

Smokeless, empty! 45

Trembling, I enter'd; beheld

The court all silent,

The lions sleeping,° °47

On the altar this bowl.

I drank, Goddess! 50

And 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, 55

Through the delicate, flush'd marble,

The red, creaming liquor,

Strown with dark seeds!

Drink, then! I chide thee not,

Deny thee not my bowl. 60

Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so!

Drink--drink again!

_The Youth_. Thanks, gracious one!

Ah, the sweet fumes again!

More soft, ah me, 65

More subtle-winding

Than Pan's flute-music!° °67

Faint--faint! Ah me,

Again the sweet sleep!

_Circe_. Hist! Thou--within there! 70

Come forth, Ulysses°! °71

Art° tired with hunting? °72

While we range° the woodland, °73

See what the day brings.° °74

_Ulysses_. Ever new magic! 75

Hast thou then lured hither,

Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,

The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,

Iacchus' darling--

Or some youth beloved of Pan, 80

Of Pan and the Nymphs°? °81

That he sits, bending downward

His white, delicate neck

To the ivy-wreathed marge

Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 85

That crown his hair,

Falling forward, mingling

With the dark ivy-plants--

His fawn-skin, half untied,

Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 90

That he sits, overweigh'd

By fumes of wine and sleep,

So late, in thy portico?

What youth, Goddess,--what guest

Of Gods or mortals? 95

_Circe_. Hist! he wakes!

I lured him not hither, Ulysses.

Nay, ask him!

_The Youth_. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth

To thy side, Goddess, from within? 100

How shall I name him?

This spare, dark-featured,

Quick-eyed stranger?

Ah, and I see too

His sailor's bonnet, 105

His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,

With one arm bare°!-- °107

Art thou not he, whom fame

This long time rumours

The favour'd guest of Circe,° brought by the waves? °110

Art thou he, stranger?

The wise Ulysses,

Laertes' son?

_Ulysses_. I am Ulysses.

And thou, too, sleeper? 115

Thy voice is sweet.

It may be thou hast follow'd

Through the islands some divine bard,

By age taught many things,

Age and the Muses°; °120

And heard him delighting

The chiefs and people

In the banquet, and learn'd his songs,

Of Gods and Heroes,

Of war and arts, 125

And peopled cities,

Inland, or built

By the grey sea.--If so, then hail!

I honour and welcome thee.

_The Youth_. The Gods are happy. 130

They turn on all sides

Their shining eyes,

And see below them

The earth and men.° °134

They see Tiresias° °135

Sitting, staff in hand,

On the warm, grassy

Asopus° bank, °138

His robe drawn over

His old, sightless head, 140

Revolving inly

The doom of Thebes.° °142

They see the Centaurs° °143

In the upper glens

Of Pelion,° in the streams, °145

Where red-berried ashes fringe

The clear-brown shallow pools,

With streaming flanks, and heads

Rear'd proudly, snuffing

The mountain wind. 150

They see the Indian

Drifting, knife in hand,

His frail boat moor'd to

A floating isle thick-matted

With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants, 155

And the dark cucumber.

He reaps, and stows them,

Drifting--drifting;--round him,

Round his green harvest-plot,

Flow the cool lake-waves, 160

The mountains ring them.°

They see the Scythian

On the wide stepp, unharnessing

His wheel'd house at noon.

He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 165

Mares' milk, and bread

Baked on the embers°;--all around °167

The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd

With saffron and the yellow hollyhock

And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 170

Sitting 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, 175

Furrows the rich soil; here and there

Clusters of lonely mounds

Topp'd with rough-hewn,

Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer

The sunny waste.° °180

They see the ferry

On the broad, clay-laden.

Lone Chorasmian stream°;--thereon, °183

With snort and strain,

Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 185

The ferry-boat, with woven ropes

To either bow

Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief,

With shout and shaken spear,

Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 190

The cowering merchants, in long robes,

Sit pale beside their wealth

Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,

Of gold and ivory,

Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 195

Jasper and chalcedony,

And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.° °197

The loaded boat swings groaning

In the yellow eddies;

The Gods behold them. 200

They see the Heroes

Sitting in the dark ship

On the foamless, long-heaving

Violet sea,

At sunset nearing 205

The Happy Islands.° °206

These things, Ulysses,

The wise bards also

Behold and sing.

But oh, what labour! 210

O prince, what pain!

They too can see

Tiresias;--but the Gods,

Who give them vision,

Added this law: 215

That they should bear too

His groping blindness,

His dark foreboding,

His scorn'd white hairs;

Bear Hera's anger° °220

Through a life lengthen'd

To seven ages.

They see the Centaurs

On Pelion;--then they feel,

They too, the maddening wine 225

Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain

They feel the biting spears

Of the grim Lapithæ,° and Theseus,° drive, °228

Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel °229

High on a jutting rock in the red stream 230

Alcmena's dreadful son° °231

Ply his bow;--such a price

The Gods exact for song:

To become what we sing.

They see the Indian 235

On his mountain lake; but squalls

Make their skiff reel, and worms

In the unkind spring have gnawn

Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see

The Scythian; but long frosts 240

Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,

Till they too fade like grass; they crawl

Like shadows forth in spring.

They see the merchants

On the Oxus stream°;--but care °245

Must visit first them too, and make them pale.

Whether, through whirling sand,

A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst

Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,

In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 250

Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,

On some great river's marge,

Mown them down, far from home.

They see the Heroes° °254

Near harbour;--but they share 255

Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,

Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°; °257

Or where the echoing oars

Of Argo first

Startled the unknown sea.° °260

The old Silenus° °261

Came, lolling in the sunshine,

From the dewy forest-coverts,

This way, at noon.

Sitting by me, while his Fauns 265

Down at the water-side

Sprinkled and smoothed

His drooping garland,

He told me these things.

But I, Ulysses, 270

Sitting on the warm steps,

Looking over the valley,

All day long, have seen,

Without pain, without labour,

Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad°-- °275

Sometimes a Faun with torches°-- °276

And sometimes, for a moment,

Passing through the dark stems

Flowing-robed, the beloved,

The desired, the divine, 280

Beloved Iacchus.

Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!

Ah, glimmering water,

Fitful earth-murmur,

Dreaming woods! 285

Ah, 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-- 290

The cup again!

Faster, faster,

O Circe, Goddess,

Let the wild, thronging train,

The bright procession 295

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

MORALITY

We cannot kindle when we will

The 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 feet

We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;

We bear the burden and the heat

Of 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, 15

Thy 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, 20

See, 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-- 25

I do not strive, I do not weep;

I rush with the swift spheres and glow

In 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 fair

Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 5

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 10

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles° long ago °15

Heard it on the Ægæan,° and it brought °16

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery; we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20

The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems 30

To 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 35

Swept 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,° °5

Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain

That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain°-- °8

Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn 10

With its cool trees, and night,

And the sweet, tranquil Thames,

And moonshine, and the dew,

To thy rack'd heart and brain

Afford no balm? 15

Dost thou to-night behold,

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,

The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild°? °18

Dost thou again peruse

With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 20

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame°? °21

Dost thou once more assay

Thy flight, and feel come over thee,

Poor fugitive, the feathery change

Once more, and once more seem to make resound 25

With love and hate, triumph and agony,

Lone Daulis,° and the high Cephissian vale°? °27

Listen, Eugenia--

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves°! °29

Again--thou hearest? 30

Eternal 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°; °4

The inly-written chart° thou gavest me, 5

To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"?

Ah! let us make no claim,

On life's incognisable° sea, °8

To too exact a steering of our way;

Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim, 10

If some fair coast have lured us to make stay,

Or some friend hail'd us to keep company.

Ay! we would each fain drive

At random, and not steer by rule.

Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain 15

Winds 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 swath

Of torn-up water, on the main, 20

Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar

On either side the black deep-furrow'd path

Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore,° °23

And never touches the ship-side again;

Even so we leave behind, 25

As, charter'd by some unknown Powers

We stem° across the sea of life by night °27

The 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, °1

With echoing straits between us thrown,

Dotting the shoreless watery wild,

We mortal millions live _alone_.

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 5

And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon° their hollows lights, °7

And they are swept by balms of spring,

And in their glens, on starry nights,

The nightingales divinely sing; 10

And lovely notes, from shore to shore,

Across the sounds and channels pour--

Oh! then a longing like despair

Is to their farthest caverns sent;

For surely once, they feel, we were 15

Parts of a single continent!

Now round us spreads the watery plain--

Oh might our marges meet again!

Who order'd, that their longing's fire

Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? 20

Who renders vain their deep desire?--

A God, a God their severance ruled!

And bade betwixt their shores to be

The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.° °24

KAISER DEAD°

_April_ 6, 1887

What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news

Post-haste to Cobham° calls the Muse, °2

From 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!" 10

O 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; °20

And 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. 25

The 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 commend

The 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, began

To flag, and feel his narrowing span.

And cold, besides, his blue blood ran,

Since, 'gainst the classes, 40

He 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, °50

Then, home return'd, once more depart;

Or prest together

Against thy mistress, loving heart,

In winter weather.

I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd, 55

In 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, 70

And 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,° °76

Lets from his shaggy Highland pate

Thy memory die.

Well, fetch his graven collar fine,

And rub the steel, and make it shine, 80

And 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! 5

Geese 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; 10

Fired 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, 15

Find thy body by the wall!

PALLADIUM°

Set where the upper streams of Simois° flow °1

Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood;

And Hector° was in Ilium° far below, °3

And fought, and saw it not--but there it stood!

It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light 5

On the pure columns of its glen-built hall.

Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight

Round Troy--but while this stood, Troy could not fall.

So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.

Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; 10

Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll;

We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!

We shall renew the battle in the plain

To-morrow;--red with blood will Xanthus° be; °14

Hector and Ajax° will be there again, °15

Helen° 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, 5

Rome, England, France;--yes, nor in vain essay'd

Way after way, changes that never cease!

The letters have combined, something was made.

But ah! an inextinguishable sense

Haunts him that he has not made what he should; 10

That he has still, though old, to recommence,

Since he has not yet found the word God would.

And empire after empire, at their height

Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on;

Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, 15

And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne.

One day, thou say'st, there will at last appear

The 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 asking

What I am, and what I ought to be,

At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me

Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire 5

O'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; 10

Still, 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 them

Yield 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 noting

All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 25

In 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, 5

A break between the housetops shows

The moon! and, lost behind her, fading dim

Into the dewy dark obscurity

Down at the far horizon's rim,

Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 10

And to my mind the thought

Is on a sudden brought

Of a past night, and a far different scene.

Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep

As clearly as at noon; 15

The spring-tide's brimming flow

Heaved dazzlingly between;

Houses, with long white sweep,

Girdled the glistening bay;

Behind, through the soft air, 20

The 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 glow

That whirls the spirit from itself away_, 30

_But fluctuates to and fro,

Never by passion quite possess'd

And never quite benumb'd by the world's sway?--_

And I, I know not if to pray

Still to be what I am, or yield and be 35

Like 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 languidly

Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 40

Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall.

And as, year after year,

Fresh products of their barren labour fall

From their tired hands, and rest

Never yet comes more near, 45

Gloom settles slowly down over their breast;

A while they try to stem

The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest,

And the rest, a few,

Escape their prison and depart 50

On the wide ocean of life anew.

There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart

Listeth, will sail;

Nor doth he know how these prevail,

Despotic on that sea, 55

Trade-winds which cross it from eternity.

Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd

By thwarting signs, and braves

The freshening wind and blackening waves

And then the tempest strikes him; and between 60

The lightning-bursts is seen

Only a driving wreck.

And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck

With anguished face and flying hair,

Grasping the rudder hard, 65

Still bent to make some port he knows not where,

Still standing for some false, impossible shore.

And sterner comes the roar

Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom

Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom 70

And 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. 75

Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign

Of languor, though so calm, and though so great

Are 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 retain

A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain

Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain--

But I will rather say that you remain

A world above man's head, to let him see 85

How 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 fill

Is left to each man still! 90

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, 5

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, 10

To run their course, and reach their goal,

And read their homily° to man? °12

That liquid, melancholy eye,

From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs

Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,° °15

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? 20

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 25

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, 30

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, 35

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. 40

And so there rise these lines of verse

On lips that rarely form them now°; °42

While to each other we rehearse:

Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!

We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 45

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; 50

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, 55

Dropt 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 own

We strive to carry down thy name,

By mounded turf, and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach, 65

Here, 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 ear

To travellers on the Portsmouth road;-- 70

There 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, 75

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._ 80

EPILOGUE

TO LESSING'S LAOCOÖN°

One morn as through Hyde Park° we walk'd, °1

My friend and I, by chance we talk'd

Of Lessing's famed Laocoön;

And after we awhile had gone

In Lessing's track, and tried to see 5

What painting is, what poetry--

Diverging to another thought,

"Ah," cries my friend, "but who hath taught

Why music and the other arts

Oftener perform aright their parts 10

Than 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° °15

Pausanias° on his travels found °16

Good 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 20

In Dante's,° Petrarch's,° Tasso's° line, °21

The land of Ariosto° show'd; °22

And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd

With triumphs, a yet ampler brood,

Of Raphael° and his brotherhood. °25

And nobly perfect, in our day

Of haste, half-work, and disarray,

Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,

Hath risen Goethe's,° Wordsworth's° song; °29

Yet even I (and none will bow 30

Deeper to these) must needs allow,

They yield us not, to soothe our pains,

Such multitude of heavenly strains

As from the kings of sound are blown,

Mozart,° Beethoven,° Mendelssohn.°" °35

While thus my friend discoursed, we pass

Out 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, 40

The flies a summer-murmur made.

Bright was the morn and south° the air; °42

The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair

As those which pastured by the sea,

That old-world morn, in Sicily, 45

When on the beach the Cyclops lay,

And Galatea from the bay

Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay.° °48

"Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere!

The limits of his art appear. 50

The 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 55

Like these, and in one aspect brought!

In outward semblance he must give

A 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 65

Came rustling from the garden-trees

And 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, °70

By mist and chimneys unconfined,

Free to the sweep of light and wind;

While through their earth-moor'd nave below

Another breath of wind doth blow,

Sound as of wandering breeze--but sound 75

In laws by human artists bound.

"The world of music°!" I exclaimed:-- °77

"This breeze that rustles by, that famed

Abbey recall it! what a sphere

Large and profound, hath genius here! 80

The inspired musician what a range,

What power of passion, wealth of change

Some source of feeling he must choose

And its lock'd fount of beauty use,

And through the stream of music tell 85

Its else unutterable spell;

To choose it rightly is his part,

And press into its inmost heart.

"_Miserere Domine°!_ °89

The words are utter'd, and they flee. 90

Deep is their penitential moan,

Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.

They have declared the spirit's sore

Sore load, and words can do no more.

Beethoven takes them then--those two 95

Poor, 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, 100

And roll adown a channel large

The 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° °107

Where gaily flows the human tide.

Afar, in rest the cattle lay;

We heard, afar, faint music play; 110

But agitated, brisk, and near,

Men, with their stream of life, were here.

Some hang upon the rails, and some

On foot behind them go and come.

This through the Ride upon his steed 115

Goes 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. 120

Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!

And now and then, perhaps, there swells

A sigh, a tear--but in the throng

All changes fast, and hies° along. °124

Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground? 125

And 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°! °130

The aspect of the moment show,

The feeling of the moment know!

The aspect not, I grant, express

Clear as the painter's art can dress;

The feeling not, I grant, explore 135

So 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 spell

Of toil--he must life's _movement_° tell! °140

The 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, 145

The long, unpausing spectacle;

With faithful unrelaxing force

Attend it from its primal source,

From change to change and year to year

Attend it of its mid career, 150

Attend it to the last repose

And solemn silence of its close.

"The cattle rising from the grass

His thought must follow where they pass;

The penitent with anguish bow'd 155

His thought must follow through the crowd.

Yes! all this eddying, motley throng

That sparkles in the sun along,

Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold,

Master and servant, young and old, 160

Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,

He follows home, and lives their life.

"And many, many are the souls

Life's movement fascinates, controls;

It draws them on, they cannot save 165

Their feet from its alluring wave;

They cannot leave it, they must go

With its unconquerable flow.

But ah! how few, of all that try

This mighty march, do aught but die! 170

For 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, 175

They see, all round, a wilderness.

Sometimes a momentary gleam

They catch of the mysterious stream;

Sometimes, a second's space, their ear

The murmur of its waves doth hear. 180

That 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, 185

And they are silent and at peace,

The stream of life's majestic whole

Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul.

"Only a few the life-stream's shore

With safe unwandering feet explore; 190

Untired its movement bright attend,

Follow its windings to the end.

Then from its brimming waves their eye

Drinks up delighted ecstasy,

And its deep-toned, melodious voice 195

For ever makes their ear rejoice.

They speak! the happiness divine

They feel, runs o'er in every line;

Its spell is round them like a shower--

It gives them pathos, gives them power. 200

No painter yet hath such a way,

Nor no musician made, as they,

And gather'd on immortal knolls

Such lovely flowers for cheering souls.

Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach 205

The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach.

To these, to these, their thankful race

Gives, 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, °1

One lesson which in every wind is blown,

One lesson of two duties kept at one

Though the loud° world proclaim their enmity-- °4

Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity! 5

Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows

Far noisier° schemes, accomplish'd in repose, °7

Too great for haste, too high for rivalry!

Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,

Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil, 10

Still 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, 5

Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,

Spares but the cloudy border of his base

To the foil'd searching of mortality;

And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know

Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 10

Didst tread on earth unguess'd at.--Better so!

All pains the immortal spirit must endure,

All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow

Find 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 expense

Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;

Shall I not joy° youth's heats° are left behind, °5

And breathe more happy in an even clime°?-- °6

Ah no, for then I shall begin to find

A thousand virtues in this hated time!

Then I shall wish its agitations back,

And all its thwarting currents of desire; 10

Then 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 lent

To youth and age in common--discontent.

AUSTERITY OF POETRY°

That son of Italy° who tried to blow, °1

Ere Dante° came, the trump of sacred song, °2

In his light youth° amid a festal throng °3

Sate with his bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 5

Youth 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 10

A robe of sackcloth° next the smooth, white skin. °11

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,

Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground

Of 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 °3

Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 5

And drudge under some foolish° master's ken.° °6

Who rates° us if we peer outside our pen-- °7

Match'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; 10

And 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 overhead

Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,° °2

And the pale weaver, through his windows seen

In 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 so

Set up a mark of everlasting light, 10

Above 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,° °1

A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied.

A babe was in her arms, and at her side

A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare.

Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, 5

Pass'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hied

Across 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, 10

Of sharers in a common human fate.

"She turns from that cold succour, which attends

The 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, °1

Long since, saw Byron's° struggle cease. °2

But 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 soul

Had _felt_ him like the thunder's roll.

With shivering heart the strife we saw 10

Of passion with eternal law;

And yet with reverential awe

We watch'd the fount of fiery life

Which served for that Titanic strife.

When Goethe's death was told, we said: 15

Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.

Physician of the iron age,° °17

Goethe has done his pilgrimage.

He took the suffering human race,

He read each wound, each weakness clear; 20

And struck his finger on the place,

And said: _Thou ailest here, and here!_

He look'd on Europe's dying hour

Of fitful dream and feverish power;

His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 25

The turmoil of expiring life--

He said: _The end is everywhere,

Art still has truth, take refuge there!_

And he was happy, if to know

Causes of things, and far below 30

His feet to see the lurid flow

Of terror, and insane distress,

And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!

For never has such soothing voice 35

Been to your shadowy world convey'd,

Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade

Heard the clear song of Orpheus° come °38

Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.

Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye, 40

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 45

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; 50

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 returned; for there was shed

On spirits that had long been dead, 55

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 60

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; 65

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? 70

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave

O Rotha,° with thy living wave! °72

Sing him thy best! for few or none

Hears 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 FRIEND

ARTHUR 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 descends

The autumn-evening. The field

Strewn with its dank yellow drifts

Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,

Fade into dimness apace, 5

Silent;--hardly a shout

From a few boys late at their play!

The lights come out in the street,

In the school-room windows;--but cold,

Solemn, unlighted, austere, 10

Through the gathering darkness, arise

The chapel-walls, in whose bound

Thou, my father! art laid.° °13

There thou dost lie, in the gloom

Of the autumn evening. But ah! 15

That word, _gloom,°_ to my mind °16

Brings thee back, in the light

Of thy radiant vigour, again;

In the gloom of November we pass'd

Days not dark at thy side; 20

Seasons impair'd not the ray

Of thy buoyant cheerfulness, clear.

Such thou wast! and I stand

In the autumn evening, and think

Of bygone autumns with thee. 25

Fifteen years have gone round

Since thou arosest to tread,

In the summer-morning, the road

Of death, at a call unforeseen,

Sudden. For fifteen years, 30

We who till then in thy shade

Rested as under the boughs

Of a mighty oak,° have endured °33

Sunshine and rain as we might,

Bare, unshaded, alone, 35

Lacking the shelter of thee.

O strong soul, by what shore° °37

Tarriest thou now? For that force,

Surely, has not been left vain!

Somewhere, surely, afar, 40

In the sounding labour-house vast

Of being, is practised that strength,

Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,

Conscious or not of the past, 45

Still thou performest the word

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live--

Prompt, unwearied, as here!

Still thou upraisest with zeal

The humble good from the ground, 50

Sternly repressest the bad!

Still, like a trumpet, doth rouse

Those who with half-open eyes

Tread the border-land dim

'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st, 55

Succourest!--this was thy work,

This was thy life upon earth.° °57

What is the course of the life

Of mortal men on the earth°?-- °59

Most men eddy about 60

Here and there--eat and drink,

Chatter and love and hate,

Gather and squander, are raised

Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust,

Striving blindly, achieving 65

Nothing; and then they die--

Perish;--and no one asks

Who or what they have been,

More than he asks what waves,

In the moonlit solitudes mild 70

Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,

Foam'd for a moment, and gone.

And there are some, whom a thirst

Ardent, unquenchable, fires,

Not with the crowd to be spent, 75

Not without aim to go round

In an eddy of purposeless dust,

Effort unmeaning and vain.

Ah yes! some of us strive

Not without action to die 80

Fruitless, but something to snatch

From dull oblivion, nor all

Glut the devouring grave!

We, we have chosen our path--

Path to a clear-purposed goal, 85

Path of advance!--but it leads

A long, steep journey, through sunk

Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.

Cheerful, with friends, we set forth--

Then, on the height, comes the storm. 90

Thunder crashes from rock

To rock, the cataracts reply,

Lightnings dazzle our eyes.° °93

Roaring torrents have breach'd

The track, the stream-bed descends 95

In the place where the wayfarer once

Planted his footstep--the spray

Boils o'er its borders! aloft

The unseen snow-beds dislodge

Their hanging ruin°; alas, °100

Havoc 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 105

Sternly compress'd, we strain on,

On--and at nightfall at last

Come to the end of our way,

To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;

Where the gaunt and taciturn host 110

Stands on the threshold, the wind

Shaking his thin white hairs--

Holds his lantern to scan

Our storm-beat figures, and asks:

Whom in our party we bring? 115

Whom we have left in the snow?

Sadly we answer: We bring

Only ourselves! we lost

Sight of the rest in the storm.

Hardly ourselves we fought through, 120

Stripp'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_ 125

Conquer and come to thy goal,

Leaving the rest in the wild.

We were weary, and we

Fearful, and we in our march

Fain to drop down and to die. 130

Still thou turnedst, and still

Beckonedst the trembler, and still

Gavest the weary thy hand.

If, in the paths of the world,

Stones might have wounded thy feet, 135

Toil or dejection have tried

Thy spirit, of that we saw

Nothing--to us thou wast still

Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!

Therefore to thee it was given 140

Many 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 145

In the noble and great who are gone;

Pure souls honour'd and blest

By former ages, who else--

Such, so soulless, so poor,

Is the race of men whom I see-- 150

Seem'd but a dream of the heart,

Seem'd but a cry of desire.

Yes! I believe that there lived

Others like thee in the past,

Not like the men of the crowd 155

Who all round me to-day

Bluster or cringe, and make life

Hideous, and arid, and vile;

But souls temper'd with fire,

Fervent, heroic, and good, 160

Helpers and friends of mankind.

Servants of God!--or sons

Shall I not call you? because

Not as servants ye knew

Your Father's innermost mind, 165

His, who unwillingly sees

One of his little ones lost--

Yours is the praise, if mankind

Hath not as yet in its march

Fainted, and fallen, and died! 170

See! In the rocks° of the world

Marches the host of mankind,

A feeble, wavering line.

Where are they tending?--A God

Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. 175

Ah, 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 180

Threatens to break, to dissolve.

--Ah, keep, keep them combined!

Else, of the myriads who fill

That army, not one shall arrive;

Sole they shall stray: in the rocks 185

Stagger for ever in vain,

Die one by one in the waste.

Then, in such hour of need

Of your fainting, dispirited race,

Ye,° like angels, appear, 190

Radiant 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. 195

Ye alight in our van! at your voice,

Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall

The stragglers, refresh the outworn,

Praise, re-inspire the brave! 200

Order, courage, return.

Eyes rekindling, and prayers,

Follow your steps as ye go.

Ye fill up the gaps in our files,

Strengthen the wavering line, 205

Stablish, 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 anything

I have ever done yet, which is a good sign, but whether I shall not

ultimately spoil it by being obliged to strike it off in fragments

instead of at one heat, I cannot quite say." (Arnold, in a letter to

Mrs. Foster, April, 1853.)

"All my spare time has been spent on a poem which I have just finished

and which I think by far the best thing I have yet done, and I think

it will be generally liked; though one can never be sure of this. I

have 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 likely

to 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 "tale

replete with tears," is gathered from several sources, chiefly

Benjamin'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 purports

to narrate the exploits of Persia's kings and champions over a space

of thirty-six centuries, bears the same relation to Persian literature

as the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ to the Greek, and the _Æneid_ to the

Latin, though in structure it more nearly resembles _Morte d'Arthur_,

which records in order the achievements of various heroes. In it

the native poet Mansur ibn Ahmad, afterwards known to literature

as Firdausi, the Paradisaical, has set down the early tales and

traditions of his people with all the vividness and color common to

oriental writers. The principal hero of the poem is the mighty Rustum,

who, mounted on his famous horse Ruksh, performed prodigies of valor

in defence of the Persian throne. Of all his adventures his encounter

with Sohrab is the most dramatic. The poem was probably written in

the latter half of the tenth century. As will be seen, the incidents

narrated in Arnold's poem form but an episode in the complete story of

the two champions. [150]

Rustum (or Rustem), having killed a wild ass while hunting on the

Turanian frontier, and having feasted on its flesh, composed himself

to sleep, leaving his faithful steed, Ruksh (or Raksh), to graze

untethered. On awakening, he found his horse had disappeared, and

believing it had been stolen, the warrior proceeded towards Semenjan,

a near-by city, in hopes of recovering his property. On the way, he

learned that Ruksh had been found by the servants of the king and was

stabled at Semenjan, as he had surmised. Upon Rustum's demand, the

steed was promptly restored to him, and he was about to depart when he

was prevailed upon to accept the king's invitation to tarry awhile and

rest himself in feasting and idleness.

Now the king of Semenjan had a fair daughter named Tahmineh, who had

become enamoured of Rustum because of his mighty exploits. Susceptible

as she was beautiful, she made her attachment so evident that the

young hero, who was as ardent as he was brave, readily yielded to

the power of her fascination. The consent of the king having been

obtained, Rustum and Tahmineh were married with all the rites

prescribed by the laws of the country. A peculiar feature of this

alliance lay in the fact that the king of Semenjan was feudatory to

Afrasiab, the deadly enemy of Persia, while Rustum was her greatest

champion. At this time, however, the two countries were at peace.

[151]

For a time all went happily, then Rustum found it necessary to leave

his bride, as he thought, for only a short time. At parting he gave

her an onyx, which he wore on his arm, bidding her, if a daughter

should be born to their union, to twine the gem in her hair under a

fortunate star; but if a son, to bind it on his arm, and he would be

insured a glorious career. Rustum then mounted Ruksh and rode away--as

time 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 Rustum

would send for the boy when he grew older, and thus rob her of her

treasure, Tahmineh sent word to him that the child was a girl--"no

son," 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 highly

accomplished in the use of arms. Realizing at length that he was of

lofty descent, he insisted that his mother, who had concealed the

fact, should inform him of the name of his father. Being told that it

was the renowned Rustum, he exclaimed, "Since he is my father, I shall

go to his aid; he shall become king of Persia and together we shall

rule the world." After this the youth caused a horse worthy of him to

be 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 to

war with the Persians, he was greatly pleased, and after counselling

with his wise men, decided openly to assist him in his enterprises,

with the expectation that both Rustum and Sohrab would fall in battle

and Persia be at his mercy. He accordingly sent an army of auxiliaries

to Sohrab, accompanied by two astute courtiers, Houman and Barman,

who, under the guise of friendship, were to act as counsellors to

the young leader. These he ordered to keep the knowledge of their

relationship from father and son and to seek to bring about an

encounter between them, in the hope that Sohrab would slay Rustum,

Afrasiab's most dreaded foeman, after which the unsuspecting youth

might easily be disposed of by treachery. [152]

Sohrab, with his army and that of Afrasiab, set out, intending to

fight his way until Rustum should be sent against him, when he would

reveal himself to his father and form an alliance with him that would

place the line of Seistan on the throne. On the way southward, Sohrab

overthrew and captured the Persian champion, Hujir, and the same

day conquered the warrior maiden Gurdafrid, whose beauty and tears,

however, prevailed upon him to release her. Guzdehern, father of

Gurdafrid, recognizing Sohrab's prowess, and alarmed for the safety

of the Persian throne, secretly despatched a courier to the king Kai

Kaoos to warn him of the young Tartar's approach. Kaoos, in great

terror, sent for Rustum to hurry to his aid. Regardless of the king's

request, Rustum spent eight days in feasting, then presented himself

at the court. Kaoos, angered at the delay, ordered both the champion

and the messenger to be executed forthwith; but Rustum effected his

escape on Ruksh, and returned to Seistan, leaving Persia to her fate.

The king's wrath, however, soon gave place to fear; and recognizing

the danger of his throne unsupported by Rustum's valor, he despatched

messengers to him with humble petitions and apologies. After much

protesting, 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 the

Persian Hujir, whom he still held a prisoner, to the top of a rocky

eminence, ordered him to point out the tents of the chief warriors

of the Persian army, particularly Rustum's. But Hujir, fearing lest

Sohrab should attack Rustum unexpectedly and so overcome him, declared

that the great chieftain's tent was not among those on the plain

below. Disappointed at his failure to find his father, Sohrab led his

army in a fierce onslaught on the Persians, driving them in confusion

before him. In this dire extremity Kai Kaoos sent for Rustum, who was

somewhat apart from the main troop. Exclaiming that the king never

sent for him except when he had got himself into trouble, the warrior

armed, mounted Ruksh, and rushed to the combat. By mutual consent the

two champions withdrew to a retired spot, where, unmolested, they

might fight out their quarrel hand to hand. As they approached each

other, Rustum, moved with compassion by the youth of his foe, tried

to dissuade Sohrab from his purpose, and counselled him to retire.

Sohrab, filled with sudden hope,--an instinctive feeling that the

father whom he was seeking stood before him,--eagerly demanded whether

this were Rustum. But Rustum, fearing treachery, said he was only an

ordinary 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 and

arrows. After several hours of fighting both were exhausted, and by

tacit consent they retired to opposite sides of the lists for rest.

When the combat was renewed, Sohrab gained a slight advantage. A truce

was then made for the night, and the warriors returned to their tents

to prepare for the morrow.

With daybreak the struggle was renewed. To prevent the armies from

intervening or engaging in battle, they were removed to a distance of

several miles. Midway between, Sohrab and Rustum met in the midst of a

lonely, treeless waste. More convinced than before that his adversary

was Rustum, Sohrab sought to bring about a reconciliation, but Rustum

refused. This time they fought on foot. From morning till afternoon

they fought, neither gaining any decided advantage. At last Sohrab

succeeded in felling Rustum to the earth, and was about to slay him,

when the Persian called out that it was not the custom in chivalrous

warfare to slay a champion until he was thrown the second time.

Sohrab, generous as brave, released his prostrate foe; and again

father and son parted. [154]

Rustum, scarcely believing himself alive after such an escape,

purified himself with water, and prayed that his wounds might be

healed and his accustomed strength restored to him. Never before had

he been so beset in battle.

With morning came the renewal of the combat, both champions

determining to end it that day. Late in the evening Rustum, by a

supreme effort, seized Sohrab around the waist and hurled him to the

ground. Then, fearing lest the youth prove too strong for him in the

end, he drew his blade and plunged it into Sohrab's bosom.

Sohrab forgave Rustum, but warned him to beware the vengeance of his

father, the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his

son 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 I

perish for longing after him.... Yet I say unto thee, if thou shouldst

become a fish that swimmeth in the depths of the ocean, if thou

shouldst change into a star that is concealed in the farthest heaven,

my father would draw thee forth from thy hiding-place, and avenge my

death 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." These

words were as death to the aged hero, who fell senseless at the side

of his wounded son. When he had recovered he called in despair for

proofs of what Sohrab had said. The now dying youth tore open his mail

and showed his father the onyx which his mother had bound on his arm

as directed. [155]

The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic; he cursed

himself, and would have put an end to his existence but for the

efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's death he burnt his tents

and carried the corpse to his father's home in Seistan, and buried

it there. The Tartar army, agreeable to Sohrab's last request, was

permitted to return home unmolested. When the tidings of Sohrab's

death reached his mother, she was inconsolable, and died in less than

a year.

In the main the story as told by Arnold follows the original

narrative. A careful investigation of the alterations made, and the

effect thus produced, will lend added interest to the study of the

poem and give ample theme for composition work.

=1. And the first grey of morning fill'd the east.= Note the abrupt

opening. What is gained by its use? At what point in the story as told

in the introductory note does the poem take up the narrative? Be sure

to get a clear mental picture of the initiative scene. _And_ is here

used in a manner common in the Scriptures. Cf. "And the Lord spake

unto Moses," etc.

=2. Oxus.= The chief river of Central Asia, which separated Turan from

Iran or the Persian Empire, called Oxus by the Greeks and Romans, and

the Jihun or Amu by the Arabs and Persians. It takes its source in

Lake 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. Its

length is about 1300 miles.

"The introduction of the tranquil pictures of the Oxus, both at the

beginning and close of the poem (ll. 875-892), flowing steadily on,

unmoved by the tragedy which has been enacted on her shore, forms one

of the most artistic features in the setting of the poem."

=3. Tartar camp.= The Tartars were nomadic tribes of Central Asia and

southern Russia. The so-called Black Tartars, identified with the

Scythians of the Greek historians, inhabited the basin of the Aral and

Caspian Seas, and are the tribe referred to in the poem. They are a

fierce, warlike people; hence our expression, "caught a Tartar."

[156]

=11. Peran-Wisa.= A celebrated Turanian chief, here in command of

Afrasiab's army, which was composed of representatives of many Tartar

tribes, 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 having

their 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 principal

heroes of the _Shah Nameh_, the Persian "Book of Kings." He is reputed

to 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, to

the east of Bokhara; now a considerable commercial and manufacturing

centre, and a centre of Mohammedan learning.

=42. Ader-baijan.= The northwest province of Persia, on the Turanian

frontier.

=45. At my boy's years.= See introductory note to poem.

=60. common fight.= In the sense of a general engagement. Be sure to

catch 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 more

dangerous, a "single" or "common" combat? Why?

=70. To find a father thou hast never seen.= See introductory note to

poem.

=82. Seistan.= A province of southwest Afghanistan bordering on the

Persian province of Yezd. It is intersected by the Helmund River (l.

751), which flows into the Hamoon Lake, now scarcely more than a

morass. On an island in this lake are ruins of fortifications called

Fort Rustum. This territory was long held by Rustum's family,

feudatory to the Persian kings. =Zal.= Rustum's father, ruler of

Seistan. See note, l. 232. [157]

=83-85. Whether that ... or in some quarrel=, etc. Either because his

mighty strength ... or because of some quarrel, etc.

=85. Persian King.= That is, Kai Kaoos (or Kai Khosroo). See

introductory note to poem; also note, l. 223.

=86-91. There go!= etc. The touching solicitation of these lines is

wholly 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. See

Houman, 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 one

time the capital of the Iranian empire. Just to the north of the city

rise the =Elburz Mountains= (l. 114), which separate the Persian

Plateau 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 of

Central Asia, touching the Aral Sea to the north, the Oxus to the

south, and Khiva to the west. It has an estimated area of 235,000

square miles, and contains nineteen cities of considerable size, of

which 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.= An

intoxicating drink, _Koumiss_, made of camel's or mare's milk, is in

wide use among the steppe tribes.

[158]

=121. Toorkmuns.= A branch of the Turkish race found chiefly in

northern Persia and Afghanistan.

=122. Tukas.= From the province of Azer-baijan.

=123. Attruck.= A river of Khorassan, near the frontier of Khiva; it

has a west course, and enters the Caspian Sea on the east side.

=128. Ferghana.= A khanate of Turkestan, north of Bokhara, in the

upper valley of the Sir Daria.

=129. Jaxartes.= The ancient name of the Sir Daria River. It takes its

source in the Thian Shan Mountains, one of the Pamir Plateau ranges,

and flows with a general direction north, emptying into the Aral Sea

on 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 in

western Siberia. =Kuzzaks.= Now commonly called Cossacks; a warlike

people inhabiting the steppes of southern Russia and extensive

portions of Asia. Their origin is uncertain.

=133. Kirghizzes.= A rude nomadic people of Mongolian-Tartar race

found in northern Turkestan.

=138. Khorassan.= (That is, the region of the sun.) A province of

northeastern 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 only

in America that the word signifies Indian corn or "maize."

[159]

=160. Cabool.= Capital of northern Afghanistan, and an important

commercial city.

=161. Indian Caucasus.= A lofty mountain range north of Cabool, which

forms 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 so

forcible in the mouth of Gudurz?

=178-183. Aloof he sits, etc.= One is reminded by Rustum's deportment

here, of Achilles sulking in his tent and nursing his wrath against

Agamemnon.--_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 thirteenth

Turanian king. He reigned in the sixth century B.C., and has been

identified with Cyrus the Great.

=230. Not that one slight helpless girl, etc.= See ll. 609-611, also

introduction to the poem.

=232. snow-haired Zal.= According to tradition, Zal was born with

snow-white hair. His father Lahm, believing this an ill omen, doomed

the unfortunate babe to be exposed on the loftiest summit of the

Elburz Mountains. The Simurgh, a great bird or griffin, found him and

cared for him till grown, then restored him to his repentant parent.

He subsequently married the Princess Rudabeh of Seistan, by whom he

became father of Rustum.

=243-248. He spoke ... men.= Note carefully Gudurz's argument. Why so

effective with Rustum?

=257. But I will fight unknown and in plain arms.= The shields and

arms of the champions were emblazoned with mottoes and devices. Why

does Rustum determine to lay aside his accustomed arms and fight

incognito? What effect does this determination have upon the ultimate

outcome of the situation? Read the story of the arming of Achilles

(Book XIX., Homer's _Iliad_), and compare with Rustum's preparation

for 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 the

figures in his poem as follows: "I can only say that I took a great

deal of trouble to orientalize them, because I thought they looked

strange, 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 power

gained 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 extravagant

speech 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 northern

India, now known as the Beas and Jhylum. In 326 B.C. Alexander

defeated 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, under

whose ascendency, according to ancient beliefs, epidemic diseases

prevailed.

=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. the

cloud that enveloped Paris--Book III., ll. 465-469, of the _Iliad_.

=489. And the sun sparkled=, etc. Why this reference to the clear Oxus

stream 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's

skill in working up to this climax in the narrative.

=527-539. Then with a bitter smile=, etc. Compare these words of

the victor, Rustum, with the words of Sohrab, ll. 427-447, when the

advantage 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 to

me, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to the

beasts of the field." Careful investigation will show the poem to

abound with Biblical as well as classical parallelisms.

=556-575. As when some hunter, etc.= One of the truly great similes in

the 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 to

poem.

=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's

conception. In the original story Sohrab wore an onyx stone as an

amulet. 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 imaginary

animal, 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, now

almost dry.

=763-765. Moorghab, Tejend and Kohik.= Rivers of Turkestan which lose

themselves in the deserts to the south of Bokhara. The northern Sir is

the Sir Daria, or Jaxartes. See note, l. 129.

=788. And heap a stately mound=, etc. Persian tradition says that a

large monument, in shape like the hoof of a horse, was placed over the

spot where Sohrab was buried.

=830. on that day.= Shortly after the death of Afrasiab, the Persian

monarch Kai Khosroo, accompanied by a large number of his nobles, went

to a spring far to the north, the location fixed upon as a place

for their repose. Here the king died, and those who went with him

afterward perished in a tempest. Sohrab predicted Rustum would be one

of those lost, but tradition does not have it so.

=861. Persepolis.= An ancient capital of Persia, the ruins of which

are known as "the throne of Jemshid," after a mythical king.

=878. Chorasma.= A region of Turkestan, the seat of a powerful empire

in the twelfth century, but now greatly reduced. Its present limits

are about the same as those of Khiva. See note, l. 120.

=880. Right for the polar star.= That is, due north. =Orgunje.= A

village on the Oxus some seventy miles below Khiva, and near the head

of its delta.

=890. luminous home.= The Aral Sea.

=891. new bathed stars.= As the stars appear on the horizon, they seem

to have come up out of the sea.

=875-892.= Discuss the poet's purpose in introducing the remarkable

word-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 Judas

Iscariot, popular in the Middle Ages. Saint Brandan (490-577) was

a celebrated Irish monk, famous for his voyages. "According to the

legendary accounts of his travels, he set sail with others to seek the

terrestrial paradise which was supposed to exist in an island of the

Atlantic. Various miracles are related of the voyage, but they are

always connected with the great island where the monks are said to

have landed. The legend was current in the time of Columbus and

long after, and many connected St. Brandan's island with the newly

discovered America. He is commemorated on May 16."--_The Century

Cyclopedia of Names_.

=7. Hebrides.= A group of islands off the northwestern coast of

Scotland.

=11. hurtling Polar lights.= A reference to the rapid, changing

movements of the Aurora Borealis.

=18. Of hair that red.= According to tradition, Judas Iscariot's hair

was 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. See

Matt, xxvii. 5 and Acts i. 18.

=38. The Leper recollect.= There is no scriptural authority for this

incident.

=40. Joppa=, or Jaffa. A small maritime town of Palestine--the ancient

port of Jerusalem. There is also a small village called Jaffa in

Galilee, some two miles southwest of Nazareth, which may have been the

place the poet had in mind.

Image the situation as presented in the first several stanzas. Why

locate in the sea without a "human shore," l. 12? Is there any

especial reason for having the time Christmas night? Note the dramatic

introduction of Judas. What effect did his appearance have on the

saint? How was the latter reassured? Give reasons why Judas felt

impelled to tell his story. Tell the story. Does he praise or belittle

his act of charity? Why does he say "that _chance_ act of good"? How

was it rewarded? Explain his last expression. Was he about to say

more? If so, what? What effect did Judas's story have on Saint

Brandan? Why? What is the underlying thought in the poem? Discuss the

form of verse used and its appropriateness to the theme. [165]

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

"The title of this poem inevitably brings to mind Tennyson's two

poems, _The Merman_ and _The Mermaid_. A comparison will show that, in

this instance at least, the Oxford poet has touched his subject not

less melodiously and with finer and deeper feeling.--Margaret will not

listen to her 'Children's voices, wild with pain';--dearer to her is

the selfish desire to save her own soul than is the light in the eyes

of 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 infinite

tenderness and an infinite tragedy."

--L. DUPONT SYLE, _From Milton to Tennyson_.

Legends of this kind abound among the sea-loving Gaelic and Cymric

people. Nowhere, perhaps, have they been given a more pleasing and

touching expression than in Arnold's poem. Note carefully the dramatic

manner 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 _A

Dream_ in this volume.

=39. ranged.= See note, l. 73, _The Strayed Reveller_. (wander

aimlessly 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 keenly

alive to human interests, temporal and spiritual. The priest, bell,

and holy well (l. 91) symbolize the church, here Roman Catholic. The

bell is used in the Roman Church to call especial attention to the

more important portions of the service; the well is the holy-water

font.

=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 poem

as follows: "It is, I believe, not so 'correct' as it once was to

admire this [poem]; but I confess indocility to correctness, at least

the correctness which varies with fashion. _The Forsaken Merman_ is

not a perfect poem--it has _tongueurs_, though it is not long; it has

its inadequacies, those incompetences of expression which are so oddly

characteristic of its author; and his elaborate simplicity, though

more at home here than in some other places, occasionally gives a

dissonance. But it is a great poem,--one by itself,--one which finds

and keeps its own place in the fore-ordained gallery or museum, with

which every true lover of poetry is provided, though he inherits it by

degrees. None, I suppose, will deny its pathos; I should be sorry for

any one who fails to perceive its beauty. The brief picture of the

land, and the fuller one of the sea, and that (more elaborate still)

of the occupations of the fugitive, all have their charm. But the

triumph of the piece is in one of those metrical coups, which give

the triumph of all the greatest poetry, in the sudden change from the

slower movements of the earlier stanzas, or strophes, to the quicker

sweep of the famous conclusions."

[167]

What is the opening situation in the poem? Have the merman and his

children just reached the shore, or have they been there some time?

Why so? Why does the merman still linger, when he is convinced that

further delay will count for nothing? Why does he urge the children to

call? What is shown by his repeated question--"was it yesterday"? Tell

the story of Margaret's departure for the upper world, and discuss the

validity of her reason for going. Do you think she intended to return?

What is the significance of her smile just before departing? Give

a word picture of what the sea-folk saw as they lingered in the

churchyard. Will Margaret ever grieve for the past? If so, when? Why?

Who has your sympathy most, Margaret, the forsaken merman, or the

children? Why? Do you condemn Margaret for the way she has done, or do

you 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 and

passionate of the Arthurian cycle of legends, and is a favorite with

the poets. The following version is abridged from Dunlop's _History of

Fiction_.

"In the court of his uncle, King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at

this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert

in all knightly exercises.... The king of Ireland, at Tristram's

solicitation, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on

King Marc.... The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidante

a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her

nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult unfortunately partook.

Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated the

affections and destiny of the lovers.

[168]

"After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the

nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance

is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews ...

Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of the displeasure

of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White

Hands. He married her, more out of gratitude than love. Afterwards

he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur which became the theatre of

unnumbered exploits.

"Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany and to

his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon

reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation he despatched a confidant

to the queen of Cornwall to try if he could induce her to follow him

to Brittany.

"Meanwhile Tristram awaited the arrival of the queen with such

impatience that he employed one of his wife's damsels to watch at the

harbor. Through her, Iseult learned Tristram's secret, and filled with

jealousy, flew to her husband as the vessel which bore the queen of

Cornwall was wafted toward the harbor, and reported that the sails

were black (the signal that Iseult, Marc's queen, had refused

Tristram's request to come to him). Tristram, penetrated with

inexpressible grief, died. The account of Tristram's death was the

first intelligence which the queen of Cornwall heard on landing. She

was conducted to his chamber, and expired holding him in her arms."

=1. Is she not come?= That is, Iseult of Ireland. Arnold's poem takes

up the story at the point where Tristram, now on his death-bed, is

watching eagerly for the coming of Iseult, Marc's queen, for whom he

had sent his confidant to Cornwall. Evidently he has just awakened

and is still somewhat confused; see l. 7. Surely none will fail to

appreciate so dramatic a situation.

=5. What ... be?= That is, what lights are those to the northward, the

direction from which Iseult would come?

[169]

=8. Iseult.= Here Iseult of the White Hands, daughter of King Hoel of

Brittany 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 Malory

near Winchester. Here was gathered the famous company of champions

known as the "Knights of the Round Table," whose feats have been

extensively celebrated in song and story. Among these knights Tristram

held high rank, both as a warrior and a harpist. See ll. 17-19.

=23. Lyoness.= A mythical region near Cornwall, the home country of

Arthur 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 Tyntagel

Castle, the reputed birthplace of Arthur. In the romance of Sir

Tristram it is the castle of King Marc, the cowardly and treacherous

king 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 from

scene to scene, always centring around Iseult of Ireland.

=91. O'er ... sea.= The Irish Sea. He is dreaming of his return trip

from Ireland with Iseult, "under the cloudless sky of May" (l. 96).

=129-132.= See introductory note to poem. The green isle, Ireland is

noted 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 of

Iseult to King Marc, she and Tristram contrived to continue their

relationship in secret. [170]

=164. fay.= Faith. (Obsolete except in poetry.)

=180.= Tristram, having been discovered by King Marc in his intrigues

with Iseult, was forced to leave Cornwall; hence his visit to Brittany

and subsequent marriage to Iseult of the White Hands. See introductory

note to poem.

=192. lovely orphan child.= Iseult of Brittany.

=194. chatelaine.= From the French, meaning the mistress of a

château--a castle or fortress.

=200. stranger-knight, ill-starr'd.= That is, Tristram, whose many

mishaps argued his being born under an unlucky star. See also the

account of his birth, note, ll. 81-88, Part II.

=203. Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard.= Prior to his visit to

Brittany, Tristram had imprisoned his uncle, King Marc, and eloped

with Iseult to the domains of King Arthur. While there he resided

at Joyous Gard, the favorite castle of Launcelot, which that knight

assigned to the lovers as their abode.

=204. Welcomed here.= That is, in Brittany, where he was nursed back

to health by Iseult of the White Hands. See introductory note to poem.

=215-226. His long rambles ... ground.= Account for Tristram's

discontent, as indicated in these lines.

=234-237. All red ... bathed in foam.= The kings of Britain agreed

with Arthur to make war upon Rome. Arthur, leaving Modred in charge

of his kingdom, made war upon the Romans, and, after a number

of encounters, Lucius Tiberius was killed and the Britons were

victorious.--GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH, Book IV, Chapter XV; Book X,

Chapters I-XIII. According to Malory, Arthur captured many French and

Italian cities (see ll. 250-251); during this continental invasion,

and was finally crowned king at Rome. It seems that he afterward

despatched a considerable number of his knights to carry the Christian

faith among the heathen German tribes. See ll. 252-253. [171]

=238. moonstruck knight.= A reference to the mystical influence the

ancients supposed the moon to exert over men's minds and actions.

=239. What foul fiend rides thee?= What evil spirit possesses you and

keeps 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 these

two 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 with

greater haste. Her gentle, loving words, however, quickly dispel his

doubts as to her loyalty to her former vows. A complete reconciliation

takes place, and they die in each other's embrace. The picture of the

Huntsman 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 the

story of Tristram's and Iseult's death. "That traitor, King Mark, slew

the noble knight, Sir Tristram, as he sat harping before his lady,

La Beale Isoud, with a trenchant glaive, for whose death was much

bewailing of every knight that ever was in Arthur's days ... and La

Beale Isoud died swooning upon the cross of Sir Tristram, whereof was

great pity."--Malory's _Morte d' Arthur._

=113. sconce=. Consult dictionary.

=116-122=. Why this restlessness on the part of Iseult? Why her

frequent 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 remarkable

word-picture of these lines, see notes on the Tyrian trader, ll.

231-250, 232, _The Scholar-Gipsy._