Matthew Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum and Other Poems Part 19

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 pa.s.s'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 thres.h.i.+ng-time, by new-built rick.

Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first a.s.say'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 pa.s.sing, 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 gra.s.sy 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 s.h.i.+ne afar, And open, jasmine-m.u.f.fled 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 blus.h.i.+ng face; 96 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 97 But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!

Her foot the c.u.mner 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 gra.s.sy 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 sh.o.r.e?

Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Of our boat pa.s.sing heaved the river-gra.s.s, Stood with suspended scythe to see us pa.s.s?-- 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 hus.h.!.+ 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 Berks.h.i.+re 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 c.u.mner 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 pa.s.s'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 Suns.h.i.+ne and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, 35 Lacking the shelter of thee.

O strong soul, by what sh.o.r.e 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-s.h.i.+ning 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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.