Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 4

YOUTH AND CALM

'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here, And ease from shame, and rest from fear There's nothing can dismarble now The smoothness of that limpid brow.

But is a calm like this, in truth, The crowning end of life and youth, And when this boon rewards the dead, Are all debts paid, has all been said?

And is the heart of youth so light, Its step so firm, its eyes so bright, Because on its hot brow there blows A wind of promise and repose From the far grave, to which it goes; Because it hath the hope to come, One day, to harbour in the tomb?

Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one For daylight, for the cheerful sun, For feeling nerves and living breath-- Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.

It dreams a rest, if not more deep, More grateful than this marble sleep; It hears a voice within it tell: _Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well._ 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, But 'tis not what our youth desires.

A MEMORY-PICTURE

Laugh, my friends, and without blame Lightly quit what lightly came; Rich to-morrow as to-day, Spend as madly as you may!

I, with little land to stir, Am the exacter labourer.

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Once I said: "A face is gone If too hotly mused upon; And our best impressions are Those that do themselves repair."

Many a face I so let flee, Ah! is faded utterly.

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Marguerite says: "As last year went, So the coming year'll be spent; Some day next year, I shall be, Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee."

Ah, I hope!--yet, once away, What may chain us, who can say?

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint that lilac kerchief, bound Her soft face, her hair around; Tied under the archest chin Mockery ever ambush'd in.

Let the fluttering fringes streak All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek.

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint that figure's pliant grace As she tow'rd me lean'd her face, Half refused and half resign'd, Murmuring: "Art thou still unkind?"

Many a broken promise then Was new made--to break again.

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, Eager tell-tales of her mind; Paint, with their impetuous stress Of inquiring tenderness, Those frank eyes, where deep I see An angelic gravity.

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

What, my friends, these feeble lines Show, you say, my love declines?

To paint ill as I have done, Proves forgetfulness begun?

Time's gay minions, pleased you see, Time, your master, governs me; Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry: "Quick, thy tablets, Memory!"

Ah, too true! Time's current strong Leaves us fixt to nothing long.

Yet, if little stays with man, Ah, retain we all we can!

If the clear impression dies, Ah, the dim remembrance prize!

Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

A DREAM

Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd, Martin and I, down a 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, 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, 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, Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves m.u.f.fled 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.

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.

They saw us, they conferr'd; 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 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 Faded--the moss--the rocks; us burning plains, Bristled with cities, us the sea received.

THE NEW SIRENS

In the cedarn shadow sleeping, Where cool gra.s.s and fragrant glooms Forth at noon had lured me, creeping From your darken'd palace rooms-- I, who in your train at morning Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind, Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning; Heard the hoa.r.s.e boughs labour in the wind.

Who are they, O pensive Graces, --For I dream'd they wore your forms-- Who on sh.o.r.es and sea-wash'd places Scoop the shelves and fret the storms?

Who, when s.h.i.+ps are that way tending, Troop across the flus.h.i.+ng sands, To all reefs and narrows wending, With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?

Yet I see, the howling levels Of the deep are not your lair; And your tragic-vaunted revels Are less lonely than they were.

Like those Kings with treasure steering From the jewell'd lands of dawn, Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing, Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.

And we too, from upland valleys, Where some Muse with half-curved frown Leans her ear to your mad sallies Which the charm'd winds never drown; By faint music guided, ranging The scared glens, we wander'd on, Left our awful laurels hanging, And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne.

From the dragon-warder'd fountains Where the springs of knowledge are, From the watchers on the mountains, And the bright and morning star; We are exiles, we are falling, We have lost them at your call-- O ye false ones, at your calling Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!

Are the accents of your luring More melodious than of yore?

Are those frail forms more enduring Than the charms Ulysses bore?

That we sought you with rejoicings, Till at evening we descry At a pause of Siren voicings These vext branches and this howling sky?...

Oh, your pardon! The uncouthness Of that primal age is gone, And the skin of dazzling smoothness Screens not now a heart of stone.

Love has flush'd those cruel faces; And those slacken'd arms forgo The delight of death-embraces, And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.

"Ah," you say; "the large appearance Of man's labour is but vain, And we plead as staunch adherence Due to pleasure as to pain."

Pointing to earth's careworn creatures, "Come," you murmur with a sigh: "Ah! we own diviner features, Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.

"Come," you say, "the hours were dreary; Dull did life in torpor fade; Time is lame, and we grew weary In the slumbrous cedarn shade.

Round our hearts with long caresses, With low sighings, Silence stole, And her load of steaming tresses Fell, like Ossa, on the climbing soul.