Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 43

What, then, so harsh and malign, Heine! distils from thy life?

Poisons the peace of the grave?

I chide with thee not, that thy sharp Upbraidings often a.s.sail'd England, my country--for we, Heavy and sad, for her sons, Long since, deep in our hearts, Echo the blame of her foes.

We, too, sigh that she flags; We, too, say that she now-- Scarce comprehending the voice Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons Of a former age any more-- Stupidly travels her round Of mechanic business, and lets Slow die out of her life Glory, and genius, and joy.

So thou arraign'st her, her foe; So we arraign her, her sons.

Yes, we arraign her! but she, The weary t.i.tan, with deaf Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes, Regarding neither to right Nor left, goes pa.s.sively by, Staggering on to her goal; Bearing on shoulders immense, Atlantean, the load, Wellnigh not to be borne, Of the too vast orb of her fate.

But was it thou--I think Surely it was!--that bard Unnamed, who, Goethe said, _Had every other gift, but wanted love;_ Love, without which the tongue Even of angels sounds amiss?

Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine, Love is the fountain of charm.

How without charm wilt thou draw, Poet! the world to thy way?

Not by the lightnings of wit-- Not by the thunder of scorn!

These to the world, too, are given; Wit it possesses, and scorn-- Charm is the poet's alone.

_Hollow and dull are the great,_ _And artists envious, and the mob profane._ We know all this, we know!

Cam'st thou from heaven, O child Of light! but this to declare?

Alas, to help us forget Such barren knowledge awhile, G.o.d gave the poet his song!

Therefore a secret unrest Tortured thee, brilliant and bold!

Therefore triumph itself Tasted amiss to thy soul.

Therefore, with blood of thy foes, Trickled in silence thine own.

Therefore the victor's heart Broke on the field of his fame.

Ah! as of old, from the pomp Of Italian Milan, the fair Flower of marble of white Southern palaces--steps Border'd by statues, and walks Terraced, and orange-bowers Heavy with fragrance--the blond German Kaiser full oft Long'd himself back to the fields, Rivers, and high-roof'd towns Of his native Germany; so, So, how often! from hot Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps Blazing, and brilliant crowds, Starr'd and jewell'd, of men Famous, of women the queens Of dazzling converse--from fumes Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain That mount, that madden--how oft Heine's spirit outworn Long'd itself out of the din, Back to the tranquil, the cool Far German home of his youth!

See! in the May-afternoon, O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz, A youth, with the foot of youth, Heine! thou climbest again!

Up, through the tall dark firs Warming their heads in the sun, Chequering the gra.s.s with their shade-- Up, by the stream, with its huge Moss-hung boulders, and thin Musical water half-hid-- Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, With the sinking sun, and the air Chill, and the shadows now Long on the grey hill-side-- To the stone-roof'd hut at the top!

Or, yet later, in watch On the roof of the Brocken-tower Thou standest, gazing!--to see The broad red sun, over field, Forest, and city, and spire, And mist-track'd stream of the wide, Wide German land, going down In a bank of vapours----again Standest, at nightfall, alone!

Or, next morning, with limbs Rested by slumber, and heart Freshen'd and light with the May, O'er the gracious spurs coming down Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks, And beechen coverts, and copse Of hazels green in whose depth Ilse, the fairy transform'd, In a thousand water-breaks light Pours her petulant youth-- Climbing the rock which juts O'er the valley, the dizzily perch'd Rock--to its iron cross Once more thou cling'st; to the Cross Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh!

Goethe, too, had been there.[24]

In the long-past winter he came To the frozen Hartz, with his soul Pa.s.sionate, eager--his youth All in ferment!--but he Destined to work and to live Left it, and thou, alas!

Only to laugh and to die.

But something prompts me: Not thus Take leave of Heine! not thus Speak the last word at his grave!

Not in pity, and not With half censure--with awe Hail, as it pa.s.ses from earth Scattering lightnings, that soul!

The Spirit of the world, Beholding the absurdity of men-- Their vaunts, their feats--let a sardonic smile, For one short moment, wander o'er his lips.

_That smile was Heine!_--for its earthly hour The strange guest sparkled; now 'tis pa.s.s'd away.

That was Heine! and we, Myriads who live, who have lived, What are we all, but a mood, A single mood, of the life Of the Spirit in whom we exist, Who alone is all things in one?

Spirit, who fillest us all!

Spirit, who utterest in each New-coming son of mankind Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!

O thou, one of whose moods, Bitter and strange, was the life Of Heine--his strange, alas, His bitter life!--may a life Other and milder be mine!

May'st thou a mood more serene, Happier, have utter'd in mine!

May'st thou the rapture of peace Deep have embreathed at its core; Made it a ray of thy thought, Made it a beat of thy joy!

STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE

Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused With rain, where thick the crocus blows, Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.

The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, Through forest, up the mountain-side.

The autumnal evening darkens round, The wind is up, and drives the rain; While, hark! far down, with strangled sound Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods, Over his boiling cauldron broods.

Swift rush the spectral vapours white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing--then blotting from our sight!-- Halt--through the cloud-drift something s.h.i.+nes!

High in the valley, wet and drear, The huts of Courrerie appear.

_Strike leftward!_ cries our guide; and higher Mounts up the stony forest-way.

At last the encircling trees retire; Look! through the showery twilight grey What pointed roofs are these advance?-- A palace of the Kings of France?

Approach, for what we seek is here!

Alight, and sparely sup, and wait For rest in this outbuilding near; Then cross the sward and reach that gate.

Knock; pa.s.s the wicket! Thou art come To the Carthusians' world-famed home.

The silent courts, where night and day Into their stone-carved basins cold The splas.h.i.+ng icy fountains play-- The humid corridors behold!

Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white.

The chapel, where no organ's peal Invests the stern and naked prayer-- With penitential cries they kneel And wrestle; rising then, with bare And white uplifted faces stand, Pa.s.sing the Host from hand to hand; Each takes, and then his visage wan Is buried in his cowl once more.

The cells!--the suffering Son of Man Upon the wall--the knee-worn floor-- And where they sleep, that wooden bed, Which shall their coffin be, when dead!

The library, where tract and tome Not to feed priestly pride are there, To hymn the conquering march of Rome, Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!

They paint of souls the inner strife, Their drops of blood, their death in life.

The garden, overgrown--yet mild, See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!

Strong children of the Alpine wild Whose culture is the brethren's care; Of human tasks their only one, And cheerful works beneath the sun.

Those halls, too, destined to contain Each its own pilgrim-host of old, From England, Germany, or Spain-- All are before me! I behold The House, the Brotherhood austere!

--And what am I, that I am here?

For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire.

Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: _What dost thou in this living tomb?_

Forgive me, masters of the mind!

At whose behest I long ago So much unlearnt, so much resign'd-- I come not here to be your foe!

I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, To curse and to deny your truth;

Not as their friend, or child, I speak!

But as, on some far northern strand, Thinking of his own G.o.ds, a Greek In pity and mournful awe might stand Before some fallen Runic stone-- For both were faiths, and both are gone.

Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.