Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 46

But stop!--to fetch back thoughts that stray Beyond this gracious bound, The cone of Jaman, pale and grey, See, in the blue profound!

Ah, Jaman! delicately tall Above his sun-warm'd firs-- What thoughts to me his rocks recall, What memories he stirs!

And who but thou must be, in truth, Obermann! with me here?

Thou master of my wandering youth, But left this many a year!

Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, Its warfare waged with pain; An eremite with thee, in thought Once more I slip my chain,

And to thy mountain-chalet come, And lie beside its door, And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, And thy sad, tranquil lore!

Again I feel the words inspire Their mournful calm; serene, Yet tinged with infinite desire For all that _might_ have been--

The harmony from which man swerved Made his life's rule once more!

The universal order served, Earth happier than before!

--While thus I mused, night gently ran Down over hill and wood.

Then, still and sudden, Obermann On the gra.s.s near me stood.

Those pensive features well I knew, On my mind, years before, Imaged so oft! imaged so true!

--A shepherd's garb he wore,

A mountain-flower was in his hand, A book was in his breast.

Bent on my face, with gaze which scann'd My soul, his eyes did rest.

"And is it thou," he cried, "so long Held by the world which we Loved not, who turnest from the throng Back to thy youth and me?

"And from thy world, with heart opprest, Choosest thou _now_ to turn?-- Ah me! we anchorites read things best, Clearest their course discern!

"Thou fledst me when the ungenial earth, Man's work-place, lay in gloom.

Return'st thou in her hour of birth, Of hopes and hearts in bloom?

"Perceiv'st thou not the change of day?

Ah! Carry back thy ken, What, some two thousand years! Survey The world as it was then!

"Like ours it look'd in outward air.

Its head was clear and true, Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare, No pause its action knew;

"Stout was its arm, each thew and bone Seem'd puissant and alive-- But, ah! its heart, its heart was stone, And so it could not thrive!

"On that hard Pagan world disgust And secret loathing fell.

Deep weariness and sated l.u.s.t Made human life a h.e.l.l.

"In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman n.o.ble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian way.

"He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown'd his hair with flowers-- No easier nor no quicker pa.s.s'd The impracticable hours.

"The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world.

The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd, And on her head was hurl'd.

"The East bow'd low before the blast In patient, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again.

"So well she mused, a morning broke Across her spirit grey; A conquering, new-born joy awoke, And fill'd her life with day.

"'Poor world,' she cried, 'so deep accurst, That runn'st from pole to pole To seek a draught to slake thy thirst-- Go, seek it in thy soul!

"She heard it, the victorious West, In crown and sword array'd!

She felt the void which mined her breast, She s.h.i.+ver'd and obey'd.

"She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her sword, And laid her sceptre down; Her stately purple she abhorr'd, And her imperial crown.

"She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her sports, Her artists could not please; She tore her books, she shut her courts, She fled her palaces;

"l.u.s.t of the eye and pride of life She left it all behind, And hurried, torn with inward strife, The wilderness to find.

"Tears wash'd the trouble from her face!

She changed into a child!

'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood--a place Of ruin--but she smiled!

"Oh, had I lived in that great day, How had its glory new Fill'd earth and heaven, and caught away My ravish'd spirit too!

"No thoughts that to the world belong Had stood against the wave Of love which set so deep and strong From Christ's then open grave.

"No cloister-floor of humid stone Had been too cold for me.

For me no Eastern desert lone Had been too far to flee.

"No lonely life had pa.s.s'd too slow, When I could hourly scan Upon his Cross, with head sunk low, That nail'd, thorn-crowned Man!

"Could see the Mother with her Child Whose tender winning arts Have to his little arms beguiled So many wounded hearts!

"And centuries came and ran their course, And unspent all that time Still, still went forth that Child's dear force, And still was at its prime.

"Ay, ages long endured his span Of life--'tis true received-- That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd Man!

--He lived while we believed.

"While we believed, on earth he went, And open stood his grave.

Men call'd from chamber, church, and tent; And Christ was by to save.

"Now he is dead! Far hence he lies In the lorn Syrian town; And on his grave, with s.h.i.+ning eyes, The Syrian stars look down.

"In vain men still, with hoping new, Regard his death-place dumb, And say the stone is not yet to, And wait for words to come.

"Ah, o'er that silent sacred land, Of sun, and arid stone, And crumbling wall, and sultry sand, Sounds now one word alone!

"_Unduped of fancy, henceforth man Must labour!--must resign His all too human creeds, and scan Simply the way divine!_

"But slow that tide of common thought, Which bathed our life, retired; Slow, slow the old world wore to nought, And pulse by pulse expired.

"Its frame yet stood without a breach When blood and warmth were fled; And still it spake its wonted speech-- But every word was dead.