Chapter VI: Epilogue: To Lessing's Laocoön° (1)

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]