Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew
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our life is spun,
And he spins ill, who misses one.
But is thy fair Eugenia cold?
Yet Helen had an equal grace,
And Juliet's was as fair a face,
And now their years are told.
The day approaches, when we must
Be crumbling bones and windy dust; And scorn us as our mistress may, Her beauty will no better be Than the poor face she slights in thee, When dawns that day, that day.
THE SECOND BEST
Moderate tasks and moderate leisure,
Quiet living, strict-kept measure
Both in suffering and in pleasure—
'Tis for this thy nature yearns.
But so many books thou readest,
But so many schemes thou breedest,
But so many wishes feedest,
That thy poor head almost turns.
And (the world's so madly jangled,
Human things so fast entangled)
Nature's wish must now be strangled
For that best which she discerns.
So it must be! yet, while leading A strain'd life, while overfeeding, Like the rest, his wit with reading, No small profit that man earns,
Who through all he meets can steer him,
Can reject what cannot clear him,
Cling to what can truly cheer him;
Who each day more surely learns
That an impulse, from the distance
Of his deepest, best existence,
To the words, "Hope, Light, Persistence,"
Strongly sets and truly burns.
CONSOLATION
Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf houses
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection
Weighs down my soul.
Yet, while I languish,
Everywhere countless
Prospects unroll themselves,
And countless beings
Pass countless moods.
Far hence, in Asia,
On the smooth convent-roofs,
On the gilt terraces,
Of holy Lassa,
Bright shines the sun.
Grey time-worn marbles
Hold the pure Muses;
In their cool gallery,
By yellow Tiber,
They still look fair.
Strange unloved uproar[A] Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm.
Through sun-proof alleys
In a lone, sand-hemm'd
City of Africa,
A blind, led beggar,
Age-bow'd, asks alms.
No bolder robber
Erst abode ambush'd
Deep in the sandy waste;
No clearer eyesight
Spied prey afar.
Saharan sand-winds
Sear'd his keen eyeballs;
Spent is the spoil he won.
For him the present
Holds only pain.
Two young, fair lovers,
Where the warm June-wind,
Fresh from the summer fields
Plays fondly round them,
Stand, tranced in joy.
With sweet, join'd voices,
And with eyes brimming:
"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,
Prolong the present!
Time, stand still here!"
The prompt stern Goddess
Shakes her head, frowning;
Time gives his hour-glass
Its due reversal;
Their hour is gone.
With weak indulgence
Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere.
The hour, whose happy
Unalloy'd moments
I would eternalise,
Ten thousand mourners
Well pleased see end.
The bleak, stern hour,
Whose severe moments
I would annihilate,
Is pass'd by others
In warmth, light, joy.
Time, so complain'd of,
Who to no one man
Shows partiality,
Brings round to all men
Some undimm'd hours.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.
RESIGNATION
TO FAUSTA
To die be given us, or attain! Fierce work it were, to do again. So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd At burning noon; so warriors said, Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine;—so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. So pray they; and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain; Pain to thread back and to renew Past straits, and currents long steer'd through.
But milder natures, and more