Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 26

But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Across the sounds and channels pour--

Oh! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent!

Now round us spreads the watery plain-- Oh might our marges meet again!

Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?

Who renders vain their deep desire?-- G.o.d, a G.o.d their severance ruled!

And bade betwixt their sh.o.r.es to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

6. ABSENCE

In this fair stranger's eyes of grey Thine eyes, my love! I see.

I s.h.i.+ver; for the pa.s.sing day Had borne me far from thee.

This is the curse of life! that not A n.o.bler, calmer train Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot Our pa.s.sions from our brain;

But each day brings its petty dust Our soon-choked souls to fill, And we forget because we must And not because we will.

I struggle towards the light; and ye, Once-long'd-for storms of love!

If with the light ye cannot be, I bear that ye remove.

I struggle towards the light--but oh, While yet the night is chill, Upon time's barren, stormy flow, Stay with me, Marguerite, still!

7. THE TERRACE AT BERNE

(COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING)

Ten years!--and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream!--and do I linger here?

The clouds are on the Oberland, The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar,

And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the churchyard fair; And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, The house!--and is my Marguerite there?

Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, And clap thy hands, and cry: _'Tis thou!_

Or hast thou long since wander'd back, Daughter of France! to France, thy home; And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come?

Doth riotous laughter now replace Thy smile; and rouge, with stony glare, Thy cheek's soft hue; and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair?

Or is it over? art thou dead?-- Dead!--and no warning s.h.i.+ver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread Of life was cut, and closed thy span!

Could from earth's ways that figure slight Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so?

Of that fresh voice the gay delight Fail from earth's air, and I not know?

Or shall I find thee still, but changed, But not the Marguerite of thy prime?

With all thy being re-arranged, Pa.s.s'd through the crucible of time;

With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned, And hardly yet a glance, a tone, A gesture--anything--retain'd Of all that was my Marguerite's own?

I will not know! For wherefore try, To things by mortal course that live, A shadowy durability, For which they were not meant, to give?

Like driftwood spars, which meet and pa.s.s Upon the boundless ocean-plain, So on the sea of life, alas!

Man meets man--meets, and quits again.

I knew it when my life was young; I feel it still, now youth is o'er.

--The mists are on the mountain hung, And Marguerite I shall see no more.

THE STRAYED REVELLER

THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE. EVENING

_A Youth. Circe_

_The Youth_

Faster, faster, O Circe, G.o.ddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling Down on me! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek; Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, I held but now.

Is it, then, evening So soon? I see, the night-dews, Cl.u.s.ter'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, Stirs thy hair, G.o.ddess, Waves thy white robe!

_Circe_

Whence art thou, sleeper?

_The Youth_

When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, G.o.ddess!

I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; Pa.s.sing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I s.n.a.t.c.h'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew-- Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, Iacchus' white fane On yonder hill.

Quick I pa.s.s'd, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;--I saw On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, G.o.ddess, Smokeless, empty!

Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl.

I drank, G.o.ddess!

And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico.

_Circe_

Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?

Thou lovest it, then, my wine?

Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds!

Drink, then! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl.

Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so!