The Ride to the Lady, and Other Poems Part 8

THE STRAYED SINGER

(MATTHEW ARNOLD)

He wandered from us long, oh, long ago, Rare singer, with the note unsatisfied; Into what charmed wood, what shade star-eyed With the wind's April darlings, none may know.

We lost him. Songless, one with seed to sow, Keen-smiling toiler, came in place, and plied His strength in furrowed field till eventide, And pa.s.sed to slumber when the sun was low.

But now,--as though Death spoke some mystic word Solving a spell,--present to thought appears The morn's estray, not him we saw but late; And on his lips the strain that once we heard, And in his hand, cool as with Springtime's tears, The melancholy wood-flowers delicate.

THE IMMORTAL WORD

One soiled and shamed and foiled in this world's fight, Deserter from the host of G.o.d, that here Still darkly struggles,--waked from death in fear, And strove to screen his forehead from the white And blinding glory of the awful Light, The revelation and reproach austere.

Then with strong hand outstretched a Shape drew near, Bright-browed, majestic, armored like a knight.

"Great Angel, servant of the Highest, why Stoop'st thou to me?" although his lips were mute, His eyes inquired. The s.h.i.+ning One replied: "Thy Book, thy birth, life of thy life am I, Son of thy soul, thy youth's forgotten fruit.

We two go up to judgment side by side."