Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew

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СКАЧАТЬ pleasure fade and flower again,

       And the dull Gods behold, ere these are flown,

       Revels more deep, joy keener than their own.

      "Into the silence of the groves and woods

       I will go forth; though something would I say—

       Something—yet what, I know not; for the Gods

       The doom they pass revoke not, nor delay;

       And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all,

       And the night waxes, and the shadows fall.

      "Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king!

       I go, and I return not. But the will

       Of the great Gods is plain; and ye must bring

       Ill deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfil

       Their pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise,

       The praise of Gods, rich boon! and length of days."

      —So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn;

       And one loud cry of grief and of amaze

       Broke from his sorrowing people; so he spake,

       And turning, left them there; and with brief pause,

       Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way

       To the cool region of the groves he loved.

       There by the river-banks he wander'd on,

       From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees,

       Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneath

       Burying their unsunn'd stems in grass and flowers;

       Where in one dream the feverish time of youth

       Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy

       Might wander all day long and never tire.

       Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn,

       Rose-crown'd; and ever, when the sun went down,

       A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom,

       From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove,

       Revealing all the tumult of the feast—

       Flush'd guests, and golden goblets foam'd with wine;

       While the deep-burnish'd foliage overhead

       Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon.

       It may be that sometimes his wondering soul

       From the loud joyful laughter of his lips

       Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man

       Who wrestles with his dream; as some pale shape

       Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems,

       Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl,

       Whispering: A little space, and thou art mine! It may be on that joyless feast his eye Dwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within, Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength, And by that silent knowledge, day by day, Was calm'd, ennobled, comforted, sustain'd. It may be; but not less his brow was smooth, And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom, And his mirth quail'd not at the mild reproof Sigh'd out by winter's sad tranquillity; Nor, pall'd with its own fulness, ebb'd and died In the rich languor of long summer-days; Nor wither'd when the palm-tree plumes, that roof'd With their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall, Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring; No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds. So six long years he revell'd, night and day. And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, To tell his wondering people of their king; In the still night, across the steaming flats, Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile.

THE CHURCH OF BROU

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I

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The Castle

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      Down the Savoy valleys sounding,

       Echoing round this castle old,

       'Mid the distant mountain-chalets

       Hark! what bell for church is toll'd?

      In the bright October morning

       Savoy's Duke had left his bride.

       From the castle, past the drawbridge,

       Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.

      Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;

       Gay, her smiling lord to greet,

       From her mullion'd chamber-casement

       Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.

      From Vienna, by the Danube,

       Here she came, a bride, in spring.

       Now the autumn crisps the forest;

       Hunters gather, bugles ring.

      Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,

       Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.

       Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,

       Westward, on the side of France.

      Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!—

       Down the forest-ridings lone,

       Furious, single horsemen gallop——

       Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!

      Pale and breathless, came the hunters;

       On the turf dead lies the boar—

       God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him,

       Senseless, weltering in his gore.

      In the dull October evening,

       Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,

       To the castle, past the drawbridge,

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