Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew

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СКАЧАТЬ Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

      Paint that figure's pliant grace

       As she tow'rd me lean'd her face,

       Half refused and half resign'd,

       Murmuring: "Art thou still unkind?"

       Many a broken promise then

       Was new made—to break again.

       Ere the parting hour go by,

       Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

      Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind,

       Eager tell-tales of her mind;

       Paint, with their impetuous stress

       Of inquiring tenderness,

       Those frank eyes, where deep I see

       An angelic gravity.

       Ere the parting hour go by,

       Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

      What, my friends, these feeble lines

       Show, you say, my love declines?

       To paint ill as I have done,

Proves forgetfulness begun? Time's gay minions, pleased you see, Time, your master, governs me; Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry: "Quick, thy tablets, Memory!"

      Ah, too true! Time's current strong

       Leaves us fixt to nothing long.

       Yet, if little stays with man,

       Ah, retain we all we can!

       If the clear impression dies,

       Ah, the dim remembrance prize!

       Ere the parting hour go by,

       Quick, thy tablets, Memory!

A DREAM

       Table of Contents

      Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,

       Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream,

       Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun,

       On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,

       On the red pinings of their forest-floor,

       Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines

       The mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan change

       Of bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees

       And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.

       Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,

       And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came

       Notes of wild pastoral music—over all

       Ranged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.

       Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,

       Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood,

       Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves

Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within, Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn. We shot beneath the cottage with the stream. On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two forms Came forth—Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine. Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast; Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue, Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd. They saw us, they conferr'd; their bosoms heaved, And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes. Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly, Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed. One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat Hung poised—and then the darting river of Life (Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life, Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd, Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone. Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pines Faded—the moss—the rocks; us burning plains, Bristled with cities, us the sea received.

THE NEW SIRENS

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      In the cedarn shadow sleeping,

       Where cool grass and fragrant glooms

       Forth at noon had lured me, creeping

       From your darken'd palace rooms—

       I, who in your train at morning

       Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind,

       Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning;

       Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind.

      Who are they, O pensive Graces,

       —For I dream'd they wore your forms—

       Who on shores and sea-wash'd places

       Scoop the shelves and fret the storms?

       Who, when ships are that way tending,

       Troop across the flushing sands,

       To all reefs and narrows wending,

       With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?

      Yet I see, the howling levels

       Of the deep are not your lair;

       And your tragic-vaunted revels

       Are less lonely than they were.

       Like those Kings with treasure steering

       From the jewell'd lands of dawn,

       Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,

       Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.

      And we too, from upland valleys,

       Where some Muse with half-curved frown

       Leans her ear to your mad sallies

       Which the charm'd winds never drown;

       By faint music guided, ranging

       The scared glens, we wander'd on,

       Left our awful laurels hanging,

       And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne.

      From the dragon-warder'd fountains

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