Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew

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СКАЧАТЬ Where the springs of knowledge are,

       From the watchers on the mountains,

       And the bright and morning star;

       We are exiles, we are falling,

       We have lost them at your call—

       O ye false ones, at your calling

       Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!

      Are the accents of your luring

       More melodious than of yore?

       Are those frail forms more enduring

       Than the charms Ulysses bore?

       That we sought you with rejoicings,

       Till at evening we descry

       At a pause of Siren voicings

       These vext branches and this howling sky? …

      Oh, your pardon! The uncouthness

       Of that primal age is gone,

       And the skin of dazzling smoothness

       Screens not now a heart of stone.

       Love has flush'd those cruel faces;

       And those slacken'd arms forgo

       The delight of death-embraces,

       And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.

      "Ah," you say; "the large appearance

       Of man's labour is but vain,

       And we plead as staunch adherence

       Due to pleasure as to pain."

       Pointing to earth's careworn creatures,

       "Come," you murmur with a sigh:

       "Ah! we own diviner features,

       Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.

      "Come," you say, "the hours were dreary;

       Dull did life in torpor fade;

       Time is lame, and we grew weary

       In the slumbrous cedarn shade.

       Round our hearts with long caresses,

       With low sighings, Silence stole,

       And her load of steaming tresses

       Fell, like Ossa, on the climbing soul.

      "Come," you say, "the soul is fainting

       Till she search and learn her own,

       And the wisdom of man's painting

       Leaves her riddle half unknown.

       Come," you say, "the brain is seeking,

       While the sovran heart is dead;

       Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking,

       Rarer secrets than the toiling head.

      "Come," you say, "opinion trembles,

       Judgment shifts, convictions go;

       Life dries up, the heart dissembles—

       Only, what we feel, we know.

       Hath your wisdom felt emotions?

       Will it weep our burning tears?

       Hath it drunk of our love-potions

       Crowning moments with the wealth of years?"

      —I am dumb. Alas, too soon all

       Man's grave reasons disappear!

       Yet, I think, at God's tribunal

       Some large answer you shall hear.

       But, for me, my thoughts are straying

       Where at sunrise, through your vines,

       On these lawns I saw you playing,

       Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;

       When your showering locks enwound you,

       And your heavenly eyes shone through;

       When the pine-boughs yielded round you,

       And your brows were starr'd with dew;

       And immortal forms, to meet you,

       Down the statued alleys came,

       And through golden horns, to greet you,

       Blew such music as a God may frame.

      Yes, I muse! And if the dawning

       Into daylight never grew,

       If the glistering wings of morning

       On the dry noon shook their dew,

       If the fits of joy were longer,

       Or the day were sooner done,

       Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,

       No weak nursling of an earthly sun …

       Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,

       Dusk the hall with yew!

      For a bound was set to meetings,

       And the sombre day dragg'd on;

       And the burst of joyful greetings,

       And the joyful dawn, were gone.

       For the eye grows fill'd with gazing,

       And on raptures follow calms;

       And those warm locks men were praising,

       Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms.

      Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys,

       And made all your cedars frown;

       Leaves were whirling in the alleys

       Which your lovers wander'd down.

       —Sitting cheerless in your bowers,

       The hands propping the sunk head,

       Still they gall you, the long hours,

       And the hungry thought, that must be fed!

      Is the pleasure that is tasted

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