Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold. Arnold Matthew

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      FOOTNOTE:

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      [A] Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.

RESIGNATION

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TO FAUSTA

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      To die be given us, or attain! Fierce work it were, to do again. So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd At burning noon; so warriors said, Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine;—so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. So pray they; and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain; Pain to thread back and to renew Past straits, and currents long steer'd through.

      But milder natures, and more free—

       Whom an unblamed serenity

       Hath freed from passions, and the state

       Of struggle these necessitate;

       Whom schooling of the stubborn mind

       Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd—

       These mourn not, that their goings pay

       Obedience to the passing day.

       These claim not every laughing Hour

       For handmaid to their striding power;

       Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd,

       To await their march; and when appear'd,

       Through the cold gloom, with measured race,

       To usher for a destined space

       (Her own sweet errands all forgone)

       The too imperious traveller on.

       These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou,

       Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now!

      We left, just ten years since, you say,

       That wayside inn we left to-day.[5] Our jovial host, as forth we fare, Shouts greeting from his easy chair. High on a bank our leader stands, Reviews and ranks his motley bands, Makes clear our goal to every eye— The valley's western boundary. A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road. The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun; And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge. Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past— Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores; All past! and through the trees we glide, Emerging on the green hill-side. There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colour'd line; There winds, upstreaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill. And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread! Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells. Some two hours' march with serious air, Through the deep noontide heats we fare; The red-grouse, springing at our sound, Skims, now and then, the shining ground; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes. O joy! again the farms appear. Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; There springs the brook will guide us down, Bright comrade, to the noisy town. Lingering, we follow down; we gain The town, the highway, and the plain. And many a mile of dusty way, Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day; But, Fausta, I remember well, That as the balmy darkness fell We bathed our hands with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.

      Once more we tread this self-same road,

       Fausta, which ten years since we trod;

       Alone we tread it, you and I,

       Ghosts of that boisterous company.

       Here, where the brook shines, near its head,

       In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed;

       Here, whence the eye first sees, far down,

       Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town;

       Here sit we, and again unroll,

       Though slowly, the familiar whole.

       The solemn wastes of heathy hill

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