Author: Matthew Arnold

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    The sandy spits, the shore-lockd lakes,
    Melt into open, moonlit sea;
    The soft Mediterranean breaks
    At my feet, free.

    Dotting the fields of corn and vine
    Like ghosts, the huge, gnarld olives stand;
    Behind, that lovely mountain-line!
    While by the strand

    Cette, with its glistening houses white,
    Curves with the curving beach away
    To where the lighthouse beacons bright
    Far in the bay.

    Ah, such a night, so soft, so lone,
    So moonlit, saw me once of yore
    Wander unquiet, and my own
    Vext heart deplore!

    But now that trouble is forgot;
    Thy memory, thy pain, to-night,
    My brother! and thine early lot,
    Possess me quite.

    The murmur of this Midland deep
    Is heard to-night around thy grave
    There where Gibraltars cannond steep
    Oerfrowns the wave.

    For there, with bodily anguish keen,
    With Indian heats at last fordone,
    With public toil and private teen,
    Thou sankst, alone.

    Slow to a stop, at morning grey,
    I see the smoke-crownd vessel come;
    Slow round her paddles dies away
    The seething foam.

    A boat is lowerd from her side;
    Ah, gently place him on the bench!
    That spirit, if all have not yet died
    A breath might quench.

    Is this the eye, the footstep fast,
    The mien of youth we used to see,
    Poor, gallant boy! for such thou wast,
    Still art, to me.

    The limbs their wonted tasks refuse,
    The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak;
    And whiter than thy white burnous
    That wasted cheek!

    Enough! The boat, with quiet shock,
    Unto its haven coming nigh,
    Touches, and on Gibraltars rock
    Lands thee, to die.

    Ah me! Gibraltars strand is far,
    But farther yet across the brine
    Thy dear wifes ashes buried are,
    Remote from thine.

    For there where Mornings sacred fount
    Its golden rain on earth confers,
    The snowy Himalayan Mount
    Oershadows hers.

    Strange irony of Fate, alas,
    Which for two jaded English saves,
    When from their dusty life they pass,
    Such peaceful graves!

    In cities should we English lie,
    Where cries are rising ever new,
    And mens incessant stream goes by;
    We who pursue

    Our business with unslackening stride,
    Traverse in troops, with care-filld breast,
    The soft Mediterranean side,
    The Nile, the East,

    And see all sights from pole to pole,
    And glance, and nod, and bustle by;
    And never once possess our soul
    Before we die.

    Not by those hoary Indian hills,
    Not by this gracious Midland sea
    Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills,
    Should our graves be!

    Some sage, to whom the world was dead,
    And men were specks, and life a play;
    Who made the roots of trees his bed,
    And once a day

    With staff and gourd his way did bend
    To villages and homes of man,
    For food to keep him till he end
    His mortal span,

    And the pure goal of Being reach;
    Grey-headed, wrinkled, clad in white,
    Without companion, without speech,
    By day and night

    Pondering Gods mysteries untold,
    And tranquil as the glacier snows
    He by those Indian mountains old
    Might well repose!

    Some grey crusading knight austere
    Who bore Saint Louis company
    And came home hurt to death and here
    Landed to die;

    Some youthful troubadour whose tongue
    Filld Europe once with his love-pain,
    Who here outwearied sunk, and sung
    His dying strain;

    Some girl who here from castle-bower,
    With furtive step and cheek of flame,
    Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower
    By moonlight came

    To meet her pirate-lovers ship,
    And from the wave-kissd marble stair
    Beckond him on, with quivering lip
    And unbound hair,

    And lived some moons in happy trance,
    Then learnt his death, and pined away
    Such by these waters of romance
    Twas meet to lay!

    But you, a grave for knight or sage,
    Romantic, solitary, still,
    O spent ones of a work-day age!
    Befits you ill.

    So sang I; but the midnight breeze
    Down to the brimmd moon-charmed main
    Comes softly through the olive-trees,
    And checks my strain.

    I think of her, whose gentle tongue
    All plaint in her own cause controlld;
    Of thee I think, my brother! young
    In heart, high-sould;

    That comely face, that clusterd brow,
    That cordial hand, that bearing free,
    I see them still, I see them now,
    Shall always see!

    And what but gentleness untired,
    And what but noble feeling warm,
    Wherever shown, howeer attired,
    Is grace, is charm?

    What else is all these waters are,
    What else is steepd in lucid sheen,
    What else is bright, what else is fair,
    What else serene?

    Mild oer her grave, ye mountains, shine!
    Gently by his, ye waters, glide!
    To that in you which is divine
    They were allied.

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Type of Poem: Elegy

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem is an elegiac reflection on mortality, isolation, and the inevitable passage of time. It uses vivid and immersive imagery to transport the reader to various landscapes, from the moonlit Mediterranean to the snowy Himalayan Mount, underscoring the universality of the human experience.

The poem's tone is somber, bordering on melancholic, as the speaker contemplates their own mortality and the tragic fates of loved ones who have passed away. The structure of the poem, with its consistent rhyme scheme, serves to create a rhythmical flow that mirrors the natural cycle of life and death, underscoring the theme of inevitability.

There's a strong use of contrast throughout the poem, with the tranquil beauty of nature serving as a backdrop for the harsh realities of human existence. The speaker uses vivid imagery and allusions to the natural world to highlight the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of individual human lives. This is underscored by the phrase "men were specks, and life a play," suggesting the fleeting and transient nature of human existence.

The poem also utilizes irony to highlight the disparity between the peacefulness of the described landscapes and the turmoil of human life. This is particularly evident in the lines referring to the peaceful graves of the "jaded English." The poem ends on a note of acceptance and hope, underscoring the belief that despite the hardships of life, individuals can still connect with the divine beauty in nature.