Author: Matthew Arnold

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    Where, under Loughrigg, the stream
    Of Rotha sparkles, the fields
    Are green, in the house of one
    Friendly and gentle, now dead,
    Wordsworths son-in-law, friend,
    Four years since, on a markd
    Evening, a meeting I saw.

    Two friends met there, two famd
    Gifted women. The one,
    Brilliant with recent renown,
    Young, unpractisd, had told
    With a Masters accent her feignd
    Story of passionate life:
    The other, maturer in fame,
    Earning, she too, her praise
    First in Fiction, had since
    Widend her sweep, and surveyd
    History, Politics, Mind.

    They met, held converse: they wrote
    In a book which of glorious souls
    Held memorial: Bard,
    Warrior, Statesman, had left
    Their names:, chief treasure of all,
    Scott had consignd there his last
    Breathings of song, with a pen
    Tottering, a death-stricken hand.

    I beheld; the obscure
    Saw the famous. Alas!
    Years in number, it seemd,
    Lay before both, and a fame
    Heightend, and multiplied power.
    Behold! The elder, to-day,
    Lies expecting from Death,
    In mortal weakness, a last
    Summons: the younger is dead.

    First to the living we pay
    Mournful homage: the Muse
    Gains not an earth-deafend ear.

    Hail to the steadfast soul,
    Which, unflinching and keen,
    Wrought to erase from its depth
    Mist, and illusion, and fear!
    Hail to the spirit which dard
    Trust its own thoughts, before yet
    Echoed her back by the crowd!
    Hail to the courage which gave
    Voice to its creed, ere the creed
    Won consecration from Time!

    Turn, O Death, on the vile,
    Turn on the foolish the stroke
    Hanging now oer a head
    Active, beneficent, pure!
    But, if the prayer be in vain,
    But, if the stroke must fall,
    Her, whom we cannot save,
    What might we say to console?

    She will not see her country lose
    Its greatness, nor the reign of fools prolongd.
    She will behold no more
    This ignominious spectacle,
    Power dropping from the hand
    Of paralytic factions, and no soul
    To snatch and wield it: will not see
    Her fellow people sit
    Helplessly gazing on their own decline.

    Myrtle and rose fit the young,
    Laurel and oak the mature.
    Private affections, for these,
    Have run their circle, and left
    Space for things far from themselves,
    Thoughts of the general weal,
    Country, and public cares:
    Public cares, which move
    Seldom and faintly the depth
    Of younger passionate souls
    Plungd in themselves, who demand
    Only to live by the heart,
    Only to love and be lovd.

    How shall we honour the young,
    The ardent, the gifted? how mourn
    Console we cannot; her ear
    Is deaf. Far northward from here,
    In a churchyard high mid the moors
    Of Yorkshire, a little earth
    Stops it for ever to praise.

    Where, behind Keighley, the road
    Up to the heart of the moors
    Between heath-clad showery hills
    Runs, and colliers carts
    Poach the deep ways coming down,
    And a rough, grimd race have their homes,
    There, on its slope, is built
    The moorland town. But the church
    Stands on the crest of the hill,
    Lonely and bleak; at its side
    The parsonage-house and the graves.

    See! in the desolate house
    The childless father! Alas,
    Age, whom the most of us chide,
    Chide, and put back, and delay,
    Come, unupbraided for once
    Lay thy benumbing hand,
    Gratefully cold, on this brow!
    Shut out the grief, the despair!
    Weaken the sense of his loss!
    Deaden the infinite pain!

    Another grief I see,
    Younger: but this the Muse,
    In pity and silent awe
    Revering what she cannot soothe,
    With veild face and bowd head,
    Salutes, and passes by.

    Strew with roses the grave
    Of the early-dying. Alas!
    Early she goes on the path
    To the Silent Country, and leaves
    Half her laurels unwon,
    Dying too soon: yet green
    Laurels she had, and a course
    Short, but redoubled by Fame.

    For him who must live many years
    That life is best which slips away
    Out of the light, and mutely; which avoids
    Fame, and her less-fair followers, Envy, Strife,
    Stupid Detraction, Jealousy, Cabal,
    Insincere Praises:, which descends
    The mossy quiet track to Age.

    But, when immature Death
    Beckons too early the guest
    From the half-tried Banquet of Life,
    Young, in the bloom of his days;
    Leaves no leisure to press,
    Slow and surely, the sweet
    Of a tranquil life in the shade,
    Fuller for him be the hours!
    Give him emotion, though pain!
    Let him live, let him feel, I have livd.
    Heap up his moments with life!
    Quicken his pulses with Fame!

    And not friendless, nor yet
    Only with strangers to meet,
    Faces ungreeting and cold,
    Thou, O Mournd One, to-day
    Enterest the House of the Grave.
    Those of thy blood, whom thou lovdst,
    Have preceded thee; young,
    Loving, a sisterly band:
    Some in gift, some in art
    Inferior; all in fame.
    They, like friends, shall receive
    This comer, greet her with joy;
    Welcome the Sister, the Friend;
    Hear with delight of thy fame.

    Round thee they lie; the grass
    Blows from their graves toward thine.
    She, whose genius, though not
    Puissant like thine, was yet
    Sweet and graceful: and She,
    (How shall I sing her?), whose soul
    Knew no fellow for might,
    Passion, vehemence, grief,
    Daring, since Byron died,
    That world-famd Son of Fire; She, who sank
    Baffled, unknown, self-consumd;
    Whose too bold dying song
    Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul.

    Of one too I have heard,
    A Brother, sleeps he here?,
    Of all his gifted race
    Not the least gifted; young,
    Unhappy, beautiful; the cause
    Of many hopes, of many tears.
    O Boy, if here thou sleepst, sleep well!
    On thee too did the Muse
    Bright in thy cradle smile:
    But some dark Shadow came
    (I know not what) and interposd.

    Sleep, O cluster of friends,
    Sleep! or only, when May,
    Brought by the West Wind, returns
    Back to your native heaths,
    And the plover is heard on the moors,
    Yearly awake, to behold
    The opening summer, the sky,
    The shining moorland; to hear
    The drowsy bee, as of old,
    Hum oer the thyme, the grouse
    Call from the heather in bloom:

    Sleep; or only for this
    Break your united repose.

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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 lengthy poem is a powerful meditation on life, fame, mortality, and the enduring power of the written word. The poet employs a rich narrative style, interspersed with direct addresses to the reader, and vivid descriptions of the physical environment that ground the poem's abstract themes in tangible reality.

The poem's primary theme is the transitory nature of life, particularly for those who have achieved fame. The two 'famed, gifted women' whose meeting is described in the early stanzas represent different stages of life and accomplishment. One is 'brilliant with recent renown,' while the other is 'maturer in fame'. The poet's observation of their interaction serves as a reflection on the fleeting nature of life and the inevitability of death, as both women, despite their fame and achievements, are mortal and will eventually pass away.

The tone of the poem is solemn and somewhat melancholic, evoking a sense of the profound and often tragic brevity of human life. This is further emphasized by the poet's use of stark, poignant imagery, such as 'a death-stricken hand' and 'the Silent Country'. Despite these somber undertones, the poem also conveys a sense of admiration and respect for the women it describes, celebrating their accomplishments and their courage in the face of mortality.

The poem's structure is notable for its lack of a consistent rhyme scheme, which gives it a free-flowing, conversational quality. This, along with the poet's use of direct address, creates a sense of intimacy and immediacy, drawing the reader into the poem's narrative and thematic explorations.

In terms of literary devices, the poet makes effective use of metaphor, such as comparing fame to a 'Banquet of Life', and personification, as in the lines 'Fame, and her less-fair followers, Envy, Strife'. These devices serve to deepen the poem's exploration of its central themes, lending them additional layers of meaning