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There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here
Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair.
Despair I will not, while I yet descry
'Neath the mild canopy of English air
That lonely tree against the western sky.
Still, still these slopes, 't is clear,

Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!
Fields where soft sheep from cages pull
the hay,

Woods with anemonies in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not

me?

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,

Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.

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This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold

But the smooth-slipping weeks

Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 210

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound; Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!

Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee

rest.

And this rude Cumnor ground,

Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,

Here cams't thou in thy jocund youthful

time,

Here was thine height of strength, thy

golden prime!

And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 220

What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat

It fail'd, and thou wast mute!

Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,
And long with men of care thou couldst

not stay,

And soon thy foot resumed its wandering

way,

Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

230

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,

Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. ---Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
To chase fatigue and fear:

Why faintest thou? I wonder'd till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining

still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns

the hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

1866.

240

Matthew Arnold.

RUGBY CHAPEL

November, 1857

COLDLY, sadly descends

The autumn-evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,

Silent;-hardly a shout

From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,

In the school-room windows;-but cold,

Solemn, unlighted, austere,

Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.

There thou dost lie, in the gloom
Of the autumn evening. But ah!
That word, gloom, to my mind.
Brings thee back, in the light

10

Of thy radiant vigour, again;
In the gloom of November we pass'd
Days not dark at thy side;
Seasons impair'd not the ray

Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand
In the autumn evening, and think
Of bygone autumns with thee.

Fifteen years have gone round
Since thou arosest to tread,
In the summer-morning, the road
Of death, at a call unforeseen,
Sudden. For fifteen years,
We who till then in thy shade
Rested as under the boughs
Of a mighty oak, have endured
Sunshine and rain as we might,
Bare, unshaded, alone,
Lacking the shelter of thee.

O strong soul, by what shore.
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar,

In the sounding labor-house vast
Of being, is practised that strength,
Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
Conscious or not of the past,

20

30

Still thou performest the word

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live-
Prompt, unwearied, as here!

Still thou upraisest with zeal

The humble good from the ground,
Sternly repressest the bad!

Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse

Those who with half-open eyes
Tread the border-land dim.
Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,
Succorest!--this was thy work,
This was thy life upon earth.

What is the course of the life
Of mortal men on the earth? —
Most men eddy about

Here and there-eat and drink,
Chatter and love and hate,
Gather and squander, are raised
Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust,
Striving blindly, achieving
Nothing; and then they die-
Perish; and no one asks
Who or what they have been,
More than he asks what waves,

In the moonlit solitudes mild

Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,
Foam'd for a moment, and gone.

And there are some, whom a thirst
Ardent, unquenchable, fires,

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