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* Fenced early in this cloistral round
Of reverie, of shade, of prayer,
How should we grow in other ground ?
How can we flower in foreign air?
--Pass, banners. pass, and bugles, cease;
And leave our desert to its peace !”

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1855.1

1 In Fraser's Magazine. First included in Arnold's Poetical Works in 1867.

TO MARGUERITE-CONTINUED

YES! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they

know.

Are ye too changed, ye hills ? See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men To-night from Oxford up your path

way strays! Here came I often, often, in old daysThyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;.
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour-
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent ;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain-
Oh, might our marges meet again!

Runs it not here, the track by Childs

worth Farm, Past the high wood, to where the elm

tree crowns The hill behind whose ridge the sun

set flames? The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley

Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the

youthful Thames ?

This winter-eve is warm, Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as

spring, The tender purple spray on copse

and briars! And that sweet city with her dream

ing spires, She needs not June for beauty's height

ening.

Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'll ? Who renders vain their deep desire ?-A God, a God their severance ruled ! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea.

(1852.)1 1857.

THYRSIS 2

A MONODY, to commemorate the author's

friend, ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, who died at

Florence, 1861

Lovely all times she lies, lovely to

night!-Only, methinks, some loss of habit's

power Befalls me wandering through this

upland dim. Once pass d I blindfold here, at any

hour; Now seldom comel, since I came with

him.

That single elm-tree bright Against the west-I miss it! is it gone? We prized it dearly ; while it stood,

we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was

not dead; While the tree lived, he in these fields

lived on.

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How changed is here each spot man

makes or fills! In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the

sanje; The village street its haunted man

sion lacks, And from the sign is gone Sibylla's

name, And from the roofs the twisted chim

ney-stacks

1 Standing alone, under the title: To Marguerite. ? l'here are in the English language three elegiac poems so great that they eclipse and efface all the elegiac poetry we kuow; all of Italian, all of Greek. It is only because the latest born is yet new to us that it can seem strange or rash to say so, The Thyrsis of Mr. Arnold makes third with Lycidas and idonais.. Thyrsis, like Lycidas, has a quiet and tender undertone which gives it something of sacred." (Swinburne.)

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits

here, But once I knew each field, each

flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquain

tance made By barn in threshing-time, by new

built rick, Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we

first assay d.

Ah me! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holi

day!

un

Needs must I lose them, needs with

heavy heart Into the world and wave of men de

part; But Thyrsis of his own will went away. It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. He loved each simple joy the country

yields, He loved his mates ; but yet he could

not keep, For that a shadow lourd on the fields, Here with the shepherds and the

silly sheep.

Some life of men unblest He knew, which made him droop, and

fill'd his head. He went : his piping took a troubled

sound Of storms that rage outside our

happy ground; He could not wait their passing, he is

dead.

He harkens not ! light comer, he i

flown ! What matters it? next year he wil

return, And we shall have him in the

sweet spring-days, With whitening hedges, and

crumpling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the

forest-ways,

And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swain

shall see ;
See, him come back, and cut

smoother reed,
And blow a strain the world at las

shall heel For Time, not Corydon, bath conquer

thee!

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So, some tempestuous morn in early June,

[is o'er, When the year's primal burst of bloom Before the roses and the longest day

[floor When garden-walks and all the grassy With blossoms red and white of

fallen May

And chestnut-flowers are strewnSo have I heard the cuckoo's parting

cry, From the wet field, through the vext

garden-trees, Come with the volleying rain and

tossing breeze: The bloom is gone, and with the bloom

Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate ; And cross the unpermitted ferry

flow,

And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the beauti

ous head Of

Proserpine, among who

crowned hair Are flowers first opend on Sicilia

air, And flute his friend, like Orpheu

from the dead.

go I!

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() easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds

sang 1 Proserpine ! For she herself had trod Sicilia

fields, She knew the Dorian water's gus

divine, She knew each lily white whic

Enna yields,

Each rose with blushing face ; She loved the Dorian pipe, the Doria

strain. But ah, of our poor Thames sh never heard !

(stirrid Her foot the Cumner cowslips new And we should tease her with ot

plaint in vain ! Well! wind-dispersed and

vain ti words will be,

[hor Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief

Soon will the high Midsummer poups

come on, Soon will the musk carnations break

and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snap

dragon, Sweet-William with his homely

cottage-smell,

And stocks in fragrant blow ; Roses that down the alleys shine afar,

And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
And groups under the dreaming

garden trees, And the full moon, and the white

evening-star.

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In the old haunt, and find our tree

topp'd hill ! Vho, if not I, for questing here hath

power ? I know the wood which hides the

daffodil, I know the Fyfield tree, know what white, what purple fri

tillaries The grassy harvest of the river

fields, Above by Ensham, down by Sand

ford, yields, ind what sedged brooks are Thames's

tributaries ;

I see her veil draw soft across the

day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown

hair sprent with gray ;

I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong

train ;The foot less prompt to meet the

morning dew, The heart less bounding at emo

tion new,

And hope, once crush’d, less quick to

spring again.

And long the way appears, which

seem'd so short To the less practised eye of sanguine

youth; And high the mountain-tops, in

cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the

throne of Truth, Tops in life's morning-sun so bright

and bare !

Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its

wall; And strange and vain the earthly

turmoil grows. And near and real the charm of thy

repose, And night as welcome as a friend

would fall.

know these slopes ; who knows them

if not I?But many a dingle on the loved hill

side, With thorns once studded, old,

white-blossom'd trees, Where thick the cowslips grew, and

far descried High tower il the spikes of purple

orchises,

Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time ; Down each green bank hath gone

the ploughboy's team, And only in the hidden brookside

gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery

prime. There is the girl, who by the boatman's

door, Above the locks, above the boating

throng, Unmoor'd our skiff when through

the Wytham flats, Red loosestrife and blond meadow

sweet among And darting swallows and light

water-gnats,

We track'd the shy Thames shore ? Where are the mowers, who, as the

tiny swell Of our boat passing heaved the river

grass, Stood with suspended scythe to see

us pass ?They all are gone, and thou art gone

as well! Yes, thou art gone! and round me too

the night In ever-nearing circle

weaves her shade.

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The west unflushes, the high stars

grow bright, And in the scatter'd farms the lights

come out. I cannot reach the signal-tree to

night,

Yet, happy omen, hail ! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno

vale (For there thine earth-forgetting

eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening

sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale), Hear it, ( Thyrsis, still our tree is

there !Ah, vain! These English fields, this

upland dim, These brambles pale with mist en

garlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not

for him ; To a boon southern country he is

fled,

And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's

train divine (And purer or more subtle soul than

thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not

see) Within a folding of the Apennine,

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, Shy to illumine; and I seek it too. This does not come with houses or

with gold, With place, with honor, and a flatter

ing 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 in

spired.

Thou hearest the immortal chants of

old ! Putting his sickle to the perilous

grain In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian

king, For thee the Lityerses-song again Young Daphnis with his silver voice

doth sing ;

Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded And how a call celestial round him

rang, And heavenward from the fountain

brink he sprang, And all the marvel of the golden

skies.

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, gare thee

power, If men procured thee trouble, gare

thee rest.

And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farmıs, 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 rirtue

yields. What though the music of thy rustic

flute Kept not for long its happy, country

tone ; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy

eves

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There thou art gone, and me thou leavest

here Sole in these fields! yet will I not de

spair. Despair I will not, while I yet de

scry

note

Of men contention-tost, of men who

groan,

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