PREFACE

INTRODUCTION
     A Short Life of Arnold
     Arnold the Poet
     Arnold the Critic
     Chronological List of Arnold's Works
     Contemporary Authors
     Bibliography


SELECTIONS FROM ARNOLD'S POETICAL WORKS

     NARRATIVE POEMS

          Sohrab and Rustum
          Saint Brandan
          The Forsaken Merman
          Tristram and Iseult

     LYRICAL POEMS

           The Church of Brou
           Requiescat
           Consolation
           A Dream
           Lines written in Kensington Gardens
           The Strayed Reveller
           Morality
           Dover Beach
           Philomela
           Human Life
           Isolation—To Marguerite
           Kaiser Dead
           The Last Word
           Palladium
           Revolutions
           Self-Dependence
           A Summer Night
           Geist's Grave
           Epilogue—To Lessing's LAOCOON

     SONNETS

           Quiet Work
           Shakespeare
           Youth's Agitations
           Austerity of Poetry
           Worldly Place
           East London
           West London

     ELEGIAC POEMS

           Memorial Verses
           The Scholar-Gipsy
           Thyrsis
           Rugby Chapel


      NOTES


      INDEX

Matthew Arnold, poet and critic, was born in the village of Laleham, Middlesex County, England, on December 24, 1822. He was the son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, who is best known as the great Head Master at Rugby and later became notable as a historian of Rome, and Mary Penrose Arnold, a woman of remarkable character and intellect.

Devoid of exciting events and mostly free from the quirks typical of geniuses, Arnold's life story can be summarized quickly. As a boy, he lived the life of a typical English lad, with a balanced routine of work and play. He attended school at Laleham and Winchester, then went to Rugby, where he stood out as a student and even won a poetry prize. In 1840, he was awarded an open scholarship at Balliol College, Oxford, and the following year he started his university studies. Arnold's time at Oxford was memorable. During this period, he mingled with notable figures like John Duke Coleridge, John Shairp, Dean Fraser, Dean Church, John Henry Newman, Thomas Hughes, the Froudes, and especially Arthur Hugh Clough, whose untimely death he mourned in his beautiful elegiac poem—Thyrsis. In this impressive circle, Arnold was at ease and a recognized favorite. He won the Newdigate prize for English verse and another scholarship, graduating with honors in 1844. In March of the following year, he gained the additional honor of being elected a Fellow of Oriel, a significant achievement for an Oxford graduate. He then taught classics briefly at Rugby, and in 1847, he became the private secretary to the Marquis of Lansdowne, the Lord President of the Council, a position he held until 1851 when he was appointed Lay Inspector of Schools by the Committee on Education. That same year, he married Frances Lucy Wightman, the daughter of Sir William Wightman, a judge on the Court of the Queen's Bench.

Arnold's record as an educator is unmatched in the history of England's public schools. For over thirty-five years, he worked as an inspector and commissioner, roles he performed with great efficiency. As an inspector, he was dedicated, responsible, adaptable, and loved by both teachers and students. The Dean of Salisbury compared his visit to inspect the school at Kidderminster to a ray of light breaking into a dark room when a shutter is suddenly opened. Overall, he valued happy-looking children and caring, empathetic teachers more than high grades. In his role as commissioner, he frequently traveled to the Continent to explore foreign methods of primary and secondary education. There, he discovered many valuable insights and often returned to London with ideas that were ahead of what the national mindset was ready to accept. Nevertheless, under his guidance, England's school system was extensively revised and improved. He resigned from the Committee of Council on Education in 1886, two years before his death.

In the meantime, Arnold had been busy writing. His first collection of poems, The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems, was published in 1848. Although it was quietly received at first, it gradually gained popularity. The following year, he released the narrative poem The Sick King in Bokhara, which was followed by a third volume in 1853 titled Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems. By this time, Arnold had established his reputation as a poet, and in 1857, he was appointed Professor of Poetry at Oxford, where he began his career as a lecturer and visited America twice. Merope, a Tragedy (1856) and a collection titled New Poems (1869) complete his list of poetic works, except for some occasional verses.

Arnold's prose works, apart from his letters, are entirely made up of critical essays, where he tackled the major issues of his time head-on. As you can see from their titles (see page xxxviii of this volume), these essays cover a wide range of topics, including literature, politics, social behavior, and popular religion. Through these works, Arnold has had a significant impact on public thought and established himself as one of the most skilled critics and reformers of the last century. Arnold's life was filled with a variety of activities and was always engaged with both practical and literary matters; it was rich in human connections and empathy. He earned respect and a strong reputation during his lifetime, and his works still capture people's attention, though somewhat inconsistently. It has been noted that, among modern poets, except for Goethe, he was the best critic, and among modern critics, with the same exception, he was the best poet. He passed away in Liverpool, where he had gone to meet his daughter returning from America, on April 15, 1888. His death marked the loss of a sharp and cultured critic, a sophisticated writer, a dedicated educational reformer, and a truly noble person. He was laid to rest in his hometown, Laleham.

Agreeing to his own request, Arnold has never been the subject of a biography. However, through his letters, official reports, and the statements of his friends, one can follow the progression of his career as he consistently gained respect and became more useful to the public. Although it's somewhat limited, the picture presented is quite pleasing and appealing. The following evaluations have been chosen to give the reader a look at Arnold as he appeared to open-minded individuals.

One person who knew him at Oxford wrote about him like this: "His calm demeanor, quick wit, and ability to add a humorous twist to any topic[p.xiii] he discussed, along with his cheerfulness, boldness, and mastery of language, made him one of the most popular and successful undergraduates that Oxford has ever seen."

"He was handsome as a young man, strong and masculine, yet full of dreams and plans. His grand demeanor started even at Oxford: there was nothing wrong with it; it was genuine, not affected. The very sound of his voice and the way he waved his arm were like Jove's."—PROFESSOR MAX MÜLLER.

He was definitely all about human enjoyment. He schemed and planned to make things enjoyable. He couldn't stand pretentiousness. He was a man of this life and this world. He was indeed a tough critic of this world; but, since he found himself in it and wasn’t exactly sure what’s beyond it, like a brave and good-hearted person, he decided to make the most of it. The sights and sounds were precious to him. The 'unfolding fern, the everlasting moonlit snow,' the red grouse jumping at our noise, the tinkling bells of the 'high-pasturing cows,' the quirks of people, women, and dogs, their strange ways and habits, whether of thought or behavior, all delighted, entertained, and amused him.

"In a noble and blessed sense, he was very much down-to-earth. His thoughts were grounded in the simplest things. What he disliked the most was anything fanciful—overly elaborate ideas and forced interpretations. He preferred the familiar path of human experience, and the more universal, the better. He[p.xiv] was a straightforward man. This is his true essence."—MR. AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.

"He couldn't sacrifice even the smallest interest of anyone for his own; he didn't have a trace of envy or jealousy; he stayed completely detached from all the chaos and pushing that selfish people create to get ahead; he accepted life's disappointments—and he was disappointed in some reasonable hopes—with a positive attitude and strength; he placed no burden on others and never avoided carrying his own share of the daily grind to the very end; he showed the deepest, most genuine, and most active concern for the well-being of his country and his fellow citizens."—MR. JOHN MORLEY.

In his essay on Arnold, George E. Woodberry talks about the poet's personality as revealed in his letters in this beautifully touching way: "Few who didn’t know Arnold could have been ready for the insight into a nature so genuine, so kind, so responsible. In every aspect of his private life, he is shown to have been a man of remarkable loyalty and simplicity.... Everyone must find joy in mentally connecting with Arnold in the moments of his life ... and in his family ties. A nature warm towards its own, kind to everyone, cheerful, enjoying sports and fun, and always nourished by pure sources, along with a character built on solid foundations, so humbly dedicated, and so enduring in strength and grace, must evoke feelings of happy appreciation and leave the sweetness of memory.

"He did his duty as effortlessly as if it required no [p.xv] resolve, effort, or thoughts about tomorrow. He never seemed to fail in showing sympathy, whether in small or big things. When you also consider the clear atmosphere of the intellectual life he regularly occupied apart from his everyday life, along with the warmth of his home, you can appreciate what these letters offer. That gift is the man himself, embedded in the environment of home, with the roles of son and father, sisters and brothers, and the losses of years fully realized, along with those from childhood—a sweet and wholesome English home, with all the ups and downs of the English world above it, and the soil of England beneath it, fulfilling its English duties. Adding such a home to the history of English Literature might be something Arnold would have hesitated at, but it certainly makes his memory more endearing."

"It may be too much
He avoided the common stains and smudges,
  From the dirt of a lowly touch
    Too proudly free,
  Too confidently secure in such
    Cold purity;
But he protected his established soul
From any chance control,
In everything he aimed to see the whole;
  Couldn't stand any disguise,
And focused his heart on the goal,
  Not on the prize."
                     —MR. WILLIAM WATSON, In Laleham Churchyard.

Matthew Arnold was fundamentally an intellectual. No other modern author, and perhaps no other English writer at any time, connects as directly with educated people as he does. Even a quick read of his work, whether prose or poetry, shows the scholar and the critic. He is always thinking, consistently brilliant, and never short on words or phrases; overall, his judgments are sound. However, there’s a clear difference between his prose and poetry, both in tone and spiritual quality. Each shares a sense of noble, stoic courage and displays the same polished finish and precise language. Still, that's where the similarity ends; while his prose often feels turbulent and argumentative, his poetry always conveys a sense of complete calm. The reason for this difference is clear. His poetry, written in his younger years, reflects his inner self, the more endearing aspects of his character; whereas his prose showcases the critic and the reformer, highlighting the good and the bad, and sometimes allowing a touch of bitterness to surface as he tries to wake people from their comfortable complacency with themselves and the world around them.

Except for a few occasional verses, Arnold's poetry career began and ended in just twenty years. The reasons for this are mostly speculative and don't need to be discussed here. Although his poetic life was short, it was of a very high caliber, with his poems ranking among the significant literary works of the last century. However, as a popular poet, he will likely never be compared to Tennyson or Longfellow. His poems tend to be too coldly classical and unappealing in subject matter to attract the casual reader, who generally prefers poetry that evokes emotions rather than intellectual themes, which is typical of Arnold's work. He was aware of this, as shown in the following quiet remarks made in letters to friends: "My poems are making their way, I think, though slowly, and may never achieve widespread popularity. There will always be some people, however, who find charm in their literalness and sincerity.... They largely represent the main intellectual movement of the last quarter-century, and as people become aware of this movement and interested in the literary works that reflect it, they will probably have their day." Time has confirmed the accuracy of this insight. In short, Arnold has left a profound rather than a widespread impact. To a select few in each generation, he will remain an "oracular voice,"—a poet with a purpose and a message.

Arnold's Poetic Culture.—Clearly, Arnold's cultural influences were rooted in the classics. As one critic put it succinctly, "He studied his Greek models day and night." In those works, he found the ideal standards against which he measured all the questions that occupied his mind. He mentioned that Homer and Epictetus, whose mood resonated with his own, supported his thoughts, just like Sophocles, who "saw life steadily and saw it whole," and Marcus Aurelius, whom he considered the purest of men. These similar souls provided him peace and comfort. Greek epic and dramatic poetry, along with Greek philosophy, deeply resonated with him. Of the Greek poets, he wrote: "No other poets have lived so much by imaginative reasoning; no other poets have created such well-balanced works; no other poets have satisfied the thinking mind and the religious spirit as well." More than any other English poet, he valued qualities like measure, proportion, and restraint; to him, clarity, austerity, and seriousness—key aspects of classical poetry—were the essence of true poetry. In describing his artistic stance, he said: "In my genuine effort to learn and practice what is sound and authentic in poetic art amidst the overwhelming confusion of our times, I find that my only reliable guidance, my solid foundation, lies with the ancients. They at least understood what they wanted in art, while we do not. This uncertainty is what disheartens me, not critical opposition." He added: "The fundamental difference between Greek poetic theory and our own is this: for them, the poetic nature of the action and how it's conducted was the primary focus; for us, the emphasis is mainly on the value of individual thoughts and images that arise during the action. They see the whole; we see the parts. We have poems that seem to exist solely for a few memorable lines and passages, rather than to create a cohesive impression. We have critics who focus solely on isolated expressions and language surrounding the action, not the action itself. I genuinely believe that most of them do not think a total impression can be derived from a poem at all, nor do they expect one from a poet. They allow poets to choose any action they want and to let it unfold as it will, as long as they are entertained by occasional bursts of beautiful writing and isolated thoughts and images; that is, they permit the poet to leave their poetic sensibility unfulfilled, as long as he satisfies their rhetorical taste and curiosity."

Arnold has successfully illustrated his ideas about unity that satisfies the poetic sense and has come very close to his Greek influences in many cases, especially in his great epic poem, Sohrab and Rustum, which is discussed elsewhere in this introduction. It might be beneficial to quote a thoughtful synthesis from Mr. Arthur Galton. He states: "In Matthew Arnold's style and manner, he seems to remind me of the great masters in a striking and lasting way.... The ability to recall them at all is a rare talent, but to do so naturally, without any forced sense or jarring imitation, is such a rare gift that it almost qualifies a writer as one of the great masters. While some other modern poets also echo them, it is rare for them to actually resemble the great masters, as they tend to have their own distinct styles. Occasionally, they might break through to achieve a timeless style, but that’s not the case with Matthew Arnold. His usual, most natural style is what brings to mind the great masters; he only stops resembling them when he writes differently from himself.... Anyone who reaches this significant style cannot help but have an important role; and like Milton, Arnold will be 'a leaven and a power,' because he, too, has made the great style accessible in English. With his passion for culture and perfection, there is no destiny he would prefer to this, for which his nature, upbringing, and sensibilities have all prepared him. To express the ideas of those ancient thinkers he admired so deeply, in the English language they taught him to wield so beautifully;—to stand as a timeless protest against deception and lowbrow culture;—this is precisely the mission he would have chosen for himself.... Therefore, the few writers in our language who present us with 'an ideal of excellence, the most high and the most rare' have a vital role to play; we should continually study their works, and it should deeply concern us that these 'ideals,' the definitive and perfect models, remain with us forever." The Greeks recognized three types of poetry—Lyric, Dramatic, and Epic. Arnold explored all three, beginning as a lyricist.

Arnold as a Lyricist.—Lyric poetry is the artistic expression of the poet's personal feelings and emotions, so it's subjective. The action is usually dull, the verse is musical, and the pace is quick. Unlike Epics and Dramas, it doesn’t have a preferred verse or meter, allowing the poet to choose or create suitable forms. In this type of verse, Arnold was not entirely comfortable. As has been pointed out, one searches in vain throughout his entire body of work for a cheerful, musical, lighthearted, or serious spontaneous poem, the true lyrical kind. The reason for this is quickly apparent. Clearly, it stems from the essential qualities of the poet's mind and temperament. Although not lacking in emotional sensitivity, Arnold was too intellectually self-aware to be swept away by the impulsiveness typical of lyrical moods. For him, the intellect always held dominance; the emotions were secondary. With the lyricist, the order is primarily the opposite. The poet lets go of intellectual constraints and "allows his enlightened being to overflow" with music and song. This was something Arnold could not or would not do. Additionally, Arnold's lyrics often have metric issues. This, along with frequent questionable rhymes, suggests a less refined poetic ear. He also lacked the creative genius to invent new verse forms, which forced him to use or adapt those already available. In this area, he was significantly less skilled [p.xxii] than Tennyson, many of whose measures are entirely his own. Furthermore, a large portion of his lyrical verse is simply prose broken into lines of varying lengths, mimicking the unrhymed structures of the Greek poet, Pindar. The Bishop of Derry, commenting on these rhythmic innovations, compares them to the sound of a stick being dragged sharply across the area railings by a city kid—a fitting analogy. Their success was not always there, as evidenced by the following stanza from Merope:—

"You confess the prize
In the rushing, clumsy, crazy,
Cloud-covered, hidden,
Unapplauded, unsung
Race of Calamity, mine!"

Surely this is just the simplest prose. However, at times, Arnold was beautifully lyrical, and strangely, too, in those same uneven styles where his most notable failures appear—the unrhymed Pindaric. Philomela, written in this style, is one of the most exquisite pieces of verse in the language. As one critic put it, "It should be written in silver and bound in gold." In terms of phrasing and genuine emotional depth, it is unmatched and shows Arnold at his best. Rugby Chapel, The Youth of Nature, The Youth of Man, and A Dream are good examples of his longer works in this verse form. In the more common lyric styles, Arnold was sometimes just as successful. Saintsbury, commenting on Requiescat, says that the poet has "here achieved the triple union of simplicity, pathos, and (in the best sense) elegance"; and adds that there isn’t a false note in the poem. He also speaks enthusiastically of the "honey-dropping trochees" of the New Sirens, and of the "chiselled and classic perfection" of the lines of Resignation. Herbert W. Paul, writing about Mycerinus, states that no such verse has been written in England since Wordsworth's Laodamia; and continues, "The poem is full of individual lines with haunting charm." Among his more successful longer lyrics are The Sick King in Bokhara, Switzerland, Faded Leaves, and Tristram and Iseult, as well as Epilogue to Lessing's LAOCOON, included in this volume.

Arnold as a Dramatist.—Drama imitates human action and aims to present a picture of human life through dialogue, acting, and stage elements. It combines aspects of both lyric and epic, merging emotion and action with storytelling. The characters come to life before us, engaging in conversations as the situations continuously change, leading to a memorable conclusion. As a dramatist, Arnold didn't achieve significant success. His essential qualities often got in the way. An author so introspective and focused on self-reflection as he was rarely manages to fully immerse himself in the minds of others. His dramas are filled with beautiful phrases, and his descriptions of landscapes and nature nearly reach perfection; however, he mainly struggles to handle his plots dramatically, resulting in a lack of overall impact that is crucial to drama. Often, his characters are tedious, and their dialogue tends to be frustratingly unnatural or bland. They also lack individuality and independence in their speech and actions. Many of his situations are problematic too. For example, it's hard to imagine characters like Ulysses and Circe taking on the minor roles they have in The Strayed Reveller. A true dramatist would not have made such a glaring mistake. Merope is written in the style of Greek tragedies. It has a dignified subject, noble sentiments, and a concise classic style; yet, it feels cold and artificial, failing to achieve the most vital purpose of drama—to evoke the reader's emotions. Empedocles on Etna, which is semi-autobiographical, is striking in some ways. It's filled with brilliant passages and includes some of Arnold's best lyrical verses and most beautiful nature descriptions; however, the dialogue is dull, the rhymes are weak, the plot is poorly managed, and even Empedocles, the main character, often comes off as tiresome and unnatural. Arnold's dramas reveal that his strength was not in character development or dialogue.

Arnold as a Writer of Epic and Elegy.—Epic poetry tells the grand stories of heroes, with the poet narrating the events as if they are right there. It's straightforward in structure and consistent in rhythm, but it allows for dialogue and episodes. While it doesn't necessarily push a moral, it can imply one. Elegiac poetry, on the other hand, has a mournful tone and expresses feelings of sorrow and lament. Both epic and elegy are serious in mood, slow, and dignified in action. Arnold excelled in these two forms of poetry. Stockton declared Sohrab and Rustum to be the greatest poem in English. Another critic noted that "it's the closest equivalent in English to the swift action, clarity of thought, straightforward language, and nobility of Homer." It combines classical purity of style with romantic passion, perfectly embodying Arnold's poetic theories outlined in the preface of his 1853 volume. It particularly shines in showcasing his idea of unity of impression; "the authenticity of its oriental hues, the deep emotional weight of the situation, the fervor and intensity of the action, the strong character development, and the full, solemn rhythm of the verse make it undeniably the masterpiece of Arnold's longer poems, being the largest and most ambitious in scope." Balder Dead, another distinct Arnold work based on the Norse legend of Balder, Lok, and Hader, while not as outstanding as Sohrab and Rustum, holds significant poetic value and ranks highly in its genre. Tristram and Iseult, with its deep tragedy, and The Sick King in Bokhara, rich in oriental imagery, are exceptional examples of lyrical epic. The Forsaken Merman and Saint Brandan, which are discussed elsewhere in this volume, serve as good examples of his shorter narrative poems. In Thyrsis, his poignant elegy celebrating his late friend Clough,[p.xxvi] Arnold produced one of the greatest elegies ever. This poem and its companion piece, The Scholar-Gipsy, exhibit the same blend of classic structure and romantic emotion found in Sohrab and Rustum. Both are crystal clear without being cold, and they are controlled without losing depth of power. Mr. Saintsbury remarked on The Scholar-Gipsy that "it has everything—a coherent scheme, a clear meaning and purpose, consistent and effective poetic presentation, and lines of stunning beauty;" and Thyrsis deserves no less praise. Other elegiac works include Heine's Grave, Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse, Stanzas in Memory of the Author of "Obermann," Obermann Once More, Rugby Chapel, and Memorial Verses, the last two being included in this volume. In the rhythmic patterns used in these poems—long, stately, and flowing—where the serious movements align with a lofty purpose, Arnold felt most comfortable.

Greek Spirit in Arnold.—But Arnold’s connection to the Greeks isn’t just about choosing classic topics and writing in the style of great masters. His poems, both in spirit and form, reflect the moods typical of the ancient Greeks. “One feels the (Greek) quality,” writes George E. Woodberry, “not as a source, but as a presence. In Tennyson, Keats, and Shelley, there was Greek influence, but the outcome was modern. In Arnold, the ancient quality remains—remaining in mood, just as in Landor it remains in form. The Greek twilight permeates all his poetry. It has a pagan philosophical spirit, not Attic, but from a later, stoic period; characterized by patience, endurance, and suffering—not in the Christian sense, but as they appear to a post-Christian imagination reflecting on the past.” Even when his poems deal with modern or romantic themes, there is a distinct impression that he presents them with the same imaginative quality as the Greek masters did, and in a similar style.

Arnold's Attitude toward Nature.—When it comes to their attitudes toward Nature, Arnold is often compared to Wordsworth. However, a close examination shows a significant difference in how Nature appealed to each of them and in their feelings while being in her presence. To Arnold, Nature provided a temporary escape from the doubts and distractions of modern life—a soothing, comforting, uplifting force; to Wordsworth, she was an inspiration—a presence that filled him "with the joy of elevated thoughts." Aware of the support he gained from her, Arnold encouraged everyone to follow Nature's example, urging them to find inner peace despite the chaos around them. Pancoast says: "He delights in guiding us to reflect on the endless calm of Nature, against which human struggles and sorrows seem trivial and insignificant. The beautiful poem Tristram and Iseult is constructed through a skillful interplay of two themes. We transition from the intense, exhausting, and fleeting struggle of human emotions and desires into an atmosphere that exposes the shortcomings of their heat and turmoil with its age-old coolness and serenity;" and this same comparison serves as a theme for a large part[p.xxviii] of his poetic work. Arnold also approached Nature differently from Wordsworth, as he perceived it with the outer eye, meaning objectively; while Wordsworth viewed it more with the inner eye, or subjectively. In this aspect, Arnold is essentially Greek and more aligned with Tennyson than with Wordsworth. Many of his poems, fully or partially, are simply depictions of nature and are extremely artistic. The images of the Oxus river at the end of Sohrab and Rustum; the English garden in Thyrsis; and the hunter on the tapestry in Tristram and Iseult are all striking examples. This pictorial style is something Wordsworth rarely employed. The two poets also widely differed in spirit. For Wordsworth, Nature was primarily the dwelling place of God; whereas Arnold "finds no outpouring of beauty and wisdom from the source of beauty" in the woods and fields, no presence of Nature's God.

Arnold's Attitude toward Life.—Arnold's perspective on life has been discussed in the insights found in the biographical sketch in this volume and only needs a short summary here. For him, human life in its more advanced forms appeared to be a serious and demanding undertaking; yet, he never hesitated nor tried to avoid his part of the challenge. "On the contrary, the main theme of his poetry is self-reliance; assistance must come from within the soul itself, for

"The sources of life are all inside us."

He talks about strength and bravery when facing the unknown and the inevitable—a bravery that, to many, seems hopeless and sad. He frequently escapes from life's overwhelming worries through a form of stoic acceptance. As a reformer, his main role was to awaken people, making them unhappy with themselves and their institutions, pushing them to think and become individuals. Throughout his works, he consistently emphasizes the importance of behavior and duty. The modern trend of moving away from traditional religious beliefs deeply concerned him, prompting him to present a rational belief system that would satisfy skeptics and engage the indifferent. As a closing thought, we should quote these impactful lines from the author's sonnet titled The Better Part:—

"Does man have no second life? Let’s make the most of this one!
Is there no judge in Heaven to witness our sins?
Then let’s obey the inner judge more strictly!
Was Christ a man like us? Ah! Let’s see
If we, too, can be the kind of people he was!"

The following excerpts about Arnold as a critic are quoted from well-known sources.

"Arnold's writing lacks the wistful sadness found in his poetry. It's almost always sophisticated, lively, and cheerful. The classical influence in his thinking [p.xxx] is evident here, untainted by the romantic feelings that shade his poems. His prose not only embodies classical qualities through its restraint, clear purpose, and the bright clarity of intellect that permeates it, but the principles he dedicated his life to promoting are rooted in a classical ideal—the ideal of balance, completeness, or what he boldly referred to as perfection.... Wherever he noticed his fellow citizens constrained by limited ideals in religion, politics, education, or literature, he brought the enlightening message of liberation, 'Culture.' Culture, understanding the finest thoughts and actions from history, is his cure-all for problems.... In nearly all his prose, he critiques some form of 'Philistinism,' a term he used to describe the narrow-mindedness and smugness of the British middle class."

"Arnold’s tone is perfectly suited to the unique task he had to undertake... In Culture and Anarchy and many later works, he made his case for the power of ideas with a stylish and playful elegance, reflecting the Hellenic spirit, bringing 'sweetness and light' into the dark corners of British prejudice. Sometimes, as in Literature and Dogma, where he advocates for a more open and literary interpretation of the Bible, his style is calm, smooth, and gently convincing. At other times, as in Friendship's Garland, he fires off his sarcastic jabs at the Philistines with a light-hearted mockery and disdain, which is even more annoying to his opponents because it’s cloaked in a false sense of humility and is meticulously polite.[p.xxxi]"

"Among Arnold's literary criticism, the most significant piece is the well-known essay On Translating Homer, which merits close examination for the insights it provides on many key issues of style. The essays on Wordsworth and Byron from Essays in Criticism, as well as the one on Emerson from Discourses in America, serve as excellent examples of Arnold's engaging style and depth of substance in this area."

"The overall impression Arnold creates in his writing can be seen as that of a worldly spiritual person. Compared to Carlyle, Ruskin, and Newman, he is more practical. Instead of their romantic passion and mystical insights, he offers an ideal of balanced development, representing the educated, empathetic, cosmopolitan gentleman. He marks a return to the norms of life after the upheaval of the romantic era. However, in his own way, he was also a prophet and a preacher, dedicated to freeing his fellow countrymen from their attachment to trivial matters and guiding them toward the harmony and balance of character that many great thinkers have viewed as the true aim of human effort."—MOODY AND LOVETT, A History of English Literature.

"As a literary critic, his taste, temperament, and judgment were almost flawless. He had a loyal and sensible respect for literary authority while also confidently and boldly using his own judgment. His admiration for the recognized masters of literature—Homer, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe—[p.xxxii]was genuine and enthusiastic, and far better informed than that of some more traditional critics. However, this genuine respect for established authority and loyalty to established reputations didn’t blind him to flaws; it didn’t lead him into mindless praise; and it didn’t stop him from pointing out the tendency toward wordiness in Burke and Jeremy Taylor, the excessive plainness of much of Wordsworth's blank verse, the streak of mediocrity in Macaulay, or the absurdities in Mr. Ruskin's etymology. Just as he assessed major works, he did the same with minor ones. Whatever literary work came to Matthew Arnold's attention, his judgment was clear, compassionate, and independent. He had a keen appreciation for true excellence and a quick intolerance for pretentiousness and exaggeration—what he called attempts to make dullness bearable by making it grandiose, along with a strong aversion to pretentiousness and inauthenticity."—Mr. GEORGE RUSSELL.

"In his role as a literary critic, Arnold has held a prominent position among the leading prose writers of his time. His style sharply contrasts with the passionate eloquence of Carlyle or Ruskin's bright and vivid descriptions. It’s a subdued style—restrained, clear, discerning, and incisive—lacking the fervor or emotion seen elsewhere. Despite its careful polish, it can often be merciless, frustrating opponents with its undercurrent of sarcasm and an air of calm superiority. By maintaining a high standard of technical excellence and offering clear principles of literary judgment, Arnold made significant contributions to literature. However, like in his poetry, we miss the human touch and broad empathy found in Carlyle's critiques. Yet, Carlyle wouldn’t have been able to write the essay On Translating Homer, with its scholarly precision in style and technique, just as Arnold couldn’t have created Carlyle’s generous essay on Burns. Arnold's diverse energy and highly honed intelligence have impacted various fields. He has carved out a unique and respected place in the poetry of the century; he has excelled as a literary critic, contributed to education, and finally, in his Culture and Anarchy, he laid out his vision for social reform, also contributing to contemporary thought in several later works."—PANCOAST, Introduction to English Literature.

1840. Alaric in Rome. (Award-winning poem at Rugby.)
1843. Cromwell. (Award-winning poem at Oxford.)
1849. The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems.
Mycerinus.
The Strayed Reveller.
Fragment of an Antigone.
The Sick King in Bokhara.
Religious Isolation.
To my Friends.
A Modern Sappho.
The New Sirens.
The Voice.
To Fausta.
Stagyrus.
To a Gipsy Child.
The Hayswater Boat.
The Forsaken Merman.
The World and the Quietist.
In Utrumque Paratus.
Resignation.
Sonnets.
Quiet Work.
To a Friend.
Shakespeare.
To the Duke of Wellington.
Written in Butler's Sermons.
Written in Emerson's Essays.
To an Independent Preacher.
To George Cruikshank.
To a Republican Friend.
1852. Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems.
[p.xxxv] Empedocles on Etna.
The River.
Excuse.
Indifference.
Too Late.
On the Rhine.
Longing.
The Lake.
Parting.
Absence.
Destiny. (Not reprinted.)
To Marguerite.
Human Life.
Despondency.
Youth's Agitations—A Sonnet.
Self-Deception.
Lines written by a Death-bed. (Afterward, Youth and Calm.)
Tristram and Iseult.
Memorial Verses. (Previously published in Fraser's Magazine.)
Courage. (Not reprinted.)
Self-Dependence.
A Summer Night.
The Buried Life.
A Farewell.
Stanzas in Memory of the Author of Obermann.
Consolation.
Lines written in Kensington Gardens.
The World's Triumphs—A Sonnet.
The Second Best.
Revolutions.
The Youth of Nature.
[p.xxxvi] The Youth of Man.
Morality.
Progress.
The Future.
1853. Poetry.
Sohrab and Rustum.
Cadmus and Harmonia. (A fragment of Empedocles on Etna.)
Philomela.
Thekla's Answer.
The Church of Brou.
The Neckan.
Switzerland.
Richmond Hill. (A fragment of The Youth of Man.)
Requiescat.
The Scholar-Gipsy.
Stanzas in Memory of the Late Edward Quillman.
Power of Youth. (A fragment of The Youth of Man.)
1854. A Goodbye.
1855. Poetry.
Balder Dead
Separation.
1858. Merope: A Tragedy.
1867. New Poems.
Persistency of Poetry.
Saint Brandan. (Fraser's Magazine, July, 1860.)
Sonnets.
     A Picture of Newstead.
     Rachel. (Three Sonnets.)
     East London.
     West London.
Anti-Desperation.
[p.xxxvii] Immorality.
Worldly Place.
The Divinity.
The Good Shepherd with the Kid.
Austerity of Poetry.
East and West.
Monica's Last Prayer.
Calais Sands.
Dover Beach.
The Terrace at Berne.
Stanzas composed at Carnæ.
A Southern Night. (Previously published in the Victoria Regia, 1861.)
Fragment of Chorus of a "Dejaneira."
Palladium.
Early Death and Fame.
Growing Old.
The Progress of Poesy.
A Nameless Epitaph.
The Last Word.
A Wish.
A Caution to Poets.
Pis-Aller.
Epilogue to Lessing's LAOCOON.
Bacchanalia.
Rugby Chapel.
Heine's Grave.
Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse.
1860. The Lord's Messengers. (Cornhill Magazine, July.)
1866. Thyrsis. (Macmillan's Magazine, April.)
1868. Obermann Again.
1873. New Rome. (Cornhill Magazine, June.)
[p.xxxviii] 1877. Haworth Churchyard with Epilogue. (Fraser's Magazine, May.)
1881. Geist's Grave. (Fortnightly Review, January.)
1882. Westminster Abbey. (Nineteenth Century Magazine, January.)
Poor Matthais. (Macmillan's Magazine, December.)
1887. Horatian Echo. (The Century Guild Hobby Horse, July.)
Kaiser is dead. (Fortnightly Review, July.)

1859. England and the Italian Question.
1861. Popular Education in France.
On Translating Homer.
1864. A French Eton.
1865. Essays in Criticism.
1867. On the Study of Celtic Literature.
1868. Schools and Universities on the Continent.
1869. Culture and Anarchy.
1870. St. Paul and Protestantism.
1871. Friendship's Garland.
1873. Literature and Dogma.
1874. Higher Schools and Universities in Germany.
1875. God and the Bible.
1877. Last Essays on Church and Religion.
1879. Mixed Essays.
1882. Irish Essays.
1885. Discourses in America.
1888. Essays in Criticism, Second Series.
Special Report on Elementary Education Abroad.
Civilization in the United States.

Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881).
Thomas B. Macaulay (1800-1859).
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861).
Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892).
Charles R. Darwin (1809-1882).
William M. Thackeray (1811-1863).
Robert Browning (1812-1889).
Charles Dickens (1812-1870).
George Eliot (1819-1880).
John Ruskin (1819-1900).
Herbert Spencer (1820-1903).
William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878).
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882).
Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864).
John G. Whittier (1807-1892).
Henry W. Longfellow (1807-1882).
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894).
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891).

The Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold (The Macmillan Company, one volume).
The English Poets, Vol. I, by T.H. Ward.
Matthew Arnold and the Spirit of the Age, edited by the English Club of Sewanee, Tennessee.
Matthew Arnold, by Sir J.G. Fitch.
Tennyson, Ruskin, and Other Literary Estimates, by Frederic Harrison.
Studies in Interpretation, by W.H. Hudson.
Corrected Impressions on Matthew Arnold, by G.E.B. Saintsbury.
Matthew Arnold, by Herbert W. Paul.
Matthew Arnold, by G.E.B. Saintsbury.
Arnold's Letters, collected and arranged by G.W.E. Russell.
The Bibliography of Matthew Arnold, edited by T.B. Smart.
Matthew Arnold, by Andrew Lang, in Century Magazine, 1881-1882, p. 849.
The Poetry of Matthew Arnold, by R.H. Hutton, in Essays Theological and Literary, Vol. II.
Religion and Culture, by John Shairp.
Arnold, in Victorian Poets, by Stedman.
Matthew Arnold, New Poems, in Essays and Studies, by A.C. Swinburne.
Arnold, in Our Living Poets, by Forman.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And the first light of morning filled the east,°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And the fog rose from the Oxus° river.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__But the entire Tartar camp° along the river
Was quiet, and still the men were deep in sleep;
5Sohrab alone, he did not sleep; all night long
He had laid awake, tossing in his bed;
But when the gray dawn crept into his tent,
He got up, dressed himself, and strapped on his sword,
And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent,
10And walked out into the cold wet fog,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's° tent.

He passed through the black Tartar tents, which stood
Clustering like beehives on the low flat bank
Of the Oxus, where summer floods overflow
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere°
He passed through the black tents, across that low bank,
And came to a small hillock, a little distance
From the river’s edge—the place where first a boat,
20Crossing the river in summer, scrapes the shore.
The men of old had crowned the top
With a clay fort; but that had fallen, and now
[p.2] The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent,
A dome of laths, and over it were laid felt coverings.
And Sohrab came there, went inside, and stood
25On the thick piled carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felt, with his arms near him.
And Peran-Wisa heard him, although the sound
Was muffled; for he slept lightly, an old man's sleep;
30And he quickly rose on one arm and said:—

"Who are you? It's not yet clear dawn.
Speak! Is there news, or any alarm from the night?"

But Sohrab approached the bedside and said:—
"You know me, Peran-Wisa! It’s I.
35The sun is not yet risen, and the enemy
Sleeps; but I do not sleep; all night I lie
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to you.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__For so did King Afrasiab° command me to seek
Your counsel, and to regard you as my father,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__In Samarcand,° before the army marched;
And I will tell you what my heart desires.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__You know that since I came from Ader-baijan°
I have been among the Tartars and fought for them,
I have always served Afrasiab well, and shown,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Even at my young age,° the courage of a man.
You also know, that while I still carry on
The conquering Tartar banners across the world,
And push the Persians back on every battlefield,
I seek one man, one man, and one alone—
50Rustum, my father; who I hoped would greet,
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field,
His not unworthy, not inglorious son.
So I long hoped, but him I have never found.
Come then, hear me now, and grant me what I ask.
[p.3] 55Let the two armies rest today; but I
Will challenge the bravest Persian lords
To meet me, man to man; if I prevail,
Rustum will surely hear about it; if I fall—
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The rumor of a common battle is vague,°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Where host meets host, and many names are lost°;
But fame speaks clearly of a single combat."

He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said:—

65"Oh Sohrab, an unsettled heart is yours!
Can’t you rest among the Tartar chiefs,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And share the battle’s common chance° with us
Who love you, but must always push first,
In single combat incurring individual risk,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__To find a father whom you have never seen°?
That would be far better, my son, to stay with us
In peace; in our tents while it is war,
And when there's truce, then in Afrasiab's towns.
But, if this one desire truly rules all,
75To seek out Rustum—seek him not through battle!
Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms,
Oh Sohrab, carry an unwounded son!
But search for him far away, for he is not here.
For now it is not as when I was young,
80When Rustum was at the front of every fray;
But now he keeps apart and stays at home,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__In Seistan,° with Zal, his old father.
Whether his own mighty strength at last
Feels the dreaded approach of old age,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Or because of some quarrel° with the Persian King.°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Go then!—Won’t you? Yet my heart warns me
Danger or death awaits you on this field.
[p.4] I would gladly know you safe and well, even if lost
To us; would therefore send you hence, in peace
90To seek your father, not seek single fights
In vain;—but who can keep the lion's cub
From ravening, and who control Rustum's son?
Go, I will grant you what your heart desires."

So he said, and let go Sohrab's hand, and left
95His bed, and the warm rugs upon which he lay;
And over his chilly limbs his woolen coat
He put on, and tied his sandals on his feet,
And threw a white cloak around him, and he took
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__In his right hand a ruler's staff, not a sword°;
100And on his head he placed his sheepskin cap,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul°;
And raised the curtain of his tent, and called
His herald to his side, and went out.

By this time the sun had risen, clearing the fog
105From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands.
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Into the open plain; so Haman° commanded—
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled
The host, and still was in his prime.
110From their black tents, long lines of horse, they streamed;
As when on some grey November morning the lines,
In marching order, spread, of long-necked cranes
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Stream over Casbin° and the southern slopes
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of Elburz,° from the Aralian estuaries,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Or some frozen° Caspian reed-bed, heading southward
For the warm Persian coast—so they streamed.
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard,
First, with black sheepskin caps and long spears;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Large men, large steeds; who come from Bokhara°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And Khiva,° and ferment the milk of mares.°
[p.5] °__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns° of the south,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The Tukas,° and the lances of Salore,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And those from Attruck° and the Caspian sands;
Light men and on light steeds, who only drink
125The sharp milk of camels, and from their wells.
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came
From far, and belonged to a more uncertain service;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The Tartars of Ferghana,° from the banks
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of the Jaxartes,° men with sparse beards
130And closely fitted skullcaps; and those wilder hordes
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Who roam over Kipchak° and the northern wastes,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Kalmucks° and scruffy Kuzzaks,° tribes that wander
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,°
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere;
135These all filed out from camp into the plain.
And on the other side the Persians formed;—
First a light cloud of horse, looking like Tartars.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The Ilyats of Khorassan°; and behind,
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,
140Marshalled battalions bright in polished steel.
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came,
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front,
And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks.
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw
145That Peran-Wisa held the Tartars back,
He took his spear, and came to the front,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And stopped his ranks, and fixed° them where they stood.
And the old Tartar came upon the sand
Between the silent hosts, and spoke, and said:—

150"Ferood, and you, Persians and Tartars, hear!
Let there be a truce between the hosts today.
But choose a champion from the Persian lords
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man."

[p.6] As, in the countryside, on a June morning,
155When the dew glistens on the pearled ears,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__A shiver runs through the deep corn° for joy—
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,
A thrill ran through all the Tartar squadrons
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__But just as a group of peddlers, from Cabool,°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,°
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow;
Crossing so high, that, as they rise, they pass
Long flocks of traveling birds dead on the snow,
165Choked by the air, and they can hardly
Quench their parched throats with sugar'd mulberries—
In single file they move, and hold their breath,
For fear they should dislodge the overhanging snows—
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.

170And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up
To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came,
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Secondly, and was the uncle of the King°;
These came and consulted, and then Gudurz said:—

175"Ferood, shame drives us to take up their challenge,
Yet we have no champion to match this youth.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart.°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__But Rustum came last night; he sits apart°
And broods, and has pitched his tents away from us.
180I will seek him, and carry to his ears
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name.
He may forget his anger, and come out to fight.
Stand forth meanwhile, and take their challenge up."

So he spoke; and Ferood stood forth and cried:—
185"Old man, let it be as you have said!
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man."
[p.7] He spoke: and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode
Back through the parting squadrons to his tent.
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran,
190And crossed the camp behind, and reached,
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents.
They were of scarlet cloth, and glittering bright,
Just pitched; the high pavilion in the center
Was Rustum's, and his men were camped around.
195And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent and found
Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still
The table stood before him, laden with food—
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And dark green melons; and there Rustum sat°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Listless, and held a falcon° on his wrist,
And played with it; but Gudurz came and stood
Before him; and Rustum looked, and saw him stand,
And with a cry sprang up and dropped the bird,
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said:—

205"Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight.
What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink."

But Gudurz stood in the tent door and said:—
"Not now! a time will come to eat and drink,
But not today; today has other needs.
210The armies are drawn out and stand at gaze;
For from the Tartars, a challenge is brought
To choose a champion from the Persian lords
To fight their champion—and you know his name—
Sohrab they call him, but his birth is hidden.
215Oh Rustum, like your might is this young man!
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And he is young, and Iran's° chiefs are old,
Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to you.
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!"

[p.8] 220He spoke; but Rustum answered with a smile:—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__"Go away! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I
Am older; if the young are weak, the King
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo,°
Himself is young, and honors younger men,
225And lets the aged moulder to their graves.
Rustum he loves no more, but favors the young—
The young may rise at Sohrab’s boasts, not I.
For what do I care, though all speak Sohrab’s fame?
For wish that I myself had such a son,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And not that one slight helpless girl° I have—
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And I to wait with the snow-haired Zal,°
My father, whom the robbers Afghans annoy,
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds,
235And he has no one to guard his weak old age.
There would I go, and hang my armor up,
And with my great name shield that weak old man,
And spend the goodly treasures I have gotten,
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame,
240And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings,
And with these slaughterous hands draw swords no more."

He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz replied:—
"What then, oh Rustum, will men say to this,
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks
245You most of all, and you, whom most he seeks,
Hide your face? Take care lest men say:
Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And shuns to peril it with younger men.°

And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply:—
250"Oh Gudurz, why do you say such things?
You know better words than these to say.
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed,
Valiant or cowardly, young or old, to me?
[p.9] Are they not mortal, am I not myself?
255But who for men of nothing would do great deeds?
Come, you shall see how Rustum hoards his fame!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms°;
Let not men say of Rustum that he was matched
In single combat with any mortal man."

260He spoke, and frowned; and Gudurz turned, and ran
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy—
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came.
But Rustum strode to his tent door, and called
His followers in, and asked them to bring his arms,
265And clothed himself in steel; the arms he chose
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Were plain, and on his shield was no design,°
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,
And, from the frilled spine on top, a plume
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume.
270So armed, he came out; and Ruksh, his horse,
Followed him like a loyal hound at heel—
Ruksh, whose renown was known throughout all the earth,
The horse which Rustum on a raid once
Found in Bokhara by the river,
275A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home,
And raised him; a bright bay, with lofty crest,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Dight° with a green embroidered saddle-cloth
Decorated with gold, and on the ground were embroidered
Every creature of the hunt, all the animals hunters know.
280Then Rustum left his tents and crossed
The camp, showing himself to the Persian army.
And all the Persians recognized him and cheered him;
But the Tartars didn’t know who he was.
And as dear as the wet diver is to the eyes
285Of his pale wife waiting and weeping on the shore,
[p.10] °__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__By sandy Bahrein,° in the Persian Gulf,
Diving all day in the blue waves, at night,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__Having crafted his tale° of precious pearls,
He returns to their hut on the sands—
290So beloved to the pale Persians was Rustum.

And Rustum moved to the front of the Persians,
While Sohrab armed himself in Haman's tent and came out.
And just as reapers cut a swath
Through the heart of a rich man’s cornfield,
295With fields of standing corn on each side,
And in the center, short and bare stubble—
So on either side were rows of men with spears
Standing tall, and in the middle, the open sand.
And Rustum stepped onto the sand and looked
300Toward the Tartar tents, and saw
Sohrab coming forth, as he approached him.

As a wealthy woman, on a winter morning,
Looks through her silk curtains at the poor drudge
With numb blackened fingers starting her fire—
305At dawn, on a starry winter morning,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__When the frost flowers° crystalize on the window panes—
And wonders how that poor drudge lives, and what thoughts
Might go through that worker’s mind; so Rustum watched
The unknown adventurous young man, who from afar
310Came seeking Rustum and challenging
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_4__All the bravest chiefs; long he examined°
His spirited demeanor, and wondered who he was.
For he appeared very young, carefully nurtured;
Like a young cypress, tall, dark, and straight,
315Which casts its slender dark shadow
On moonlit grass in a queen’s secluded garden,
By midnight, to the sound of a bubbling fountain—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_5__So slender Sohrab seemed,° so delicately raised.
[p.11] And deep compassion filled Rustum's heart
320As he saw him approaching; and he stood,
And gestured to him with his hand, and said:—
"Oh young man, the air of Heaven is soft,
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold!
Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_6__Look at me! I am huge,° and clad in iron,
And battle-tested; I have fought on many battlefields
Of blood and faced many foes—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_7__Never has a field been lost, or a foe spared.°
Oh Sohrab, why will you rush toward death?
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_8__Be sensible! Leave the Tartar camp and come
To Iran, and be like a son to me,
And fight under my banner until I die!
There are no young men in Iran as brave as you."
So he spoke softly; Sohrab heard his voice,
335The powerful voice of Rustum, and he saw
His enormous figure standing on the sand,
Alone, like a tower built by a chief
On a barren land in earlier days
Against robbers; and he noticed that head,
340With its first gray hairs strewn through;—hope filled his heart,
And he ran forward and embraced his knees,
And clasped his hands around Rustum's arm, and said:—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_9__ "Oh, by your father's head! by your own soul
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_10__Are you not Rustum? Speak! Are you not he?"
345 But Rustum looked at the kneeling youth with suspicion,
And turned away, speaking to himself:—
"Ah me, I wonder what this young fox may mean!
False, cunning, boastful, these Tartar boys can be.
For if I confess this thing he asks,
350And don’t conceal it, but say: Rustum is here!
He will not truly fight nor abandon our foes,
But will find an excuse not to engage,
And praise my reputation, and offer respectful gifts,
A belt or perhaps a sword, and go on his way.
355Later, on a feast day, in Afrasiab's hall,
In Samarcand, he will rise and proclaim:
'I once challenged all the Persian lords
To single combat when the two armies camped
Beside the Oxus; only Rustum dared to fight me; then he and I
360Exchanged gifts and parted on equal terms.'
That’s how he may speak, while others applaud;
Then the lords of Iran will feel ashamed because of me."

And then he turned, and spoke gruffly aloud:—
365"Get up! Why do you waste time asking about Rustum?
I am here, whom you have called out
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_11__By challenge; prove your bragging,° or yield!
Is it only with Rustum that you wish to fight?
Foolish boy, men see Rustum’s face and flee!
370For I know well, if great Rustum stood
Before you today, and was revealed,
There would be no talk of fighting at all.
But being who I am, I’ll tell you this—
Keep it deep in your soul:
375Either you renounce your boast and yield,
Or your bones will cover this sand until the winds
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods,
Will wash them all away."

He spoke; and Sohrab replied, standing tall:—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_12__"Is that how fierce you are? You will not scare me!
I am no girl to be frightened by words.
But what you’ve said is true; if Rustum was
Here on this field, there would be no fight.
But Rustum is far away, and we stand here.
[p.13] 385Begin! You are bigger, more fearsome than I,
And you are proven, I know, and I am young—
But still success sways with the breath of Heaven.
And though you think you are guaranteed
Victory, you can never be sure.
390For we are all, like swimmers in the sea,
Balanced on top of a giant wave of fate,
Suspended with uncertainty as to which way to fall.
And whether it will lift us up to shore,
Or whether it will roll us back out to sea,
395Or out to sea, into the deep waves of death,
We don’t know, and no search will help us know;
Only the outcome will teach us in its time."

He spoke, and Rustum didn’t respond, but threw
His spear; down from his shoulder, down it came,
400Like a hawk diving for a partridge in a cornfield,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_13__That has long hovered° in the airy clouds,
Dropping like a weight; Sohrab saw it coming,
And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear
Hissed, and quivered down into the sand,
405Sending it flying wide;—then Sohrab threw
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_14__In turn, and fully struck° Rustum's shield; sharp rang,
The iron plates rang loudly, but didn’t pierce the skin.
And Rustum grabbed his club, which none but he
Could control; it was a massive, uncut trunk,
410Still rough—like those used in treeless plains
To build boats for fishing from floods,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_15__Hyphasis° or Hydaspes,° when, high up
By their dark springs, the wind in wintertime
415Has wrecked the Himalayan forests,
And scattered debris—so huge was
The club that Rustum lifted now, and swung
Once; but again Sohrab leapt aside,
[p.14] °__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_16__ Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand.
420And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell
To his knees, grasping the sand with his fingers;
And now Sohrab could have unsheathed his sword,
And pierced the great Rustum while he lay
Dizzy, on his knees, choking on sand;
425But he looked on, smiled, and didn’t draw his sword,
But respectfully stepped back and said:—

"You strike too hard! That club of yours will float
On the summer floods, but not my bones.
But rise, and do not be angry! I am not angry;
430No, when I see you, anger leaves my soul.
You say you are not Rustum; let it stay that way!
Who are you then, that can so touch my soul?
Even as a young boy, I have seen battles too—
Have waded at the front in their bloody waves,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_17__And heard the hollow° roar of dying men;
But my heart has never been so stirred before.
Are these feelings from Heaven? Let’s yield to Heaven!
Come, let us plant our angry spears in the sand,
440And make peace, and sit on this sand,
And pledge to each other in red wine, like friends,
And you shall tell me of Rustum's feats.
There are enough enemies in the Persian army,
Whom I may confront, strike, and feel no pain;
445Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom you
May fight; fight them, when they confront your spear!
But oh, let there be peace between you and me!"

He stopped, but while he spoke, Rustum had risen,
And stood up, trembling with rage; his club
450He let fall, but had regained his spear,
Whose fiery point now in his armored right hand
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_18__Shone bright and ominous, like that autumn star,°
The dreaded sign of fevers; dust had soiled
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_19__His noble crest,° and dimmed his shining arms.
455His chest heaved, his lips foamed, and his voice
Broke twice with fury; at last these words escaped:—

"Girl! nimble with your feet, not your words!
Curled darling, dancer, maker of sweet words!
Fight, and let me not hear your annoying voice again!
460You are not in Afrasiab's gardens now
With Tartar girls, with whom you are used to dance;
But on the Oxus sands, in the dance
Of battle, and with me, who makes no play
Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand.
465Do not speak to me of truce, and pledges, and wine!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_20__Remember all your bravery; try your tricks
And cunning! all the pity I had is gone;
Because you have shamed me before both armies
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_21__With your light skipping tricks, and your girl’s wiles.°"

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_22__He spoke, and Sohrab flared° at the taunts,
And he too drew his sword; they rushed
Together, like two eagles on the same prey,
Coming down from the clouds,
One from the east, one from the west; their shields
475Clashed loudly, and a noise
Rose, like what strong woodcutters
Make often in the heart of the forest at dawn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blows
Rustum and Sohrab struck against each other.
480And you would say sun and stars participated
In that unnatural° conflict; because a cloud°
Suddenly grew in the sky and darkened the sun
Above the fighters' heads; and a wind rose
[p.16] 485Under their feet, moaning and sweeping the plain,
490And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair.
In gloom they were shrouded, just the two of them;
For both the watching armies on either side
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was clear,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_24__And the sun sparkled° on the Oxus river.
495But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes
And strained breath; first Rustum struck the shield
Which Sohrab held firmly out; the steel-spiked spear
Ripped the tough plates, but failed to pierce the skin,
And Rustum pulled it back with an angry groan.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_25__Then Sohrab with his sword hit Rustum's helm,°
But didn’t split the steel all the way through; but all the crest
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_26__Was shorn° away, and that proud plume of horsehair,
Never before tarnished, sank to the dust;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_27__And Rustum bowed his head°; but then the gloom
500Grew darker, thunder rumbled in the air,
And lightning tore the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,
Who stood nearby, let out a terrible cry;—
No horse's cry was that, more like the roar
Of a wounded desert lion, who all day
505Has trailed a hunter's spear in his side,
And comes at night to die in the sand.
The two armies heard that cry and trembled in fear,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_28__And Oxus ran red as it crossed its stream.
But Sohrab heard it and didn’t pause, but rushed on,
510And struck again; and again Rustum lowered
His head; but this time all the blade, like glass,
Shattered into a thousand pieces on the helm,
And in his hand, the hilt remained alone.
Then Rustum raised his head; his fearful eyes
515Burned, and he lifted high his threatening spear,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_29__And shouted: Rustum!—Sohrab heard that shout,
[p.17] And stepped back in amazement; he retreated one step,
And looked with blinking eyes at the approaching figure;
And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped
520His shield, and the spear pierced his side.
He staggered, and collapsing, sank to the ground;
And then the gloom cleared, and the wind calmed,
And the bright sun broke forth, melting all
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair—
525Saw Rustum standing, safe on his feet,
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_30__Then, with a bitter smile,° Rustum began:—
"Sohrab, you thought today to kill
A Persian lord, and strip his body,
530And take your trophies to Afrasiab's tent.
Or that the great Rustum would come down
To fight you himself, and that your tricks would move
His heart to accept a gift, and let you go.
And then that all the Tartar host would praise
535Your bravery or your tactics, spreading your name,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_31__To please° your father in his old age.
Fool, you are slain, and by an unknown man!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_32__Dearer to the red jackals° shall you be
Than to your friends, and to your old father."

540And, with a fearless spirit, Sohrab replied:—
"Unknown you are; yet your fierce boasting is empty
You do not slay me, proud and boastful man!
No! Rustum slays me, and this loyal heart.
For had I faced ten such men as you,
545And I still were the same as I was today,
They would lie here, I standing here
But that beloved name unnerved my arm—
That name, and something, I admit, in you,
Which stirs all my heart, and made my shield
[p.18] 550Fall; and your spear struck an unarmed victim.
And now you boast, and insult my fate.
But listen closely, fierce man, tremble to hear
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!
My father, whom I search for all over the world,
555He shall take revenge on you!"

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_33__As when some hunter° in spring finds
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake,
And pierces her with an arrow as she rises,
560And follows her to discover where she fell
Far away;—then her mate comes winging back
From hunting, and far away spots
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_34__His huddling young left alone; at that, he checks
His wing, and with short uneasy sweeps
565Circles above his eyry, with loud screams
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she
Lies dying, with an arrow in her side,
In some stony gorge out of his sight,
A pile of fluttering feathers—never more
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_35__Shall the lake reflect° her, flying over it;
Never shall those black dripping cliffs
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by—
Just as that poor bird flies home, unaware of his loss,
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood
575Over his dying son, and did not recognize him.

But, with a cold disbelieving voice, he said:—
"What nonsense is this about fathers and revenge?
The mighty Rustum never had a son."

And, with a feeble voice, Sohrab replied:—
580"Ah yes, he did! and I am that lost son.
Surely the news will one day reach his ears,
Reach Rustum, wherever he sits and lingers,
Somewhere, I do not know where, but far from here;
And stab him like a wound, making him leap
585To arms and demand revenge against you.
Fierce man, think about it, for an only son!
What will that pain, what will that vengeance be?
Oh, could I live until I saw that grief!
Yet I do not pity him as much as her,
590My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells
With that old king, her father, who grows gray
With age, and rules over the brave Koords.
Her I most pity, who will no longer see
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,
595With spoils and honor, when the battle is over.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_36__But a dark rumor will spread,°
From tribe to tribe, until it reaches her ears;
And then that helpless woman will learn
That Sohrab will never again bring her joy,
600But that in battle with an unknown foe,
By the far-off Oxus, he is slain."

He spoke; and as he stopped, he cried out loudly,
Thinking of her he left behind and his own death.
He spoke; but Rustum listened, lost in thought.
605Nor did he yet believe it was his son
Who spoke, despite calling back names he recognized;
For he had received word that the babe,
Born to him in Ader-baijan,
Had been a tiny girl, no boy at all—
610So that sad mother sent him word, fearing
Rustum might seek the child, to train in arms—
And so he believed that either Sohrab took,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_37__By a false boast, the title° of Rustum’s son;
Or that men gave it to him, to enhance his reputation.
615So he thought; yet he listened, lost in thought
And his heart turned to sorrow, as the great tide
Of the bright flowing Ocean turns to shore
At the full moon; tears gathered in his eyes;
For he remembered his own youthful years,
620And all its bounding joy; as, at dawn,
The shepherd from his mountain lodge sees
A distant city, kissed by the sun,
Through many rolling clouds—so Rustum saw
His youth; he saw Sohrab's mother, in her prime;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_38__And that old king,° her father, who loved well
His wandering visitor, and gave him his fair child
With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,
The three of them, in that long-gone summer—
The castle, the dewy woods, the hunts
630And hounds, and mornings on those beautiful hills
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_39__With age and looks° to be his own dear son,
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand;
Like a rich hyacinth cut by an unskillful gardener,
635In the garden grass-plots near its bed,
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,
On the mown, dying grass—so Sohrab lay,
Lovely in death, upon the common sand.
640And Rustum gazed at him with sorrow, and said:—

"Oh Sohrab, you truly are such a son
Whom Rustum, had you been his, would have loved well.
Yet here you are mistaken, Sohrab, or else men
Have lied to you—you are not Rustum's son.
645For Rustum had no son; he had just one child—
But one—a girl; who with her mother now
Does light work, nor dreams of us—
She dreams not of us, nor of wounds, nor war."

But Sohrab answered him angrily; for now
650The agony of the deep-set spear grew intense,
And he wanted to draw out the steel,
And let the blood flow freely, and so die—
But first he would convince his stubborn foe;
And, lifting himself sternly on one arm, he said:—

655"Man, who are you to deny what I say?
Truth speaks from the lips of dying men,
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from me.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_40__I tell you, pricked upon this arm° I bear
That seal which Rustum gave my mother,
660So she might impress it on the babe she bore."

He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks,
And his knees shook, and he struck his hand
Against his breast, his heavy armored hand,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_41__As the hard iron corslet° clashed loudly;
665And to his heart he pressed the other hand,
And in a hollow voice he spoke, and said:—

"Sohrab, that would be proof that cannot lie!
If you show this, then you are Rustum's son."

Then, with weak eager fingers, Sohrab loosened
670His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,
And revealed a mark in faint red points
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_42__Pricked; like a skilled° craftsman, in Pekin,
Pricks with red points some fine porcelain vase,
An emperor’s gift—at dawn, he paints,
675And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp
Illuminates his studious forehead and thin hands—
So delicately pricked the mark appeared
On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_43__It was that griffin,° which of old reared Zal,
680Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die,
A helpless baby, among the mountain rocks;
[p.22] That kind creature found, raised, and loved—
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.
And Sohrab displayed that image on his arm,
685And himself studied it long with mournful eyes,
And then he touched it with his hand and said:—

"How do you say? Is that mark the true mark
Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man?"

He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood
690 Speechless; then he let out one sharp cry:
O boy—your father!—and his voice choked there.
And then a dark cloud covered his vision,
And his head spun, and he sank down to earth.
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and wrapped
695His arms around his neck, and kissed his lips,
And with tender trembling fingers stroked his cheeks,
Trying to call him back to life; and life
Came back to Rustum, and he opened his eyes,
And they were wide with horror; and he seized
700In both hands the dust that lay around,
And threw it on his head, and smeared his hair,—
His hair, and face, and beard, and glimmering arms;
And powerful sobs shook his chest,
And his cries choked him; and he grasped his sword,
705To draw it and end life forever.
But Sohrab saw his intent and held his hands,
And with a comforting voice he spoke, and said:—

"Father, stop! for today I meet
The fate that was written down at my birth
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_44__In Heaven, and you are Heaven's unconscious hand.°
Surely my heart knew it was you,
When I first saw you; and your heart spoke too,
I know it! But fate pressed those feelings down
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged
[p.23] 715The conflict, and hurled me onto my father’s spear.
But let us speak no more of this! I find
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_45__My father; let me feel that I have found!°
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take
My head in your hands, and kiss my cheeks,
720 And wash them with your tears, and say: My son!
Come quickly! for the moments of my life
Are numbered, and swift; for like the lightning to this field
I came, and like the wind I depart—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_46__Sudden, and swift, like a passing wind.°
But it was written in Heaven that this should happen."

So he said, and his voice unburdened Rustum's heart
And his tears flowed forth; he wrapped
His arms around his son’s neck, and cried loudly,
And kissed him. And shock fell on both armies,
730When they saw Rustum’s grief; and Ruksh, the horse,
With his head bowed to the ground and mane
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in silent sorrow
First to one then to the other moved
His head, as if wondering what their grief
735Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_47__The big warm tears rolled down, and caked° the sand.
But Rustum rebuked him in a stern voice, and said:—

"Ruksh, now you grieve; but, O Ruksh, your feet
Should have rotted on their nimble joints,
740Before they brought your master to this field!"

But Sohrab looked at the horse and said:—
"Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days,
My mother told me of you, great steed,
My formidable father's terrifying horse! And said,
745That I should one day find you both.
Come, let me lay my hand upon your mane!
Oh Ruksh, you are more fortunate than I;
[p.24] For you have gone where I shall never go,
And breathed the breezes of my father's home.
750And you have walked the sands of Seistan,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_48__And seen the River of Helmund,° and the Lake
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_49__Of Zirrah°; and the aged Zal himself
Has often stroked your neck and given you food,
Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine,
755And said: Oh Ruksh! bear Rustum well!—but I
Have never known my grandfather’s furrowed face,
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,
Nor quenched my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;
But stayed among my father’s foes, and seen
760Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand,
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drank
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_50__The desert rivers, Moorghab° and Tejend,°
Kohik,° and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_51__The northern Sir°; and this great Oxus river,
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die."

Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum lamented:—
"Oh, that its waves were rolling over me!
Oh, that I could see its grains of yellow silt
770Roll tumbling in the current over my head!"

But, with a serious gentle voice, Sohrab replied:—
"Do not desire that, my father! You must live.
For some are born to achieve greatness and live,
As others are born to obscurity and die.
775Do the deeds I die too young to achieve,
And reap a second glory in your old age;
You are my father, and your success is mine.
But come! you see this great host of men
Which follows me; I pray you, do not slay them!
780 Let me plead for them; what have they done?
They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But you must carry me away, not send with them,
But take me with you to Seistan,
785And lay me on a bed, and mourn for me,
You, and the silver-haired Zal, and all your friends.
And you must bury me in that beautiful earth,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_52__And raise a grand mound° above my bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all.
790So that the passing horseman on the plains
May see my tomb from a distance, and call:
Sohrab, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies here,
Whom his great father did unknowingly kill!
And I will not be forgotten in my grave."

795And, with a sorrowful voice, Rustum replied:—
"Fear not! As you have said, Sohrab, my son,
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents,
And leave the host, and carry you away with me,
And take you to Seistan,
800And lay you on a bed, and mourn for you,
With the silver-headed Zal, and all my friends.
And I will bury you in that beautiful earth,
And raise a grand mound above your bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all,
805And men shall not forget you in your grave.
And I will spare your army; yes, let them go!
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace!
What should I do with killing any more?
For would that all I have ever slain
810Might be brought back to life; my fiercest foes,
And those who were champions in their time,
From whose deaths I gained my fame—
And I were just a regular man,
A poor, anonymous soldier, without renown,
815So that you might live too, my son, my son!
Or rather would that I, even I myself,
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of yours,
Not you of mine! And I might die, not you;
820And I, not you, be carried to Seistan;
And Zal might weep above my grave, not yours;
And say: Oh son, I do not grieve for you too much,
For willingly, I know, you met your end!
But now my youth was filled with blood and battles,
825And my old age is full of blood and battles,
And I shall never end this life of blood."

Then, at the edge of death, Sohrab replied:—
"A life of blood indeed, you dreadful man!
But you shall yet have peace; just not now,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_53__Not yet! but you shall have it on that day,°
When you shall sail in a tall ship,
You and the other peers of Kai Khosroo,
Returning home over the salt blue sea,
From laying your dear master in his grave."

835And Rustum stared into Sohrab's face and said:—
"Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!
Until then, if fate so wills, let me endure."

He spoke; and Sohrab smiled at him, and took
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased
840His wound's harsh anguish; but the blood
Came gushing from the open wound, and life
Flowed with the stream;—all down his cold white side
The crimson flood ran, dim now and soiled,
Like the soiled tissue of white violets
845Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank,
By children who call their nurses indoors in haste
From the sun's eye; his head drooped low,
His limbs grew slack; motionless, pale, he lay—
Pale, with closed eyes; only when heavy breaths,
850Deep heavy breaths shook through his body,
Did they pull him back to life, and he opened them,
And fixed them feebly on his father's face;
Until now all strength was ebbing, and from his limbs
Unwillingly the spirit departed,
855Regretting the warm home it was leaving,
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.

So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead;
And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak
Down over his face, and sat by his dead son.
860As those black granite pillars, once high-raised
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_54__By Jemshid in Persepolis,° to hold up
His house, now among their broken flights of steps
Lie flat, enormous, down the mountain side—
So in the sand lay Rustum next to his son.

865And night descended over the solemn waste,
And the two gazing armies, and that single pair,
And everything turned dark; and a cold fog, with night,
Creeped from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,
As of a great assembly breaking up, and fires
870Started to twinkle through the fog; for now
Both armies moved to camp and had their meal;
The Persians ate on the open sands
Southward, the Tartars by the riverbank;
And Rustum and his son were left alone.

875But the majestic river flowed on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_55__Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian° waste,
Under the single moon;—he flowed
[p.28] °__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_56__Right for the polar star,° past Orgunjè,°
Brimming, bright, and large; then the sands began
To constrain his watery course, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; that for many leagues
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along
885Through beds of sand and tangled rushy islands—
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere,
A thwart circuitous wanderer—until finally
The longed-for crash of waves is heard, and wide
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_57__His luminous home° of waters opens, bright
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_58__And tranquil, from whose floor the newly-bathed stars°
Emerge and shine upon the Aral Sea.

Saint Brandan sails the northern sea;
The group of saints are happy.
He greets them once, then sails away;
So late!—such storms!—The Saint is crazy!

5He heard, across the howling waves,
Chime of convent bells on winter nights;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,°
Twinkling monastery lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered—
10And now no bells, no convents left!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The racing Polar lights° are near,
The sea without a human shore.

[p.29] At last—(it was Christmas night;
Stars shone after a day of storm)—
15He sees a floating iceberg white,
And on it—Christ!—a living form.

That furtive look, that scowling eye,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of red and tufted hair° that fell—
It is—Oh, where shall Brandan flee?—
20The traitor Judas, out of hell!

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Palsied with terror, Brandan sat°;
The moon was bright, the iceberg near.
He hears a voice sigh softly: "Wait!
By high permission I am here.

25"One moment wait, you holy man
On earth my crime, my death, they knew;
My name is banned by everyone—
Ah, tell them of my chance too!

"Tell them, one blessed Christmas night—
30(It was the first after I came,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Breathing self-harm,° frenzy, spite,
To regret my guilt in endless flame)—

"I felt, as I lay in torment
'Mid the souls tormented by heavenly power,
35An angel touched my arm and said:
Go hence, and cool yourself for an hour!

"'Ah, why this mercy, Lord?' I asked.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Remember the Leper,° said he,
Who asked the passers-by for help,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__In Joppa,° and your charity.

[p.30] "Then I remembered how I walked,
In Joppa, through the public street,
One morning when the sirocco blew
Its storms of dust with burning heat;

45"And in the street a leper sat,
Shivering with fever, naked, old;
Sand raked his sores from heel to head,
The hot wind tortured him five-fold.

"He looked at me as I passed
50And murmured: Help me, or I die!—
To the poor wretch my cloak I threw,
Saw him look relieved, and hurried by.

"Oh, Brandan, think what divine grace,
What blessing must full goodness pour,
55When a small act of kindness, like mine,
Has such immeasurable power!

"Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I
Did that chance act of good, just one!
Then went my way to kill and lie—
60Forgot my good as soon as done.

"That seed of kindness, caught in mercy,
Did not perish;
It outlives my guilt, outlives my doom,
And helps me in the pit of fire.

65"Once every year, when carols wake,
On earth, the calm of Christmas night,
Rising from the sinner's lake,
I journey to these healing snows.

[p.31] "I cool my burning heart with ice,
70With silence soothe my whirling mind.
Oh, Brandan! to this hour of rest
That Joppan leper's ease was pain."—

Tears welled up in Saint Brandan's eyes;
He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer—
75Then looked, and lo, the frosty skies!
The iceberg, and no Judas there!

Come on, kids, let's go;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers are calling from the bay,
Now the strong winds blow toward the shore,
5Now the salty tides flow seaward;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Now the wild white horses° are playing,
Champ and chafe and tossing in the spray.
Kids, let’s go!
This way, this way!

10Call her once before you go—
Just call one more time!
In a voice she’ll recognize:
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__"Margaret°! Margaret!"
Children’s voices should be dear
15(Call one more time) to a mother’s ear;
Children’s voices, filled with pain—
Surely she will come again!
[p.32] Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
20"Mom, we can't stay!
The wild white horses are foaming and fretting."
Margaret! Margaret!

Come on, kids, let’s go down;
No more calling!
25One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little gray church on the windy shore;
Then let’s go down!
She won’t come even if you call all day;
Come away, come away!

30Kids, was it just yesterday
That we heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we were lying,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The distant sound of a silver bell?
35Sand-covered caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the fading lights flicker and shine,
Where the salt seaweed sways in the stream,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Where the sea creatures, gathered° all around,
40Feed in the mud of their grazing ground;
Where the sea serpents coil and twist,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Dry their skin° and bask in the salt water;
Where great whales swim by,
Sail and sail with their eyes wide open,
45Roaming the world forever and ever?
When did music come this way?
Kids, was it just yesterday?

[p.33] Kids, was it just yesterday
(Call once more) that she went away?
50Once she sat with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sat on her knee.
She brushed its bright hair and took good care of it,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__When suddenly came the sound of a far-off bell.°
55She sighed, looked up through the clear green sea;
She said: "I must go, for my family prays
In the little gray church on the shore today.
It’ll be Easter-time in the world—oh no!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with you."
60I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say your prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!"
She smiled, went up through the surf in the bay.
Kids, was it just yesterday?

Kids, were we alone for long?
65"The sea is getting stormy, the little ones are moaning;
Long prayers," I said, "they say in the world;
Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We walked up the beach, by the sandy dunes
Where the sea stocks bloom, to the white-walled town;
70Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of people at their prayers,
But we stood outside in the cold, blowing winds.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rain,
75And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded windows.
She sat by the pillar; we saw her clearly:
"Margaret, hey! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart," I said, "we have been alone for too long;
The sea is growing stormy, the little ones are moaning."
[p.34] 80But, oh, she never looked at me,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__For her eyes were glued° to the holy book!
The priest prays loudly; the door is shut tight.
Come away, kids, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

85Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the bustling town,
Singing so joyfully.
Listen to what she sings: "Oh joy, oh joy,
90For the busy street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And the blessed light of the sun°!"
And so she sings her heart out,
95Singing so joyfully,
Till the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whirring wheel stands still.
She sneaks to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
100And her eyes are set in a stare;
And soon a sigh breaks out,
And soon a tear falls,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart weighed down,
105A long, long sigh;
For the cold, strange eyes of a little mermaid
And the shine of her golden hair.

Come away, away, kids;
Come children, come down!
110The harsh wind blows coldly;
Lights shine in the town.
[p.35] She will wake from her slumber
When the gusts shake the door;
She will hear the wind howling,
115Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and swirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A floor of pearl.
120Singing: "Here came a mortal,
But she was unfaithful!
And alone will dwell forever
The kings of the sea."

But, kids, at midnight,
125When the winds blow softly,
When the moonlight shines clearly,
When spring tides are low;
When sweet air comes from the sea
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__From heathlands dotted with broom,
130And high rocks cast gently
On the whitened sands a shadow;
Up the calm, gleaming beaches,
Up the creeks we will go,
Over banks of bright seaweed
135The retreating tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hillside—
And then come back down.
140Singing: "There dwells a loved one,
But she is cruel!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Tristram. Is she not here yet? The messenger was certain—
Prop me up on the pillows again—
Lift me, my page! I can’t stand this much longer.
—God, what a night! how the sleet lashes the window!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__What lights are those to the north?

The Page. The lanterns of the fishing boats at sea.

Tristram. Wait—who's that, standing by the dying fire?

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The Page. Iseult.°

Tristram. Ah! not the Iseult I want.

What knight is this, so weak and pale,
10Though his hair is still brown on his noble head,
Propped on pillows in his bed,
Gazing out to sea for the light
Of some ship battling the storm
On this wild December night?
15Over the sick man's feet is spread
A dark green forest cloak;
A golden harp leans against the bed,
Glowing in the fire's light.
I recognize him by his gold harp,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Famous from Arthur's court° of old;
I know him by his forest cloak—
The unmatched hunter, harper, knight,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Tristram of Lyoness.
[p.37] What lady is this, whose silk dress
25Shines so richly in the firelight?
The ringlets on her shoulders shimmer
In their fleeting luster competing
With the clasp of polished gold
That her heavy robe holds tight.
30Her gaze is gentle, her fingers slight
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__As the driven snow are white°;
But her cheeks are sunken and pale.
Is it that the cold sea breeze
Blowing in from the Atlantic
35On this coast of Brittany,
Stings too sharply the sweet flower?
Is it that a deep fatigue
Has overcome her, a chilly fear,
Surpassing all her youthful hours
40Spending time with her maidens here,
Listlessly through the window bars
Gazing out to sea for miles,
From her lonely tower by the shore,
While the knights are off at war?
45Or perhaps has her young heart
Felt already some deeper pain,
Of those that secretly tear at the heartstrings,
Leaving her sunken and pale, though beautiful?
Who is this snowdrop by the sea?—
50I know her by her rare gentleness,
Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;
I recognize her by her rich silk dress,
And her delicate beauty—
The sweetest Christian soul alive,
55Iseult of Brittany.

[p.38] Iseult of Brittany?—but where
Is that other Iseult, the beautiful one,
The proud, first Iseult, queen of Cornwall?
She whom Tristram's ship of old
60Carried from Ireland to Cornwall,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__To Tyntagel,° to the side
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of King Marc,° to be his bride?
She who, as they sailed, drank
With Tristram that spiced magic potion,
65Which since then forever flows
Through their veins and binds their souls,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Creating love, but also pain?—.
There were two Iseults who ruled
Each her moment of Tristram's day;
70But one held his fading time,
The other his shining prime.
Look at her here, the patient flower,
Who held his darker hour!
Iseult of the Snow-White Hand
75Watches pale by Tristram's bed.
She is here who held his sorrow,
Where are you who held his joy?
One kiss like those of the past
Might bring your dying knight back!
80Does the love potion not work anymore?
Are you cold, or untrue, or gone,
Iseult of Ireland?

Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain,
And the knight sinks back on his pillows again.
85He is weak with fever and pain;
And his mind is not clear.
[p.39] Listen! he mutters in his sleep,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__As he wanders° far from here,
Changes the place and time of year,
90And his closed eye sweeps
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__O'er some beautiful unwintry sea,°
Not this fierce Atlantic deep,
While he mutters brokenly:—

Tristram. The calm sea gleams, the ship's sails hang loose;
95In front of us are the lovely green fields of Wales,
And above us is the clear May sky.—
"Oh, how I wish I were playing in those green fields,
Not stuck on this ship on such a lovely day!
Tristram, I ask you, out of kindness,
100Hand me my golden flask that's next to you,
But please take a sip from it first to be polite."—
Wait! do you flinch? are your lips pale like mine?
Child, this isn’t a real drink; it’s poisoned wine!
Iseult!...

105Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!
Keep his eyelids! let him seem
Not this fever-wasted guy
Thinned and pale before his time,
But the vibrant youthful knight
110In the glory of his prime,
Sitting in the fancy boat,
At your side, you lovely charge,
Leaning gaily over your hand,
Iseult of Ireland!
115And she too, that beautiful princess,
If her beauty is now less rare,
[p.40] Let her have her youth back—
Let her be as she was then!
Let her have her proud dark eyes,
120And her quick, sassy replies—
Let her sweep her dazzling hand
With its gesture of command,
And toss back her raven hair
With the old commanding flair!
125Just like before, let her be,
That first Iseult, bright princess,
Chatting with her youthful knight
As he steers her across the sea,
Leaving at her father's command
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The green isle° where she was raised,
And her home in Ireland,
For the surf-beaten Cornish shore
Where the prince she must marry
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Lives on loud Tyntagel's hill,°
135High above the roaring sea.
And that special potion her mother
Gave her, so that her future husband,
Gave her, that King Marc and she,
Might drink it on their wedding day,
140And love each other forever—
Let her, as she sits on board,
Ah, sweet saints, unknowingly!
See it gleam, and pick it up,
And to Tristram laughing say:
145"Sir Tristram, with your kindness,
Toast me in my golden cup!"
Let them drink it—let their hands
Tremble, and their cheeks burn,
As they feel the fatal ties
[p.41] 150Of a love they can't name,
With a wild, delicious ache,
Wrap around their hearts again!
Let the early summer be
Once more around them, and the sea
155Blue, and over its shimmering surface
Let the breath of the May wind,
Wandering through their drooping sails,
Fade on the green fields of Wales!
Let a dream like this restore
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__What his eyes must see no more!°

Tristram. The wind is cold, and the garden paths are gloomy—
Madcap, what joke is this, to meet me here?
Were feet like those meant for such a wild path?
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The southern winter room, truly,
165Would have been the best meeting place today!
"Tristram!—no, no—don’t take my hand!—
Tristram!—my sweet love!—we’re betrayed—outsmarted.
Run—save yourself—save me!—I can’t stay."—
One last kiss first!—"'It’s pointless—to horse—go!"

170Ah! sweet saints, his dream moves
Faster than it really should,
Because of the fever in his blood!
All the springtime of his love
Is gone and past,

175And instead there's now
Winter, which still lingers—
Tyntagel on its wave-beaten hill,
The pleasure walks, the weeping queen,
[p.42] The flying leaves, the straining blast,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And that long, wild kiss—their last.°
And this harsh December night,
And his burning fever pain,
Blend with his rushing dream,
Until they control it, until he seems
185The chased fugitive once more,
The love-desperate banished knight
With a fire in his brain
Flying over the stormy sea.
—Where is he wandering now?
190Maybe in his dreams the wind
Carries him here, and lets him find
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The lovely orphan child° again
In her castle by the coast;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The youngest, fairest lady of the castle,°
195Whom this realm of France can claim,
Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,
Iseult of Brittany.
And—through the worn air,
The stained armor, the tangled hair
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of that ill-fated stranger knight,
There gleamed something that reminded
Him of Tristram, who in better days
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard°—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Welcomed here,° and settled here,
205Tended through his fever here,
Maybe he seems again to stir
His young guardian's heart with love
In his exiled loneliness,
In his stately, deep distress,
210Without a word, without a tear.
—Ah! it's good he should go back
[p.43] To his peaceful life in this quiet place;
His gentle demeanor beside
His shy, youthful bride;
215His long walks by the shore
On winter evenings, when the roar
Of the nearby waves came, sadly grand,
Through the dark, up the drowned sand,
Or his endless daydreams
220In the woods, where the sunlight plays
On the grass beneath the trees,
Spending the long summer days
Idle as a moss-covered stone
In the forest depths alone,
225The hunt forgotten, and his hound
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Crouched beside him on the ground.°
—Ah! what trouble's on his brow?
Let him wander here now;
Here, to the quiet hours
230Spent among these heaths of ours.
By the grey Atlantic sea;
Hours, if not filled with ecstasy,
Are surely free from violent anguish!

Tristram. The river flows, all red with blood,
235The wide plain echoes, the confused air shakes with blows.
The knights of Rome are upon us—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Their lances are lowered, their horses are covered in foam.°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__"Get up, Tristram, get up," the men shout, "you love-struck knight°!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__What evil spirit possesses you°? Charge into the battle!"
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__—Amid the noise her° voice sounds in my ears;
I see her figure move through the clashing spears.—
Iseult!...

[p.44] °__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Ah! he goes out wandering again°;
We can’t hold him back; just like before,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__There’s a secret in his heart°
That will never let him find peace.
These moments of thought in the green woods
Cloud the mind and dull the senses!
—His sword is sharp, his horse is strong;
250Beyond the mountains, he’ll discover
The famous cities of Italy,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And mark them with the sacred sign°
To the pagan Saxons by the Rhine.
At Arthur's side, he fights once more
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Against the Roman Emperor.°
There are many cheerful knights where he roams
Who will help him forget his troubles;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The march, the siege,° the bright air of Heaven,
The neighing horses, the ringing strikes—
260Illness and longing don’t exist where these are.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Ah! what good is it° that the jokes
Bring smiles to every other face,
What’s it to me, if every other heart
Dances to the sound of trumpets,
265If my own heart doesn’t feel light
Amidst the chaos of battle,
If I can’t break free
From this burden of misery?
Your beautiful young wife grows pale
270Watching by the salty sea shore
With her children by her side
Waiting for a glimpse of your white sail.
Come home, Tristram, to your halls again!
To our lonely sea, share your sorrow,
275To our forests, tell your pain!

[p.45] Tristram. All around, the forest stretches out, dark with shadows,
But it's bright moonlight in the open glade;
And at the bottom of the glade, the forest chapel and the fountain shine brightly.
280—I think I have a fever in my blood;
Come, let me escape the shade of this wood,
Ride down, and cool my hot brow in the stream.
—The cold spring glimmers in the moonlight;
God! it's her face reflected in the clear waters.
285"Fair love," she says, "can you forget so quickly,
At this gentle hour under this lovely moon?"—
Iseult!...

Ah, poor soul! If this is the case,
Only death can ease your pain.
290The solitude of the green woods
Had no remedy for your mood;
The rushing battle cleared your blood
As little as did solitude.
—Ah! His eyelids slowly break
295Their hot seals, and let him wake;
What new change will we see now?
A happier one? It can't be worse.

Tristram. Is my servant here? Come, turn me to the fire!
The moon shines bright on the window panes;
300The wind is calm—but she won't come tonight.
Ah no! She's asleep in Cornwall now,
Far away; her dreams are sweet—smooth is her brow
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__She doesn’t care about me,° or my empty desires.

[p.46] —I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my servant,
305That would take a score of years from a strong man's life;
And with blood like mine, I fear it will leave
Little time for a second messenger.

—My princess, are you there? Sweet, don’t wait!
Go to bed and sleep! My fever is gone now;
310Tonight my servant will keep me company.
Where do the children sleep? Kiss them for me!
Poor child, you are almost as pale as I;
This comes from nursing long and staying up late.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__To bed—good night!°

315She left the glow of the fireplace,
She approached the bedside;
She took his hands in hers—her tears
Fell down on his frail fingers.
She lifted her eyes to his face—
320Not with a look of hurt pride,
But with a look as if her heart ached—
Her gaze was like a gentle embrace;
The look of someone who understands
A sorrow and can feel for him.
325Sweet flower! your children's eyes
Are as innocent as yours.
But they sleep in cozy peace,
Like helpless birds in a warm nest,
On the southern side of the castle;
330Where the sad sound
Of the buffeting wind and crashing waves
Filters through many rooms and halls.
—Directly on their window the moonlight
Makes their room as bright as day.
[p.47] 335It shines on the blank white walls,
And falls on the snowy pillow,
Playing on two angelic faces
Turned towards each other—their eyes closed,
Their lashes resting on their cheeks.
340Around each sweet brow the cap hugs tight,
Barely allowing a glimpse of golden hair;
Through the softly parted lips the air
Barely stirs the blanket.
One tiny wandering arm is thrown
345Carelessly on the coverlet,
And often the fingers clench in haste
As if their little owner were chasing
Butterflies again.
350This is their only movement;
But otherwise they are so still!
—Ah, tired little rascals! you lie still;
But if you were at the window now,
To look out at the magical sight
355Of your illuminated playground at night,
To see the park paths where you play
So much more beautifully than by day,
To see the sparkle on the rooftops,
And on every giant branch
360ºOf those old oaks, whose wet red leaves
Are adorned with bright droplets of rain—
How your voices would fill the air again!
And far beyond the sparkling trees
Of the castle park, one can see
365 daysThe bare heaths stretching, clear as day,
Moor after moor, far, far away,
Into the heart of Brittany.
And here and there, enclosed by the land,
[p.48] Long inlets of smooth, glittering sea,
370And many stretches of watery sand
All glistening in the white moonlight—
But you see even more beauty in your dreams!

What voices are those in the clear night air?
What lights in the courtyard—what footsteps on the stairs?

Tristram. Light the lantern, my page! I want to see her.—
  So you’ve finally arrived, haughty Queen!
I've waited a long time, and I’ve battled through my fever;
  You come late, and you've been cruel.

5Iseult. Don’t blame me, poor sufferer! I was delayed;
  I was bound, unable to break free.
Don’t scold the past, just focus on the present!
  I’m here—we’re together—I hold your hand.

Tristram. You’re here now—you’ve come back to me;
10   You dared to do it—but it’s too late to help.
Don’t worry about anyone questioning your honor!
  I’m dying: build—(if you can)—my grave!

Iseult. Tristram, for the love of Heaven, speak kindly!
  Why do I hear these bitter words from you?
15I’m sick with grief and exhausted from traveling—
  Take my hand—dear Tristram, look at me!

[p.49] Tristram. I forgot, you’ve just returned from your journey—
  Yes, the sea spray is on your cloak and hair.
But your dark eyes aren't dimmed, proud Iseult!
20  And your beauty has never been more radiant.

Iseult. Oh, harsh flatterer! Leave my beauty out of it!
  Like you, I have left my youth behind.
Take my hand and feel these wasted fingers—
   Look at my cheek and lips, how pale they are!

25Tristram. You are paler—but your sweet charm, Iseult!
  Would not fade with the dull years passings.
Ah, how beautiful you look in the moonlight!
  I forgive you, Iseult!—will you stay?

Iseult. Don’t fear me, I will always be with you;
30   I’ll watch over you, take care of you, soothe your pain;
I will sing you stories of true, long-separated lovers,
  Reunited in the evening of their lives.

Tristram. No, don’t speak! I should notice
  Something changed in your refined manner.
35 Sit—sit by me! I want to think that we’ve lived here
   In the woods, all our lives, alone.

Iseult. Changed, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me,
  Love like mine doesn't change in the heart;
Courtly life is shallow and cannot touch it—
40   Ah! it endures because it’s deeply suppressed!

What, do you think men speak in courtly chambers
  Words that console the wretched?
What, do you think this aching forehead feels cooler,
  Surrounded, Tristram, by a band of gold?

[p.50] 45Royal status with Marc, my deeply wronged husband—
  That was joy that made my sorrows vanish!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Silken courtiers whispering sweet nothings°—
  Those were friends who would make me false to you!

Ah, if both our fates were balanced,
50   Wasn’t the heavier burden indeed—
You, a lonely exile in your forest,
  Me, a smiling queen on my throne?

A pointless and strange debate, where both have suffered,
  Both have passed a youth that was consumed and sad,
55Both have brought their anxious day to evening,
  And now have little time for joy!

We are joined from now on; neither your people,
  Nor your younger Iseult will mind
If a past rival shares her role,
60   When she sees her humbled, pale, and still.

I, a faded watcher by your side,
  I, a statue on your chapel floor,
Pouring out prayers before the Virgin-Mother,
  Will rouse no anger, make no rivals more.

65She will cry: "Is this the foe I feared?
  This his idol? this that royal bride?
Ah, an hour of health would clear his eyesight!
  Stay, pale queen! forever by my side."

Hush, no words! That smile, I see, forgives me.
70   I’m now your nurse, I tell you to sleep.
Close your eyes—this flooding moonlight blinds them!—
  No, everything is alright again! You must not weep.

[p.51] Tristram. I’m happy! Yet I feel something
  Swelling in my heart, taking my breath away.
75Through a haze I see you; come closer!
  Bend—lean down!—I still have so much to say.

Iseult. Oh heaven! His head sinks back onto the pillow—
  Tristram! Tristram! Don’t let your heart fail!
Call on God and the holy angels!
80   What, love, stay brave!—Christ! He is so pale.

Tristram. Hush, it’s pointless; I feel my end approaching!
  This is what my mother said would happen,
When the fierce pains took her in the forest,
  The deep pulls of death when she bore me.

85"Son," she said, "your name shall be of sorrow;
  Tristram is what you’ll be called for my death's sake."
So she said, and died in the dreary forest.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__   Grief has since made its home with me.°

I’m dying.—Don’t startle, nor look wildly!
90   You, your living friend, you cannot save.
But since in life we were ununited,
  Don’t stray far, O Iseult! from my grave.

Close my eyes, then seek Princess Iseult;
  Speak kindly of her, she is of royal blood!
95Say I wished it, that you stay beside me—
  She will agree; she is kind and good.

Now to sail the seas of death I leave you—
  One last kiss upon the living shore!

[p.52] Iseult. Tristram!—Tristram!—stay—take me with you!
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__   Iseult leaves you, Tristram! Never again.°

You see them clearly—the moon shines bright.
Slowly, softly, where she stood,
She sinks down to the ground;—her hood
Has fallen back; her arms outspread
105Still hold her lover's hand; her head
Is bowed, half-buried, on the bed.
Over the pale sheet her dark hair
Lies in disordered streams; and there,
Scattered like white stars, the pearls are still,
110And the heavy, rare golden bracelets
Shine on her white arms still.
The very same ones that last night
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Gleamed in the silver sconce's° light,
When the feast was lively and laughter loud
115In Tyntagel's proud palace.
But then they adorned a restless ghost
With flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes,
And quivering lips on which the flow
Of polite conversation abruptly died,
120And a glance that over the crowded floor,
The dancers, and the festive crowd,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Fleetingly darted to the door.
So that the knights looked at her in surprise,
And the ladies whispered mockingly:
125"Her moods, for heaven's sake, change like the weather!
Just last night she was
As pale and still as dried flowers,
And now tonight she laughs and talks
And has color in her cheeks;
130God save us from such fantasies!"—
[p.53] Yes, now the longing has passed,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Which, haunted° by fear and fought by shame,
Shook her fragile heart day and night,
Consumed her beauty like a flame,
135And dimmed it like a desert wind.
And though the bedclothes hide her face,
If it were lifted to the light,
The sweet expression of her brow
Would captivate the viewer, until his thoughts
140Wiped away the marks of time,
Filled in her hollow cheeks, and brought
A freshness back as in her prime—
So calming is her quiet now.
So perfectly the lines express
145A tranquil, settled beauty,
Matching her younger rival's purest grace.

The chill of the December night
Steals coldly around the bright chamber,
Where those lifeless lovers lie;
150Swaying with it, in the light
Flaps the ghostly tapestry.
And on the fabric you see
A noble Huntsman, dressed in green,
And around him a fresh forest scene.
155On that clear forest knoll he stays,
With his pack around him, and hesitates.
He stares and stares, with a troubled expression,
At this huge, brightly lit fireplace,
At that bright, iron-wrought door,
160And those scattered rushes on the floor.
He gazes down into the room
With flushed cheeks and a flustered air,
[p.54] And to himself he seems to say:
"What place is this, and who are they?
165Who is that beautiful Lady kneeling?
And on his pillows that pale Knight
Who looks like marble on a tomb?
How did this bright chamber come here,
Through whose mulled windows clear
170The castle court all wet with rain,
The drawbridge and the moat appear,
And then the beach, marked with spray,
The sunken reefs, and far away
The restless bright Atlantic plain?
175—What, has some enchantment made me sleep,
And sent me with my dogs to hunt,
By night, with raucous bugle call,
Through some old, seaside, knightly hall,
Not in the free green wood at all?
180That Knight's asleep, and at her prayer
That Lady by the bed does kneel—
Then hush, you loud bugle call!"
—The wild boar rustles in its lair;
The fierce hounds sniff the tainted air;
But lord and hounds remain rooted there.

Cheer, cheer your dogs into the bushes,
O Hunter! and without a fear
Blow your golden-tasseled bugle,
And through the glades take your leisure—
190For you won't wake any sleepers here!
For those you see are unmoved;
Cold, cold as those who lived and loved
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__A thousand years ago.°

A year had passed, and across the sea,
Tristram and Queen Iseult were in Cornwall;
In King Marc's chapel, at old Tintagel—
There in a ship they carried those cold lovers.

5The young Iseult, one sunny day,
Had wandered out. Her children were playing
In a green circular hollow on the heath
By the sea-shore—a country path
Winds over it from the farm fields behind.
10The hollow's grassy banks slope gently,
And to someone standing there, far and near
The uninterrupted view spreads bright and clear
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Across the open land. This circle° of ground
Is light and green; the heather, which all around
15Grows thickly, isn’t found here; instead, pale grass
Is scattered with rocks, and many shattered pieces
Of veined, white-gleaming quartz, and here and there
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Dotted with holly-trees and junipers.°
In the smooth center of the opening stood
20Three holly trees side by side, forming a screen,
Warmed by the winter sun, a shiny green
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__With red berries, the food for the blackbirds.
Under the sparkling hollies, Iseult stands,
Watching her children play; their little hands
25Busy gathering quartz fragments and twigs
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__From stagshorn° for their hats; then, with shouts
[p.56] Of wild delight, they drop their treasures and rush
Among the holly bushes and uneven ground,
Running full speed, startling in their excitement
30The blackbirds and the speckled thrush
Out of their glossy coverts;—but when now
Their cheeks are flushed and their hot brows,
Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair,
In blinding masses, shower the golden hair—
35Then Iseult calls them to her, and the three
Cluster under the holly shield, and she
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Tells them an old Breton story.°

Wrapped warmly in their cloaks, the three stood there,
Under the hollies, in the clear still air—
40Cloaks with rich, deep-glimmering furs
That ships from Venice bring from dark Egypt.
They stayed still for a while—then, walking leisurely,
Moved up and down under the glossy trees.
But still, as they pursued their warm dry path,
45From Iseult's lips, the unbroken story flowed,
And still the children listened, their blue eyes
Fixed on their mother's face in wide amazement;
Nor did their gazes stray to the sea-side,
Nor to the brown heaths around them, bright and wide,
50Nor to the snow, which, though it had all melted
From the open heath, still lay by the hedgerows,
Nor to the shining sea-birds, that with cries
Flew up from where the bright Atlantic sparkles,
Swooping toward the land; nor to where, quite clear,
55The blackbirds settled in the nearby thickets.
And they would still have listened, until dark night
Came sharp and chilly over the bright heather;
But when the red glow on the sea grew cold,
[p.57] And the grey turrets of the old castle
60Looked sternly through the frosty evening air,
Then Iseult took her lovely children by the hand,
And ended her tale, found the path,
And led them home across the darkening heath.

And is she happy? Does she see unmoved
65The days in which she might have lived and loved
Slip away slowly without bringing joy,
One after another, tomorrow like today?
Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will—
Is it this thought that makes her demeanor so still,
70Her features so tired, her eyes, though sweet,
So sunken, so rarely raised except to meet
Her children's? She moves slowly; her voice alone
Has an infantile and silvery tone,
But even that comes out languidly; in truth,
75She seems like one dying in a mask of youth.
And now she will go home, and gently lay
Her laughing children in their beds, and play
For a while with them before they sleep; and then
She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen
80Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Along this iron coast,° know like a star,°
And take her embroidery frame, and there she'll sit
Hour after hour, her golden curls sweeping it;
Lifting her softly bent head only to remember
85Her children, or to listen to the wind.
And when the clock strikes midnight, she will put
Her work away, and let her fingers explore
Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound
Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;
90Or else she will fall into thought, her blue eyes
[p.58] Fixed, her delicate hands clasped on her lap; then rise,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she has told
Her rosary beads of ebony tipped with gold,
Then to her soft sleep—and tomorrow will be
95Today's exact repeated image.

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The children, the grey-haired steward,°
Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound,
Are the only companions found.
100But she loves them; and a noisier life than this
She would find hard to bear, weak as she is.
She has her children, too, and night and day
Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play,
The hollies, the cliffs, and the sea-shore,
105The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails,
These are as dear to her as to them; the stories
With which today she entertained the children
She gathered from Breton grandmothers when she was a child,
In every hut along this wild sea-coast.
110She still loves them, and, when they are told,
Can forget all to hear them, as before.

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,
Not suffering that shuts up eye and ear
To everything that once delighted them,
115And lets us be what we were no longer.
No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain
The power to be moved and soothed, despite our pain,
By what once pleased us, and will again.
No, it’s the gradual furnace of the world,
120In whose hot air our spirits rise
Until they either crumble or grow like steel—
Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring—
Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,
But takes away the power—this can contribute,
125By drying up our joy in everything,
To make our former pleasures all seem stale.
This, or some tyrannical single thought, some fit
Of passion, which subdues our souls to it,
Until for its sake alone we live and move—
130Call it ambition, or remorse, or love—
This too can transform us completely, making everything
We did before appear like a shadow or dream.

And yet, I swear, it angers me to see
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__How this foolish passion deceitfully affects° men
135Being, in truth, just a troubled unrest,
And an unnatural over-excitement at best.
How they are filled with weariness and distress
Not having it; which when they possess,
They are immediately burnt up with worry and care,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And spend their lives rushing here and there°
Where this plague drives them; and have little peace,
Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Like that bold Cæsar,° the famous Roman man,
Who wept upon reading of a Greek knight
145Who made a name at a younger age than he;
Or that renowned paragon of chivalry,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Prince Alexander,° Philip's unmatched son,
Who brought war from Macedon
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Into the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on
150To die at thirty-five in Babylon.

What story did Iseult tell the children,
Under the hollies, on that bright winter's day?
[p.60] She told them of the fairy-haunted land
On the other side of Brittany,
155Beyond the heaths, bordered by the lonely sea;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of the deep forest glades of Broceliande,°
Through whose green branches the golden sunshine streams
Where Merlin sleeps by the enchanted thorn-tree.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__For here he came with the fairy° Vivian,
160One April, when the warm days first began.
He was on foot, and that false fairy, his friend,
On her white horse; here he met his end,
In these lonely wooded glades, that April day.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__This tale of Merlin and the lovely fairy°
165Was the one Iseult chose, and she vividly
Brought before the children's imagination him and her.

Blowing between the stems, the forest air
Had loosened the brown locks of Vivian's hair,
Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue eyes
170Sparkled with teasing glee and energy.
Her horse’s flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,
For they had traveled far and not stopped yet.
A thorn in that tangled wilderness
Had scratched her white right hand, which she allowed
175To rest bare on her green riding dress;
The other hand warded off the drooping boughs.
But still she chatted on, her blue eyes
Fixed completely on Merlin's face, her charming prize.
Her demeanor had the freshness of the morning,
180The spirit of the woods was in her expression.
She looked so enchantingly beautiful that the learned man
Forgot his craft, and all his wisdom took flight;
And he grew fond, eager to obey
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__His mistress, to use her power° as she might.
[p.61] 185They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day
Peered through the stems; the ground sloped away,
Into a grassy patch down to a rushing brook;
And as high as where they stood to look
At the brook's other side was clear, but then
190The undergrowth and trees began again.
This open glade was thick with thorns
Then white with blossoms; and you could see the horns,
Through last year's ferns, of the shy fallow deer
Who come at noon down to the water here.
195You could see the bright-eyed squirrels darting
Under the thorns on the green grass; and strong
The blackbird whistled from the nearby bushes,
And the weird tapping of the woodpecker
Rang lonely and sharp; the sky was clear,
200And a fresh breath of spring stirred everywhere.
Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope's edge,
To gaze at the light sea of leaves and branches
Which glistens around them, lonely and gentle.
As if the quiet forest smiled to itself.
205Upon the ridge grew a thorn, and here
The grass was dry and mossy, and you could see clearly
Across the hollow; white anemones
Starred the cool turf, and clusters of primroses
Ran out from the dark undergrowth behind.
210No more beautiful resting place could a person find.
"Here let us stop," said Merlin then; and she
Nodded, and tied her horse to a tree.

They sat down together, and a deep sleep
Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so profound.
215With a finger to her lips, Vivian rose
And threw off the wimple from her brown-locks,
And took it in her hand and waved it over
The blossom-covered thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° around,
220And created a little magical ground.
And in that dazed circle, as people say,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Is Merlin bound° until the judgment day;
But she herself can roam wherever she wishes—
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__For she was quite tired of his love.°

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Down the Savoy° valleys echoing,
  Sounding around this old castle,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__'Mid the distant mountain chalets°
  Listen! What church bell is tolling?

5In the bright October morning
  The Duke of Savoy had left his bride.
From the castle, past the drawbridge,
  Flowed the merry tide of hunters.

Horses are neighing, knights shining;
10  Cheerful, to greet her smiling lord,
From her window with mullioned frames
  Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.

From Vienna, by the Danube,
  She arrived here as a bride in spring.
15Now autumn crisped the forest;
  Hunters gathered, bugles sounded.

[p.64] °__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Hounds are pulling, riders cursing;
  Horses restless, and boar-spears flashing.
Go!—They sweep through the marshy forests,
20  Westward, on the French side.

Listen! The game is afoot; they scatter!—
  Down the lonely forest paths,
Furious, lone horsemen gallop——
  Listen! A shout—a crash—a groan!

25Pale and breathless, the hunters came;
  On the grass, the boar lies dead—
Oh God! The Duke lies stretched beside him,
  Unconscious, lying in his blood.

On the dull October evening,
30  Down the leaf-covered forest road,
To the castle, past the drawbridge,
  Came the hunters with their catch.

In the hall, with torches shining,
  Ladies gathered around her seat,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais°
  Sat Duchess Marguerite.

Listen! below the gates unlocking!
  Tramp of men and quick commands!
"—It’s my lord back from hunting—"
40  And the Duchess claps her hands.

Slow and exhausted, came the hunters—
  Stopped in the darkness in the courtyard.
"—Hey, this way, you slow hunters!
  To the hall! What fun? What fun?"—

[p.65] 45Slowly they entered with their master;
  In the hall, they laid him down.
On his coat were leaves and bloodstains,
  On his forehead an angry frown.

Dead lay her princely young husband
50  Before his young wife,
Bloody, beneath the flickering sconces—
  And the sight froze all her life.

In Vienna, by the Danube,
  Kings celebrate, and gentlemen meet.
55Once, among the liveliest
  Was Duchess Marguerite.

In Vienna, by the Danube,
  Feasting and dancing filled her youth with joy.
Until that day she never knew sorrow;
60  But after that, she never smiled again.

Amid the mountain valleys of Savoy,
  Far from town or human presence,
Stands a lonely church, unfinished,
  Which Duchess Maud began;

65That stern Duchess started it,
  In her old age, with shaky hands;
But she died while it was still being built,
  And the church remains unfinished—

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Just as the builders left it°
70  When she was laid to rest;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Mountain grass paves the chancel,°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  Harebells bloom in the nave.

[p.66] "—In my castle, everything is sorrow,"
  Said Duchess Marguerite then;
75"Someone guide me to the mountain!
  We will rebuild the church."—

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Pilgrims, on their way home,
  Austrian knights returning from Syria came.
"—Austrian travelers bring, O guards!
80  Homage to your Austrian lady."—

From the gate, the guards replied:
  "—Gone, O knights, is she you knew!
Our Duke is dead and so is his Duchess;
  Look for her at the Church of Brou!"—

85Austrian knights and weary pilgrims
  Climb the winding mountain path.—
They reach the valley, where the building
  Rises higher every day.

Stones are being cut, hammers ringing;
90  The bright sun shines on the work,
In the Savoy mountain meadows,
  By the stream, beneath the pines.

On her white horse, the Duchess
  Sat and watched her workers—
95Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,
  German masons, smiths from Spain.

Dressed in black on her white horse,
  With her old architect beside—
[p.67] There they found her in the mountains,
100  Morning, noon, and evening.

There she sat, watching the builders,
  Until the church was finished and roofed.
Finally, the builders erected for her
  A stone tomb in the nave.

105On the tomb, they sculpted two figures,
  Lifelike in the pale marble—
One, the Duke in helmet and armor;
  One, the Duchess in her veil.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Around the tomb, the intricate stonework°
110  Was added during Easter.
Then the Duchess completed her work;
  And she died at St. John.

Upon the shiny lead-colored roof
Of the new building, the sunlight shines;
  The stream bounces by.
The hills are covered with pine trees that block the sun;
5'Mid bright green fields, beneath the pines,
  Stands the Church on high.
What Church is this, away from people?—
It's the Church of Brou.

At sunrise, from their dewy resting place,
10Crossing the stream, the cows can be seen
  Wandering near the wall—
[p.68] The churchyard wall that encloses the square
Of open hillside, fresh and green,
  Where they were last year.
15But everything now is arranged beautifully
Around the Church of Brou.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__On Sundays, at the morning bell,°
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
  Climb up here to pray;
20Citizens and ladies, at summer's peak,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Ride out to church from Chambery,°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  Dressed° in colorful cloaks.
But otherwise, it is a quiet time
Around the Church of Brou.

25On Sundays, a priest also comes
From the walled town beyond the pass,
  Down the mountain road;
And then you hear the organ's sound,
You hear the white-robed priest say mass,
30  And the people pray.
But otherwise, the woods and fields are silent
Around the Church of Brou.

And after church, when mass is over,
The people move to the nave
35  Around the tomb to wander;
And marvel at the stone figures,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And admire the rare carved designs°—
  Then they drift away.
The royal couple are left alone
40In the Church of Brou.

So rest, forever rest, O noble Couple!
In your grand church, amidst the calm mountain air,
Where horns, hounds, and servants never come.
Only the blessed Saints are smiling silently,
5From the beautifully painted windows of the nave,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__On the aisles, and transept°, and your marble grave;
Where you, young Prince, will never rise again
From the fringed cushion where your Duchess lies,
On autumn mornings, when the bugle calls,
10And ride across the drawbridge with your hounds
To hunt the boar in the crisp woods until evening;
And you, O Princess, will no longer welcome,
You and your ladies, in the grand hall,
The tired hunters with their bloody spoils,
15Returning late to the castle gate.

  So sleep, forever sleep, O marble Pair!
Or, if you wake, let it be when fair
On the carved western front a flood of light
Streams from the setting sun, and bright colors
20Illuminate Prophets, transformed Saints, and brave Martyrs,
In the vast western window of the nave,
And on the pavement around the Tomb there sparkles
A design of glowing sapphire hues,
And amethyst, and ruby—then open
25Your eyelids on the stone where you rest,
And lift your heads from your embroidered pillows,
And rise from your cold white marble beds;
[p.70] And, looking down at the warm rosy colors,
That pattern, at your feet, the illuminated stones,
30Say: What is this? We are in bliss—forgiven—
Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!
Or let it be on autumn nights when rain
Rustles above your heads,
35On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls
Sheds her thoughtful light at intervals,
As the moon shines through the clerestory windows,
And the wind flows through the mountain pines.
Then, gazing up amidst the dim tall pillars,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__The foliaged marble forest° where you lie,
40Hush, you will say, it is eternity!
This is the shimmering edge of Heaven, and these
The columns of the heavenly palaces!
And, in the rush of the wind, your ear
Will hear the passage of the Angels' wings,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__And on the lichen-crusted roofs° above
The rustle of the eternal rain of love.

Scatter roses over her,
  And not a single sprig of yew!
In peace she rests;
  Oh, how I wish I could too!

5She brought joy to the world;
  She filled it with cheerful smiles.
But her heart was weary,
  And now they let her be.

[p.71] Her life was spinning, spinning,
10  In a whirlwind of heat and noise.
But her soul longed for peace,
  And now peace envelops her.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Her confined,° generous spirit,
  It fluttered and struggled for breath;
15Tonight it takes ownership of
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__  The expansive° hall of death.

Mist blocks the sunlight.
Smoky little houses
Surround me everywhere;
A vague sadness
5Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I suffer,
Countless
Possibilities unfold around me,
And countless people
10Experience countless emotions.

Far away, in Asia,
On the smooth convent roofs,
On the golden terraces,
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Of holy Lhasa,°
15Bright shines the sun.

[p.72] Gray, worn marbles
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Hold the pure Muses°;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__In their cool gallery,°
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__By the yellow Tiber,°
20They still look lovely.

°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Strange, unloved noise°
Shrieks around their entrance;
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Yet not on Helicon°
Did they maintain a more serene
25Their noble calm.

Through sun-blocking alleys
In a lonely, sand-encircled
City in Africa,
A blind beggar,
30Stooped by age, asks for change.

No bolder thief
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__Once lay in ambush
Deep in the sandy expanse;
No clearer vision
35Spotted prey from afar.

Saharan sand-winds
Burned his sharp eyes;
The spoils he won are gone.
For him, the present
40Holds only suffering.

Two young lovers,
Where the warm June wind,
[p.73] Fresh from the summer fields
Plays gently around them,
45Stand, lost in happiness.

With sweet, joined voices,
And with eyes full of tears:
°__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__"Ah," they cry, "Fate,°
Extend this moment!
50Time, stay still here!"

The prompt stern Goddess
Shakes her head, frowning;
Time turns his hourglass
To bring about the end;
55Their moment is over.

With weak compassion
Did the just Goddess
Lengthen their joy,
She also prolonged
60Suffering elsewhere.

The hour, whose blissful
Unmixed moments
I wish to make eternal,
Ten thousand mourners
65Gladly see come to a close.

The bleak, harsh hour,
Whose harsh moments
I wish to erase,
Is passed by others
70In warmth, light, joy.

[p.74] Time, often complained about,
Shows no favoritism
To any one person,
Brings around to everyone
75Some clear moments.

Was it a dream? I thought we were sailing,
Martin and I, down the green Alpine stream,
Framed by pines on either side; the morning sun,
On the wet shade of their shiny tops,
5Spread a warm scent; behind the pines
The mountain slopes changed, filled with
Bright-leafed chestnuts and mossy walnut trees
And the delicate scarlet-berried ash began.
10Swiss chalets sparkled on the dewy hills,
And from a grassy ledge high up, there came
Notes of wild folk music—over all
Stretched, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow.
By the mossy rocks at the stream's edge,
15Backed by the pines, a wooden cottage stood,
Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd plant's leaves
Covered its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof
Lied the warm golden gourds; golden, inside,
Under the eaves, rows of Indian corn peeked out.
20We passed beneath the cottage with the stream.
On the rough, carved balcony, two figures
Appeared—Olivia's, Marguerite! and yours.
[p.75] They were both dressed in white, flowers in their chests;
Straw hats adorned their heads, with blue ribbons,
25That danced and fluttered on their shoulders.
They saw us, they talked; their chests heaved,
And something more than human filled their eyes.
Their lips moved; their white arms waved eagerly,
Flashed once, like falling streams; we rose, we stared.
30For a moment, at the top of the rapid, our boat
Hung still—and then the rushing river of Life
(Such now, I thought it was), the river of Life,
Roaring loudly, swept us along; swift, swift it foamed,
Black under cliffs it raced, around headlands it shone.
35Soon the wooden cottage by the sun-warmed pines
Faded—the moss—the rocks; burning plains met us,
Cities bristled around us, and we were received by the sea.