NEW POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

PART II.

R. ARNOLD'S minor poems are distinguished by the same characteristic excellences as his larger ones. They display beauties of rhythm, of imagery, of form and colour; but after reading them we feel that something is still wanting. They fill us with no inspiration. We are neither nobler nor greater for having read them. We feel that Mr. Arnold considers life a necessary evil, which can only be mitigated by a little culture. Man in his opinion is only an accident of nature: his thirst after knowledge and happiness is but vanity of vanities. The mighty hopes which make us men are idle dreams. The apostle of culture gives us a little poem of exquisite workmanship -a man's last wish. He asks that he may see before his dying eyes.

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn,
The wide aërial landscape spread-
The world which was ere I was born,
The world which lasts when I am dead.

Which never was the friend of one,
Nor promised love it could not give;
But lit for all its generous sun,
And lived itself and made us live.

Then let me gaze till I become,
In soul with what I gaze on wed;
To feel the universe my home,
To have before my mind-instead

Of the sick-room the mortal strife,
The turmoil for a little breath-
The pure eternal course of life;
Not human combatings with death.

That is all.

Thus feeling, gazing let me grow,
Compos'd refresh'd ennobled clear;
Then willing let my spirit go

To work or wail elsewhere or here.

There is no ray

darkness of the coming night.

of faith to pierce the This is what we learn

from Philosophic culture. The death-bed of the North

ern Farmer teaches us more.

a little faith is preferable.

To be a Philistine with

The Grande Chartreuse is one of Mr. Arnold's most beautiful poems. There we have laid bare, with no small skill, the thoughts of a man who would fain escape from the bustle and activity of modern life to the cloister of meditation and of prayer, but that stern duty prevents him; and who would, but that reason forbids him, yield to dogma to be rid of the burden of doubt.

Not as their friend or child I speak!
But as on some far northern strand,
Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek
In pity and mournful awe might stand
Before some fallen Runic stone-

For both were faiths and both are gone.
Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these on earth I wait forlorn.
Their faith, my tears, the world deride;
I come to shed them at their side.

There may, perhaps, yet dawn an age
More fortunate, alas! than we,

Which without hardness will be sage,

And gay without frivolity.

Sons of the world, oh, haste those years;
But, till they rise, allow our tears!

The two minor poems that we like best are the Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoon, and the lines on Heine's Grave. Every time we read them we find some fresh beauty, and our admiration for them is increased. To analyse them, however, would be like seizing a butterfly to examine the beauty of its wings. In the Epilogue the poet and his friend walking through

Hyde Park fell into discourse on Lessing's famed "Laocoon," and attempted to define accurately painting and poetry. And as they tread the green grass in the month of May, and gaze upon the majestic elms gay with their summer foliage, and the kine resting in the shade, the poet exclaims—

"Behold," I said, "the painters sphere!
The limits of his art appear!

The passing group, the summer morn,
The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn;
Those cattle crouch'd, or, as they rise,
Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes;
These, or much greater things, but caught
Like these, and in one aspect brought.
In outward semblance he must give
A moment's life of things that live;
Then let him choose his moment well,
With power divine its story tell!"

Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood,
And now upon the Bridge we stood.
Full of sweet breathings was the air,
Of sudden stirs and pauses fair;
Down o'er the stately Bridge the breeze
Came rustling from the garden trees
And on the sparkling waters play'd.
Light-plashing waves an answer made,
And mimic boats their haven near'd.
Beyond the Abbey towers appear'd,
By mist and chimneys unconfined,
Free to the sweep of light and wind;
While through the earth-moor'd nave below,
Another breath of wind doth blow,

Sound as of wandering breeze-but sound
In laws by human artists bound.

"The world of music I exclaim'd!"

"This breeze that rustles by, that famed
Abbey recalls it! what a sphere,
Large and profound, hath genius here!
Th' inspired musician what a range,
What power of passion, wealth of change!
Some pulse of feeling he must choose
And its lock'd fount of beauty use,

Onward they move until they reach the Ride where the human tide flows, and where they see the young and old, the sad and happy, and there they behold the poet's sphere. He must be painter and musician too. There are some who catch a momentary glimpse of the mighty stream of life and paint it, and some who can strike a few melodious chords, but

Only a few the life-stream's shore
With safe unwandering feet explore,
Untired its movement bright attend,
Follow its windings to the end.
Then from its brimming waves their eye
Drinks up delighted ecstacy,

And its deep-toned, melodious voice,
For ever makes their ear rejoice.
They speak! the happiness divine
They feel, runs o'er in every line.
Its spell is round them like a shower;
It gives them pathos, gives them power.
No painter yet hath such a way
Nor no musician made, as they;

And gather'd on immortal knolls

Such lovely flowers for cheering souls!
Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach

The charm which Homer, Shakspeare, teach.
To these, to these, their thankful race

Gives, then, the first, the fairest place!
And brightest is their glory's sheen
For greatest has their labour been.

The lines on Heine's grave are stamped with the Author's own peculiar genius, and are perfect in their kind. They are to be admired for the imagination which they display.

I chide with thee not, that thy sharp
Upbraidings often assail'd

England, my country; for we,
Fearful and sad, for her sons,
Long since deep in our hearts,
Echo the blame of her foes.
We, too, sigh that she flags;
We, too, say that she now,
Scarce comprehending the voice

Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons
Of a former age any more,

VOL. VI.

X

Stupidly travels her round

Of mechanic business, and lets
Slow die out of her life
Glory, and genius, and joy.
So thou arraign'st her, her foe;
So we arraign her, her sons.

Yes, we arraign her! but she,
The weary Titan! with deaf
Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes,
Regarding neither to right
Nor left, goes passively by,
Staggering on to her goal;
Bearing on shoulders immense,
Atlanteän, the load,

Wellnigh not to be borne,

Of the too vast orb of her fate.

In the poem called "Oberman once more" we have Roman civilization contrasted with the civilization of our own day. Two thousand years ago, the poet tells us, there lived and wrought a world like ours of to-day, but its heart was stone, and

"On that hard Pagan world disgust

And secret loathing fell.

Deep weariness and sated lust

Made human life a hell.

"In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,

The Roman noble lay;

He drove abroad, in furious guise,

Along the Appian way;

"He made a feast, drank fierce and fast,

And crown'd his hair with flowers-

No easier nor no quicker pass'd

The impracticable hours."

The Roman world, with its external forces, conquered the East; but the East, with its mighty internal forces of thought and enthusiasm, re-conquered it.

"The East bow'd low before the blast,

In patient, deep disdain.

She let the legions thunder past,

And plunged in thought again.

"So well she mused, a morning broke
Across her spirit grey.

A conquering, new-born joy awoke,
And fill'd her life with day."