 | Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems |  |
166
OBERMANN YET AGAIN.
Mr. Matthew Arnold does
not need my apology for this mild expression of protest, suggested
rather perhaps by temperament than by conviction, against a certain
aspect of Sénancour's famous book on which Mr. Arnold has not
cared to lay stress, and which his blind admirers refuse to perceive.
Mr. Arnold's healthy imagination enables him to draw comfort from
a melancholy which, as we are apt to forget, has proved a direct
incentive to suicide in the case of certain morbid minds, such in
particular as Sautelet and Rabbe.
Mr. Matthew Arnold does not need my apology for this mild expression of protest, suggested rather perhaps by temperament than by conviction, against a certain aspect of Sénancour's famous book on which Mr. Arnold has not cared to lay stress, and which his blind admirers refuse to perceive. Mr. Arnold's healthy imagination enables him to draw comfort from a melancholy which, as we are apt to forget, has proved a direct incentive to suicide in the case of certain morbid minds, such in particular as Sautelet and Rabbe.
The light falls pink on yonder granite horn;
The pine-tree shadows, lengthening, downward run;
I lie in grass as yellow-stalked as corn,
And by my side there glitters, scarce begun,
A flask of bright Yvorne,
Brisk amber in the sun.
The pine-tree shadows, lengthening, downward run;
I lie in grass as yellow-stalked as corn,
And by my side there glitters, scarce begun,
A flask of bright Yvorne,
Brisk amber in the sun.
With fall of day the vexing flies have fled;
The grasshopper now whets his merry scythe;
The magpie flirts and chuckles round my head;
The lizards flash their shining backs, and writhe;
The west is waxing red,
And I am calm and blithe.
The grasshopper now whets his merry scythe;
The magpie flirts and chuckles round my head;
The lizards flash their shining backs, and writhe;
The west is waxing red,
And I am calm and blithe.
Love, like a purple crocus in the grass,
Lifts its pale sheath, and flashes by my side;
And friendship, like the sturdy sassafras,
Laughs, golden, round the field where I abide;
And flowers, like duties, pass,
Gray, white, and blue, and pied.
Lifts its pale sheath, and flashes by my side;
167
Laughs, golden, round the field where I abide;
And flowers, like duties, pass,
Gray, white, and blue, and pied.
All tender sounds proclaim the shut of day;
My pulse is cool and scarcely seems to beat;
Why should such blissful moments e'er decay?
Why should the moon approach, the sun retreat,
When thought is clear and gay,
And life profoundly sweet?
My pulse is cool and scarcely seems to beat;
Why should such blissful moments e'er decay?
Why should the moon approach, the sun retreat,
When thought is clear and gay,
And life profoundly sweet?
Most sad of mystics, see, I shut thy book,
And let mine eyes upon thy mountain rest;
Upon those liquid-seeming crags I look
Where thou didst raise thy solitary breast,
And, chafing, scarce didst brook
The unconquerable crest.
And let mine eyes upon thy mountain rest;
Upon those liquid-seeming crags I look
Where thou didst raise thy solitary breast,
And, chafing, scarce didst brook
The unconquerable crest.
Thy nearest solace, Obermann, was found
Where that white peak soars towards a virgin sky,—
Unconscious ever of man's timid round
Of tiresome duties that about him lie,
And the only living sound,
The eagle's Alpine cry.
Where that white peak soars towards a virgin sky,—
168
Of tiresome duties that about him lie,
And the only living sound,
The eagle's Alpine cry.
I cannot breathe that starry atmosphere,
Nor feign contempt for man's ephemeral days;
The eagle's note brings music to my ear,
Only when lost high up in noon-tide blaze,
And human hope and fear
Guide all my human ways.
Nor feign contempt for man's ephemeral days;
The eagle's note brings music to my ear,
Only when lost high up in noon-tide blaze,
And human hope and fear
Guide all my human ways.
Yet, O sick soul, that eighty years ago
Trod these high paths in lonesome wretchedness,
Too dull for tears, and felt around thee grow
The spider-toils of thought, and less and less
Could'st e'er redeem the glow
Of youth's unconsciousness,—
Trod these high paths in lonesome wretchedness,
Too dull for tears, and felt around thee grow
The spider-toils of thought, and less and less
Could'st e'er redeem the glow
Of youth's unconsciousness,—
Deem not that all thy sorrows move not me,
Nor yet that veins which run with coarser blood
Forbid my dole of tribute sympathy;
Only permit a mind, perchance more rude,
Too blithely strung to be
For such high lassitude.
Nor yet that veins which run with coarser blood
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Only permit a mind, perchance more rude,
Too blithely strung to be
For such high lassitude.
Only permit that not for me thy moan
Remain the language of these hills and streams;
That o'er the clouds which float above thy Rhone,
That round the peak made classic by thy dreams,
A happier homelier tone
Should live in memory's gleams.
Remain the language of these hills and streams;
That o'er the clouds which float above thy Rhone,
That round the peak made classic by thy dreams,
A happier homelier tone
Should live in memory's gleams.
I need small circuit for this heart of mine;
And, God be thanked, all this enchanted land
Is not a glacier-desert crystalline;
What waves of odour beat this little strand
Of crocus and of pine!
Thy hand, dear friend, thy hand!
And, God be thanked, all this enchanted land
Is not a glacier-desert crystalline;
What waves of odour beat this little strand
Of crocus and of pine!
Thy hand, dear friend, thy hand!
Villard-sur-Ollon.
Aug. 1883.
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