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68
Matthew Arnold
Arnold, whose lot was cast in days of ill,That seized thy mind, the fountain of thy song,
And turned its stream with callous hands and strong,
To push the paddles of the groaning mill,
The arteries of the city's heart to fill,—
Wert thou content, if so were borne, along
The hissing culverts, to the herded throng
Hints of the freshness of thy native hill?
I could have wished thine undiverted flood
Had rolled harmoniously from source to sea,
Untortured, save by restless lyric mood;
Now a cascade, now lingering o'er the lea.
For beauty is not drawn into our blood
From cisterns; but from waters wandering free.
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