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They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory 140 Which is brighter than the sun.

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They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in man's despair, without its calm;
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm;
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly

The harvest of its memories cannot reap,
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,

For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity.

'How long,' they say, 'how long, O cruel nation,

Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,

And your purple shows your path!

But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.'

From SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

[1847-1850]
I.

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, 8 Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; 12 And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, 'Guess now who holds thee?' 'Death,' I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, 'Not Death, but Love.'

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IV.

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

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And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware

8 In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
12 Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there's a voice within

That weeps as thou must sing

V.

alone, aloof.

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn
8 Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The grey dust up, ... those laurels on thine head,
12 O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,

That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand farther off then! go.

XIV.

If thou must love me, let it be for nought.
Except for love's sake only.
'I love her for her smile her look

4 Of speaking gently,

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Do not say

her way

for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

8 Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore 12 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

XLIII.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

4 For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
8 I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

12 With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

THE POETS.

[From Aurora Leigh, Bk. I, 11. 833-880 (1856)]

Books, books, books!

I had found the secret of a garret-room
Piled high with cases in my father's name,

Piled high, packed large, where, creeping in and out.

6 Among the giant fossils of my past,

Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs

Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,

10 The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,

An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books! At last because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.

As the earth

15 Plunges in fury, when the internal fires.

Have reached and pricked her heart, and, throwing flat The marts and temples, the triumphal gates

And towers of observation, clears herself

To elemental freedom thus, my soul,

20 At poetry's divine first finger-touch,

Let go conventions and sprang up surprised,
Convicted of the great eternities

Before two worlds.

What's this, Aurora Leigh,

You write so of the poets, and not laugh? 25 Those virtuous liars, dreamers after dark, Exaggerators of the sun and moon,

And soothsayers in a tea-cup?

I write so

Of the only truth-tellers now left to God,
The only speakers of essential truth,

80 Opposed to relative, comparative,

And temporal truths; the only holders by

His sun-skirts, through conventional gray glooms;
The only teachers who instruct mankind
From just a shadow on a charnel-wall
85 To find man's veritable stature out

Erect, sublime, the measure of a man,
And that's the measure of an angel, says
The apostle. Ay, and while your common men
Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, reap, dine,
40 And dust the flaunty carpets of the world
For kings to walk on, or our president,
The poet suddenly will catch them up
With his voice like a thunder, "This is soul,
This is life, this word is being said in heaven,
45 Here's God down on us! what are you about?'
How all those workers start amid their work,
Look round, look up, and feel, a moment's space,
That carpet-dusting, though a pretty trade,
Is not the imperative labour after all.

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.

[From 'The Cornhill Magazine', July 1860]

What was he doing, the great god He cut it short, did the great god

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Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:

40 The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888),

born at the village of Laleham, in Middlesex, was the son of Dr. Thomas Arnold, the well-known headmaster of Rugby School. He was educated at Winchester, Rugby, and Balliol College, Oxford, In 1847 he became private secretary to Lord Lansdowne, then in charge of the administration of public instruction, and, through his influence, received an inspectorship of schools in 1851, which he held for 35 years. From 1857-67 he was also Professor of Poetry in the university of Oxford, a post which first set to work his faculty for literary criticism. To study the educational systems of France and Germany, he paid several visits to the Continent, with the result that he became a great admirer and advocator of German education. He died suddenly of heart-disease at Liverpool, while on a visit there, and was buried in his native parish of Laleham.

Matthew Arnold holds a place in English literature as a poet as well as a prosewriter. In his poetry, mostly written during the first half of his literary career he is, like his master Wordsworth, at his best in the meditative and descriptive genre, and therefore succeeded both in lyric and in epic verse. In the former we owe to him a number of exquisite lyrics, more or less tinged with a refined melancholy, such as Isolation (1852), Rugby Chapel (1857), A Southern Night (1859),

Dover Beach (1867), and the noble elegy of Thyrsis (1867), in which he lamented the death of his college friend, the poet Arthur Clough († 1861). His narrative gift is displayed in the half lyrical romantic tale of Tristram and Iseult (1852), in the Persian story of Sohrab and Rustum (1853), an Oriental variant of the old Hildebrand theme, based on an episode of Firdausi's Shah Nameh (A.D. 1003), and in the Scandinavian myth of Balder Dead (1855). His dramatic poem Empedocles on Etna (1852) is specially noteworthy for the fine songs of Callicles the harp-player. Arnold's academic qualities of classical lucidity, urbanity, and restraint are seen to their best advantage in his prose essays, which range over literary, political, and theological criticism and are models of pure harmonious English. His finest literary criticism is to be found in his lectures On Translating Homer (1861) and On the Study of Celtic Literature (1867) and in his Essays in Criticism (1865-85). In the latter, his most important prose writings, he insisted on the study of the ancients and on the advantages of a literary education as opposed to mere scientific training, and held up as models for his countrymen the French authors rather than the German. The collection of essays called Friendship's Garland (1871) is mainly political, those entitled Culture and Anarchy (1869) and Literature and Dogma (1873) mainly theological.

SHAKSPERE.

[From The Strayed Reveller and other Poems (1849)]

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Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
4 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,

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