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Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

~ Contemporary Poetry and Literary Classics from Cleveland to Infinity

Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

Category Archives: Arnold (Matthew)

Self-Dependence (by Matthew Arnold)

17 Wednesday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, Arnold (Matthew), British, Writing

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Matthew Arnold
Self-Dependence
by Matthew Arnold, 1852

1.

Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards o’er the starlit sea.

2.

And a look of passionate desire
O’er the sea and to the stars I send:
“Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

3.

“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

4.

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea’s unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
“Wouldst thou BE as these are? LIVE as they.

5.

“Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

6.

“And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.

7.

“Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God’s other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see.”

8.

O air-born voice! long since, severly clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
“Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
Who finds himself loses his misery!”


* * *



The Forsaken Merman (by Matthew Arnold)

04 Thursday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, Arnold (Matthew), British, Writing

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Matthew Arnold
The Forsaken Merman
by Matthew Arnold
[first published in 1849]

    Come, dear children, let us away;
    Down and away below!
    Now my brothers call from the bay,
    Now the great winds shoreward blow,
    Now the salt tides seaward flow;
    Now the wild white horses play,
    Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
    Children dear, let us away!
    This way, this way!

    Call her once before you go–
    Call once yet!
    In a voice that she will know:
   “Margaret! Margaret!”
    Children’s voices should be dear
    (Call once more) to a mother’s ear;
    Children’s voices, wild with pain–
    Surely she will come again!
    Call her once and come away;
    This way, this way!
   “Mother dear, we cannot stay!
    The wild white horses foam and fret.”
    Margaret! Margaret!

    Come, dear children, come away down;
    Call no more!
    One last look at the white-wall’d town,
    And the little gray church on the windy shore;
    Then come down!
    She will not come though you call all day;
    Come away, come away!

    Children dear, was it yesterday
    We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
    In the caverns where we lay,
    Through the surf and through the swell,
    The far-off sound of a silver bell?
    Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
    Where the winds are all asleep;
    Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
    Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
    Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
    Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
    Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
    Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
    Where great whales come sailing by,
    Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
    Round the world forever and aye?
    When did music come this way?
    Children dear, was it yesterday?

    Children dear, was it yesterday
    (Call yet once) that she went away?
    Once she sate with you and me,
    On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
    And the youngest sate on her knee.
    She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well,
    When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
    She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea;
    She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
    In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
   ‘Twill be Easter-time in the world–ah me!
    And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.”
    I said: “Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
    Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!”
    She smil’d, she went up through the surf in the bay.
    Children dear, was it yesterday?

    Children dear, were we long alone?
   “The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
    Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say;
    Come!” I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
    We went up the beach, by the sandy down
    Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town;
    Through the narrow pav’d streets, where all was still,
    To the little gray church on the windy hill.
    From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
    But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
    We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
    And we gaz’d up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
    She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
   “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
    Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone;
    The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.”
    But, ah, she gave me never a look,
    For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book!
    Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door.
    Come away, children, call no more!
    Come away, come down, call no more!

    Down, down, down!
    Down to the depths of the sea!
    She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
    Singing most joyfully.
    Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy,
    For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
    For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
    For the wheel where I spun,
    And the blessèd light of the sun!”
    And so she sings her fill,
    Singing most joyfully,
    Till the spindle drops from her hand,
    And the whizzing wheel stands still.
    She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
    And over the sand at the sea;
    And her eyes are set in a stare;
    And anon there breaks a sigh,
    And anon there drops a tear,
    From a sorrow-clouded eye,
    And a heart sorrow-laden,
    A long, long sigh;
    For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
    And the gleam of her golden hair.

    Come away, away, children;
    Come, children, come down!
    The hoarse wind blows colder;
    Lights shine in the town.
    She will start from her slumber
    When gusts shake the door;
    She will hear the winds howling,
    Will hear the waves roar.
    We shall see, while above us
    The waves roar and whirl,
    A ceiling of amber,
    A pavement of pearl.
    Singing: “Here came a mortal,
    But faithless was she!
    And alone dwell forever
    The kings of the sea.”

    But, children, at midnight,
    When soft the winds blow,
   &nb
sp;When clear falls the moonlight,
    When spring-tides are low;
    When sweet airs come seaward
    From heaths starr’d with broom,
    And high rocks throw mildly
    On the blanch’d sands a gloom;
    Up the still, glistening beaches,
    Up the creeks we will hie,
    Over banks of bright seaweed
    The ebb-tide leaves dry.
    We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
    At the white, sleeping town;
    At the church on the hill-side–
    And then come back down.
    Singing: “There dwells a lov’d one,
    But cruel is she!
    She left lonely forever
    The kings of the sea.”



* * *


Growing Old (by Matthew Arnold)

04 Thursday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, Arnold (Matthew), British, Writing

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Matthew Arnold
Growing Old
by Matthew Arnold
[first published in New Poems, 1867]

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
–Yes, but not for this alone.

Is it to feel our strength–
Not our bloom only, but our strength–decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?

Yes, this, and more; but not,
Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ‘twould be!
‘Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,
A golden day’s decline!

‘Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!

It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young;
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion–none.

It is–last stage of all–
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.



* * *


Dover Beach (by Matthew Arnold)

26 Sunday Apr 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, Arnold (Matthew), British, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

Matthew Arnold
Dover Beach
by Matthew Arnold
[first published in New Poems, 1867]

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.



* * *


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