THE NEW SIRENS
by: Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)
- n the cedarn shadow sleeping,
- Where cool grass and fragrant glooms
- Forth at noon had lured me, creeping
- From your darken'd palace rooms
- I, who in your train at morning
- Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind,
- Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning;
- Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind.
- Who are they, O pensive Graces,
- For I dream'd they wore your forms
- Who on shores and sea-wash'd places
- Scoop the shelves and fret the storms?
- Who, when ships are that way tending,
- Troop across the flushing sands,
- To all reefs and narrows wending,
- With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands?
- Yet I see, the howling levels
- Of the deep are not your lair;
- And your tragic-vaunted revels
- Are less lonely than they were.
- Like those Kings with treasure steering
- From the jewell'd lands of dawn,
- Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing,
- Stream all day through your enchanted lawn.
- And we too, from upland valleys,
- Where some Muse with half-curved frown
- Leans her ear to your mad sallies
- Which the charm'd winds never drown;
- By faint music guided, ranging
- The scared glens, we wander'd on,
- Left our awful laurels hanging,
- And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne.
- From the dragon-warder'd fountains
- Where the springs of knowledge are,
- From the watchers on the mountains,
- And the bright and morning star;
- We are exiles, we are falling,
- We have lost them at your call
- O ye false ones, at your calling
- Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall!
- Are the accents of your luring
- More melodious than of yore?
- Are those frail forms more enduring
- Than the charms Ulysses bore?
- That we sought you with rejoicings,
- Till at evening we descry
- At a pause of Siren voicings
- These vext branches and this howling sky?...
- Oh, your pardon! The uncouthness
- Of that primal age is gone,
- And the skin of dazzling smoothness
- Screens not now a heart of stone.
- Love has flush'd those cruel faces;
- And those slacken'd arms forgo
- The delight of death-embraces,
- And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow.
- "Ah," you say; "the large appearance
- Of man's labour is but vain,
- And we plead as staunch adherence
- Due to pleasure as to pain."
- Pointing to earth's careworn creatures,
- "Come," you murmur with a sigh:
- "Ah! we own diviner features,
- Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye.
- "Come," you say, "the hours were dreary;
- Dull did life in torpor fade;
- Time is lame, and we grew weary
- In the slumbrous cedarn shade.
- Round our hearts with long caresses,
- With low sighings, Silence stole,
- And her load of steaming tresses
- Fell, like Ossa, on the climbing soul.
- "Come," you say, "the soul is fainting
- Till she search and learn her own,
- And the wisdom of man's painting
- Leaves her riddle half unknown.
- Come," you say, "the brain is seeking,
- While the sovran heart is dead;
- Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking,
- Rarer secrets than the toiling head.
- "Come," you say, "opinion trembles,
- Judgment shifts, convictions go;
- Life dries up, the heart dissembles
- Only, what we feel, we know.
- Hath your wisdom felt emotions?
- Will it weep our burning tears?
- Hath it drunk of our love-potions
- Crowning moments with the wealth of years?"
- I am dumb. Alas, too soon all
- Man's grave reasons disappear!
- Yet, I think, at God's tribunal
- Some large answer you shall hear.
- But, for me, my thoughts are straying
- Where at sunrise, through your vines,
- On these lawns I saw you playing,
- Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;
- When your showering locks enwound you,
- And your heavenly eyes shone through;
- When the pine-boughs yielded round you,
- And your brows were starr'd with dew;
- And immortal forms, to meet you,
- Down the statued alleys came,
- And through golden horns, to greet you,
- Blew such music as a God may frame.
- Yes, I muse! And if the dawning
- Into daylight never grew,
- If the glistering wings of morning
- On the dry noon shook their dew,
- If the fits of joy were longer,
- Or the day were sooner done,
- Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,
- No weak nursling of an earthly sun ...
- Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,
- Dusk the hall with yew!
- For a bound was set to meetings,
- And the sombre day dragg'd on;
- And the burst of joyful greetings,
- And the joyful dawn, were gone.
- For the eye grows fill'd with gazing,
- And on raptures follow calms;
- And those warm locks men were praising,
- Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms.
- Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys,
- And made all your cedars frown;
- Leaves were whirling in the alleys
- Which your lovers wander'd down.
- Sitting cheerless in your bowers,
- The hands propping the sunk head,
- Still they gall you, the long hours,
- And the hungry thought, that must be fed!
- Is the pleasure that is tasted
- Patient of a long review?
- Will the fire joy hath wasted,
- Mused on, warm the heart anew?
- Or, are those old thoughts returning,
- Guests the dull sense never knew,
- Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,
- Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew?
- Once, like us, you took your station
- Watchers for a purer fire;
- But you droop'd in expectation,
- And you wearied in desire.
- When the first rose flush was steeping
- All the frore peak's awful crown,
- Shepherds say, they found you sleeping
- In some windless valley, farther down.
- Then you wept, and slowly raising
- Your dozed eyelids, sought again,
- Half in doubt, they say, and gazing
- Sadly back, the seats of men;
- Snatch'd a turbid inspiration
- From some transient earthly sun,
- And proclaim'd your vain ovation
- For those mimic raptures you had won....
- With a sad, majestic motion,
- With a stately, slow surprise,
- From their earthward-bound devotion
- Lifting up your languid eyes
- Would you freeze my too loud boldness,
- Dumbly smiling as you go,
- One faint frown of distant coldness
- Flitting fast across each marble brow?
- Do I brighten at your sorrow,
- O sweet Pleaders?doth my lot
- Find assurance in to-morrow
- Of one joy, which you have not?
- O, speak once, and shame my sadness!
- Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain,
- Mock'd and baffled by your gladness,
- Mar the music of your feasts in vain!
- Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!
- Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow
- Come, bind up those ringlet showers!
- Roses for that dreaming brow!
- Come, once more that ancient lightness,
- Glancing feet, and eager eyes!
- Let your broad lamps flash the brightness
- Which the sorrow-stricken day denies!
- Through black depths of serried shadows,
- Up cold aisles of buried glade;
- In the midst of river-meadows
- Where the looming kine are laid;
- From your dazzled windows streaming,
- From your humming festal room,
- Deep and far, a broken gleaming
- Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.
- Where I stand, the grass is glowing;
- Doubtless you are passing fair!
- But I hear the north wind blowing,
- And I feel the cold night-air.
- Can I look on your sweet faces,
- And your proud heads backward thrown,
- From this dusk of leaf-strewn places
- With the dumb woods and the night alone?
- Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses
- Mad delight, and frozen calms
- Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses,
- And to-morrowfolded palms;
- Is this all? this balanced measure?
- Could life run no happier way?
- Joyous, at the height of pleasure,
- Passive at the nadir of dismay?
- But, indeed, this proud possession,
- This far-reaching, magic chain,
- Linking in a mad succession
- Fits of joy and fits of pain
- Have you seen it at the closing?
- Have you track'd its clouded ways?
- Can your eyes, while fools are dozing,
- Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days?
| | | |