And long the way appears, which seemed so

short

To the less practised eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain tops, in cloudy air,— The mountain tops where is the throne of Truth,

Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare!

Unbreachable the fort

Of the long-battered world uplifts its wall;
And strange and vain the earthly turmoil

grows,

And near and real the charm of thy repose, And night as welcome as a friend would fall.

But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss
Of quiet! Look, adown the dusk hillside,
A troop of Oxford hunters going home,
As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!
From hunting with the Berkshire hounds
they come.

Quick! let me fly, and cross

Into yon farther field! 'Tis done; and see, Backed by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky, Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!

I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,
The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,
The west unflushes, the high stars grow

bright,

And in the scattered farms the lights come out. I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,

Yet, happy omen, hail!

Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale

(For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep

The morningless and unawakening sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale),

Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there! — Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,

These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him: To a boon southern country he is fled,

And now in happier air,

Wandering with the great Mother's train divine

(And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine,—

Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!
Putting his sickle to the perilous grain

In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, For thee the Lityerses-song again

Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;

Sings his Sicilian fold,

His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes; And how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink

he sprang,

And all the marvel of the golden skies.

There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair. Despair I will not, while I yet descry

'Neath the soft canopy of English air That lonely tree against the western sky.

Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,

Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the

hay,

Woods with anemones in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,
Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.

This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honor, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold:

But the smooth-slipping weeks

Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollowed, he must house alone;
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound! Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour.

Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,

If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power, If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. And this rude Cumner ground,

Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful

time,

Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!

And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.

What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon and learnt a stormy note

Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat

It fail'd, and thou wast mute!

Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,

And soon thy foot resumed its wandering

way,

Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,

Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. Then through the great town's harsh, heartwearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
To chase fatigue and fear:

Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining

still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns

the hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.

Matthew Arnold

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE

VI

NIGHT

IGIL strange I kept on the field one night: When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd, with a look I shall never forget; One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground;

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;

Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my way;

Found you in death so cold, dear comradefound your body, son of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;)

Bared your face in the starlight - curious the scene cool blew the moderate night-wind; Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading;

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night;

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh -Long, long I gazed;

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands; Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade- Not a tear, not a word;

Vigil of silence, love and death-vigil for you, my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;

Vigil final for you, brave boy (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living I think we shall surely meet again;)

Til at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet;

And there and then, and bathed by the rising