The Poetry Corner

Haworth Churchyard

By Matthew Arnold

Where, under Loughrigg, the stream Of Rotha sparkles, the fields Are green, in the house of one Friendly and gentle, now dead, Wordsworths son-in-law, friend, Four years since, on a markd Evening, a meeting I saw. Two friends met there, two famd Gifted women. The one, Brilliant with recent renown, Young, unpractisd, had told With a Masters accent her feignd Story of passionate life: The other, maturer in fame, Earning, she too, her praise First in Fiction, had since Widend her sweep, and surveyd History, Politics, Mind. They met, held converse: they wrote In a book which of glorious souls Held memorial: Bard, Warrior, Statesman, had left Their names:, chief treasure of all, Scott had consignd there his last Breathings of song, with a pen Tottering, a death-stricken hand. I beheld; the obscure Saw the famous. Alas! Years in number, it seemd, Lay before both, and a fame Heightend, and multiplied power. Behold! The elder, to-day, Lies expecting from Death, In mortal weakness, a last Summons: the younger is dead. First to the living we pay Mournful homage: the Muse Gains not an earth-deafend ear. Hail to the steadfast soul, Which, unflinching and keen, Wrought to erase from its depth Mist, and illusion, and fear! Hail to the spirit which dard Trust its own thoughts, before yet Echoed her back by the crowd! Hail to the courage which gave Voice to its creed, ere the creed Won consecration from Time! Turn, O Death, on the vile, Turn on the foolish the stroke Hanging now oer a head Active, beneficent, pure! But, if the prayer be in vain, But, if the stroke must fall, Her, whom we cannot save, What might we say to console? She will not see her country lose Its greatness, nor the reign of fools prolongd. She will behold no more This ignominious spectacle, Power dropping from the hand Of paralytic factions, and no soul To snatch and wield it: will not see Her fellow people sit Helplessly gazing on their own decline. Myrtle and rose fit the young, Laurel and oak the mature. Private affections, for these, Have run their circle, and left Space for things far from themselves, Thoughts of the general weal, Country, and public cares: Public cares, which move Seldom and faintly the depth Of younger passionate souls Plungd in themselves, who demand Only to live by the heart, Only to love and be lovd. How shall we honour the young, The ardent, the gifted? how mourn Console we cannot; her ear Is deaf. Far northward from here, In a churchyard high mid the moors Of Yorkshire, a little earth Stops it for ever to praise. Where, behind Keighley, the road Up to the heart of the moors Between heath-clad showery hills Runs, and colliers carts Poach the deep ways coming down, And a rough, grimd race have their homes, There, on its slope, is built The moorland town. But the church Stands on the crest of the hill, Lonely and bleak; at its side The parsonage-house and the graves. See! in the desolate house The childless father! Alas, Age, whom the most of us chide, Chide, and put back, and delay, Come, unupbraided for once Lay thy benumbing hand, Gratefully cold, on this brow! Shut out the grief, the despair! Weaken the sense of his loss! Deaden the infinite pain! Another grief I see, Younger: but this the Muse, In pity and silent awe Revering what she cannot soothe, With veild face and bowd head, Salutes, and passes by. Strew with roses the grave Of the early-dying. Alas! Early she goes on the path To the Silent Country, and leaves Half her laurels unwon, Dying too soon: yet green Laurels she had, and a course Short, but redoubled by Fame. For him who must live many years That life is best which slips away Out of the light, and mutely; which avoids Fame, and her less-fair followers, Envy, Strife, Stupid Detraction, Jealousy, Cabal, Insincere Praises:, which descends The mossy quiet track to Age. But, when immature Death Beckons too early the guest From the half-tried Banquet of Life, Young, in the bloom of his days; Leaves no leisure to press, Slow and surely, the sweet Of a tranquil life in the shade, Fuller for him be the hours! Give him emotion, though pain! Let him live, let him feel, I have livd. Heap up his moments with life! Quicken his pulses with Fame! And not friendless, nor yet Only with strangers to meet, Faces ungreeting and cold, Thou, O Mournd One, to-day Enterest the House of the Grave. Those of thy blood, whom thou lovdst, Have preceded thee; young, Loving, a sisterly band: Some in gift, some in art Inferior; all in fame. They, like friends, shall receive This comer, greet her with joy; Welcome the Sister, the Friend; Hear with delight of thy fame. Round thee they lie; the grass Blows from their graves toward thine. She, whose genius, though not Puissant like thine, was yet Sweet and graceful: and She, (How shall I sing her?), whose soul Knew no fellow for might, Passion, vehemence, grief, Daring, since Byron died, That world-famd Son of Fire; She, who sank Baffled, unknown, self-consumd; Whose too bold dying song Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul. Of one too I have heard, A Brother, sleeps he here?, Of all his gifted race Not the least gifted; young, Unhappy, beautiful; the cause Of many hopes, of many tears. O Boy, if here thou sleepst, sleep well! On thee too did the Muse Bright in thy cradle smile: But some dark Shadow came (I know not what) and interposd. Sleep, O cluster of friends, Sleep! or only, when May, Brought by the West Wind, returns Back to your native heaths, And the plover is heard on the moors, Yearly awake, to behold The opening summer, the sky, The shining moorland; to hear The drowsy bee, as of old, Hum oer the thyme, the grouse Call from the heather in bloom: Sleep; or only for this Break your united repose.