Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/178

140 In his exiled loneliness,

In his stately, deep distress,

Without a word, without a tear.

—Ah! 'tis well he should retrace

His tranquil life in this lone place;

His gentle bearing at the side

Of his timid youthful bride;

His long rambles by the shore

On winter-evenings, when the roar

Of the near waves came, sadly grand,

Through the dark, up the drowned sand;

Or his endless reveries

In the woods, where the gleams play

On the grass under the trees,

Passing the long summer's day

Idle as a mossy stone

In the forest-depths alone,

The chase neglected, and his hound

Couched beside him on the ground.

—Ah! what trouble's on his brow?

Hither let him wander now;

Hither, to the quiet hours

Passed among these heaths of ours

By the gray Atlantic sea,—

Hours, if not of ecstasy,

From violent anguish surely free!

TRISTRAM.

All red with blood the whirling river flows,

The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.

Upon us are the chivalry of Rome;

Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.