Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/440

402 And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—

All round, no soul, no boat, no hail;

But, on the horizon's verge descried,

Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail.

Ah! where is he who should have come20

Where that far sail is passing now,

Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam

Of Finistère's unquiet brow,—

Home, round into the English wave?—

He tarries where the Rock of Spain

Mediterranean waters lave;

He enters not the Atlantic main.

Oh, could he once have reached this air

Freshened by plunging tides, by showers!

Have felt this breath he loved, of fair

Cool Northern fields, and grass, and flowers!

He longed for it—pressed on. In vain!

At the Straits failed that spirit brave.

The South was parent of his pain,

The South is mistress of his grave.

A SOUTHERN NIGHT.

sandy spits, the shore-locked lakes,

Melt into open, moonlit sea;

The soft Mediterranean breaks

At my feet, free.

Dotting the fields of corn and vine,

Like ghosts, the huge gnarled olives stand;

Behind, that lovely mountain line!

While, by the strand,—