Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/457

Rh Ah! not little, when pain

Is most quelling, and man

Easily quelled, and the fine

Temper of genius so soon

Thrills at each smart, is the praise,

Not to have yielded to pain!

No small boast, for a weak

Son of mankind, to the earth

Pinned by the thunder, to rear

His bolt-scathed front to the stars;

And, undaunted, retort

'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,

Tyrannous tempests of bale,

Arrowy lightnings of soul.

Hark! through the alley resounds

Mocking laughter! A film

Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze

Ruffles the warm afternoon,

Saddens my soul with its chill.

Gibing of spirits in scorn

Shakes every leaf of the grove,

Mars the benignant repose

Of this amiable home of the dead.

Bitter spirits, ye claim

Heine? Alas, he is yours!

Only a moment I longed

Here in the quiet to snatch

From such mates the outworn

Poet, and steep him in calm.

Only a moment! I knew

Whose he was who is here

Buried: I knew he was yours!

Ah! I knew that I saw