Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/458

420 Here no sepulchre built

In the laurelled rock, o'er the blue

Naples bay, for a sweet

Tender Virgil; no tomb

On Ravenna sands, in the shade

Of Ravenna pines, for a high

Austere Dante; no grave

By the Avon side, in the bright

Stratford meadows, for thee,

Shakspeare, loveliest of souls,

Peerless in radiance, in joy!

What, then, so harsh and malign,

Heine! distils from thy life?

Poisons the peace of thy grave?

I chide with thee not, that thy sharp

Upbraidings often assailed

England, my country; for we,

Heavy and sad, for her sons,

Long since, deep in our hearts,

Echo the blame of her foes.

We too sigh that she flags;

We too say that she now—

Scarce comprehending the voice

Of her greatest, golden-mouthed sons

Of a former age any more—

Stupidly travels her round

Of mechanic business, and lets

Slow die out of her life

Glory, and genius, and joy.

So thou arraign'st her, her foe;

So we arraign her, her sons.