Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/459

Rh Yes, we arraign her! but she,

The weary Titan, with deaf

Ears, and labor-dimmed eyes,

Regarding neither to right

Nor left, goes passively by,

Staggering on to her goal;

Bearing on shoulders immense,

Atlanteän, the load,

Well-nigh not to be borne,

Of the too vast orb of her fate.

But was it thou—I think

Surely it was!—that bard

Unnamed, who, Goethe said,

Had every other gift, but wanted love—

Love, without which the tongue

Even of angels sounds amiss?

Charm is the glory which makes

Song of the poet divine.

Love is the fountain of charm.

How without charm wilt thou draw,

Poet! the world to thy way?

Not by the lightnings of wit,

Not by the thunder of scorn.

These to the world too are given;

Wit it possesses, and scorn:

Charm is the poet's alone.

Hollow and dull are the great,

And artists envious, and the mob profane.

We know all this, we know!

Cam'st thou from heaven, O child

Of light! but this to declare?

Alas! to help us forget