Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/460

422 Such barren knowledge a while,

God gave the poet his song.

Therefore a secret unrest

Tortured thee, brilliant and bold;

Therefore triumph itself

Tasted amiss to thy soul.

Therefore, with blood of thy foes,

Trickled in silence thine own.

Therefore the victor's heart

Broke on the field of his fame.

Ah! as of old, from the pomp

Of Italian Milan, the fair

Flower of marble of white

Southern palaces,—steps

Bordered by statues, and walks

Terraced, and orange bowers

Heavy with fragrance,—the blond

German Kaiser full oft

Longed himself back to the fields,

Rivers, and high-roofed towns

Of his native Germany; so,

So, how often! from hot

Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps

Blazing, and brilliant crowds,

Starred and jewelled, of men

Famous, of women the queens

Of dazzling converse; from fumes

Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain

That mount, that madden,—how oft

Heine's spirit outworn

Longed itself out of the din,

Back to the tranquil, the cool

Far German home of his youth!