Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/467

Rh The nobleness of grief is gone:

Ah, leave us not the fret alone!

But,—if you cannot give us ease,—

Last of the race of them who grieve,

Here leave us to die out with these

Last of the people who believe!

Silent, while years engrave the brow;

Silent—the best are silent now.

Achilles ponders in his tent,

The kings of modern thought are dumb;

Silent they are, though not content,

And wait to see the future come.

They have the grief men had of yore,

But they contend and cry no more.

Our fathers watered with their tears

This sea of time whereon we sail;

Their voices were in all men's ears

Who passed within their puissant hail.

Still the same ocean round us raves,

But we stand mute, and watch the waves.

For what availed it, all the noise

And outcry of the former men?

Say, have their sons achieved more joys?

Say, is life lighter now than then?

The sufferers died, they left their pain;

The pangs which tortured them remain.

What helps it now, that Byron bore,

With haughty scorn which mocked the smart,

Through Europe to the Ætolian shore

The pageant of his bleeding heart?

That thousands counted every groan,

And Europe made his woe her own?