Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/496

458 That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled

By spirits gloriously gay,

And temper of heroic mould—

What, was four years their whole short day?

Yes, only four!—and not the course

Of all the centuries yet to come,

And not the infinite resource

Of Nature, with her countless sum

Of figures, with her fulness vast

Of new creation evermore,

Can ever quite repeat the past,

Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot!

Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,

And builds himself I know not what

Of second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go,

On us, who stood despondent by,

A meek last glance of love didst throw,

And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart—

Would fix our favorite on the scene,

Nor let thee utterly depart

And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse

On lips that rarely form them now;

While to each other we rehearse:

Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!