Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/513

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Yet once again, stern Chief, yet once again,

Pour forth the foaming vials of thy wrath:

There lies thy goal, to miss or to attain,

Gird thee, and on upon thy fateful path,

The world hath bowed to Rome, oh! cold were he

Who would not burst his bonds, and in his turn be free.

Therefore arise and arm thee! lo, the world

Looks on in fear! and when the seal is set,

The doom pronounced, the battle-flag unfurled,

Scourge of the nations, wouldest thou linger yet?

Arise and arm thee! spread thy banners forth,

Pour from a thousand hills thy warriors of the north!

Hast thou not marked on a wild autumn day

When the wind slumbereth in a sudden lull,

What deathlike stillness o'er the landscape lay,

How calmly sad, how sadly beautiful;

How each bright tint of tree, and flower, and heath

Were mingling with the sere and withered hues of death.

And thus, beneath the clear, calm vault of heaven

In mournful loveliness that city lay,

And thus, amid the glorious hues of even

That city told of languor and decay:

Till what at morning's hour lookt warm and bright

Was cold and sad beneath that breathless, voiceless night.