Page:The torrent and The night before.djvu/21

 But still my dream was to command New life into that shrunken clay. I tried it.—Yes, you scan to-day, With uncommiserating glee, The songs of one who strove to play The broken flutes of Arcady.

ENVOY

So, Rock, I join the common fray, To fight where Mammon may decree; And leave, to crumble as they may, The broken flutes of Arcady.

FOR SOME POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD the chords of Hellas with firm hand He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, And brings their crystal cadence back once more To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore Of heroes and the men that long before Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.

Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray— For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; And still does art's imperial vista show, On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, Young Sohrab dying in his father s arms.

GEORGE CRABBE him the darkest inch your shelf allows, Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will,— But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still With the sure strength that fearless truth endows:—