"WITH MOST DELIGHTFUL WONDER 1 HAVE HEARD TALES OF THE ELFIN TIME."-ROBERT SOUTHEY.
"THE POET'S PEN....GIVES TO AIRY NOTHINGS
WAS when the spinning-room was here,
There came three damsels clothed in white
With their spindles every night;
Two and one, and three fair maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfen-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was tolled,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Three white lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the pastor's son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
Round these maids of Elfen-Mere;
Sued each night to make them stay,
Saddened when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Hands that shook with love and fear
Dared put back the village clock;
Flew the spindle, turned the rock,
Flowed the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false "eleven was sounding;
Then these maids of Elfen-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
A LOCAL HABITATION AND A NAME."-SHAKSPEARE.
"OH, WELL FOR HIM WHOSE WILL IS STRONG! HE SUFFERS, BUT HE WILL NOT SUFFER LONG."-TENNYSON.
"THE TIDAL WAVE OF DEEPER SOULS INTO OUR INMOST BEING ROLLS."-LONGFELLOW.
"HE IS IN LOVE WITH AN IDEAL, A CHILD OF AIR, AND ECHO OF HIS HEART."-LONGFELLOW.
"YET SHALL WE ONE DAY GAIN, LIFE PAST, CLEAR PROSPECT O'ER OUR BEING'S WHOLE;
"THE AIDs to noble LIFE ARE ALL WITHIN."-ARNOLD
Nevermore with song and spindle
Saw we maids of Elfen-Mere.
The pastor's son did pine and die,
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow."
[From the Day and Night Songs," 1st edit., 1854.]
SHALL SEE OURSELVES, AND LEARN AT LAST OUR TRUE AFFINITIES OF SOUL."-M. ARNOLD.
["IN the best words of this poet," says Mr. Algernon Swinburne,
"there is often a craft and a charm; but in his best work there is always
rest, and air, and a high relief,—it satisfies, enlarges, refreshes with its cool
full breath and serenity. On some men's nerves the temperature strikes
somewhat cold: there are lungs that cannot breathe but in the air of a hot-
house or a hospital. There is not much, indeed, of heat or flame in the
vestal or lunar light that shines from this hearth; but it does not burn
down. His poetry is a pure temple, a white flower of marble, unfretted
without by intricate and grotesque intricacies, unvexed within by fumes of
shaken censers or intoning of hoarse choristers-large and clear and cool,
with many chapels in it and outer courts, full of quiet and of music. In
the plainest air played here there is a sound of sincerity and skill; as in
one little Requiescat, which, without show of beauty or any thought or
fancy, leaves long upon the ear an impression of simple, of earnest, of
weary melody, wound up into a sense of rest. We do not always want to
bathe our spirits in overflowing waters or flaming fires of imagination;
pathos and passion and aspiration and desire are not the only springs we
seek for song.
Sorrows and joys of thought or sense meet us here in white
raiment and wearing maiden crowns. In each court or chapel there is a
fresh fragrance of early mountain flowers, which bring with them the wind
and the sun and a sense of space and growth--all of them born in high
places, washed and waved by upper airs and rains. Into each alike there
falls on us as we turn a consciousness of calm beauty, of cool and noble
repose, of majestic work under melodious and lofty laws; we feel and
accept the quiet sovereignties of happy harmony and loyal form, whose ser-
vice for the artist is perfect freedom: it is good for us to be here. Nor are
all these either of modern structure or of Greek: here is an Asiatic court,
a Scandinavian there; and everywhere is the one ruling and royal quality
of classic work-an assured and equal excellence of touch."
It is to be regretted that so perfect an artist should have written so little;
the world would eagerly welcome a more prolific growth from so elegant
and meditative a mind. But "The Strayed Reveller," "Empedocles on
MIND, THE SPELL WHICH GOVERNS EARTH AND HEAVEN."-IBID.
Etna," Merope" (a tragedy), and the recent volumes entitled "New
Poems," are, with the exception of some essays and lectures, the works,
few but perfect, on which his reputation rests. The eldest son of Dr.
Thomas Arnold, the eminent Head Master of Rugby, he was born at Lale-
ham, near Staines, in December 1822; educated at Winchester and Rugby;
and finally removed to Balliol College, Oxford, where he won the Newdi-
gate prize in 1843, and graduated with honours in 1844. In 1851 he married
the daughter of the late Mr. Justice Wightman, and was appointed one of
the Lay Inspectors of Schools. He was elected Professor of Poetry at
Oxford in 1857, and held that distinguished post for ten years. He has pub-
lished "Poems by A" in 1846; "The Strayed Reveller" in 1848; “Em-
pedocles on Etna," 1853; "Merope" in 1858; "Essays on Criticism," 1865;
"New Poems," 1867; 66 Collected Poems," 1867; "Culture and Anarchy,"
1869; and "St. Paul and Protestantism," 1870.]
"EACH DAY BRINGS ITS PETTY DUST OUR SOON-CHOKED SOULS TO FILL,-(MATTHEW ARNOLD)
AND WE FORGET BECAUSE WE MUST, AND NOT BECAUSE WE WILL."-MATTHEW ARNOLD.
THE PUNISHMENT OF MARSYAS.*
S the sky-brightening south wind clears the day,
And makes the massed clouds roll,
The music of the lyre blows away
The clouds that wrap the soul.
Oh, that Fate had let me see
That triumph of the sweet, persuasive lyre,
That famous, final victory
When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire
When, from far Parnassus' side,
Young Apollo, all the pride
Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,
To the Phrygian highlands came!
Where the long green reed-beds sway
In the rippled waters grey
Of that solitary lake
Where Maeander's springs are born ; †
* It was fabled of Marsyas that, having ventured to contend with Apollo, he was flayed alive. A stream in Caria bears his name.
+ The Maeander was the most important river of Caria, and rose in a lake on Mount Autocrene.
HOW BOUNDLESS MIGHT HIS SOUL'S HORIZONS BE!"-ARNOLD.
"YES, IN THE SEA OF LIFE ENISLED, WITH ECHOING STRAITS BETWEEN US THROWN,
STILL NURSING THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE."-ARNOLD,
THE PUNISHMENT OF MARSYAS.
Where the ridged pine-wooded roots
Of Messogis* westward break,
Mounting westward, high and higher.
There was held the famous strife!
There the Phrygian brought his flutes,
And Apollo brought his lyre!
And when now the westering sun
Touched the hills, the strife was done,
And the attentive Muses said:
'Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!” Then Apollo's minister
Hanged upon a branching fir
Marsyas, that unhappy Faun,
And began to whet his knife.
But the Maenads, who were there,
Left their friend, and with robes flowing
In the wind, and loose dark hair
O'er their polished bosoms blowing,
Each her ribboned tambourine
Flinging on the mountain sod,
With a lovely frightened mien
Came about the youthful God.
But he turned his beauteous face
Haughtily another way,
From the grassy, sun-warmed place
Where in proud repose he lay,
With one arm over his head,
Watching how the whetting sped.
But aloof, on the lake strand,
Did the young Olympus stand,
* The undulating range of Messogis forms the northern boundary of the basin of the Macander.
"SAD PATIENCE, TOO NEAR NEIGHBOUR TO DESPAIR!"-IBID.
DOTTING THE SHORELESS WATERY WILD, WE MORTAL MILLIONS LIVE ALONE."-AKNOLD.
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