Art thou not happy, Poet?

I sometimes dream that I For such a fragrant fame as thine Would gladly sing and die.

Say, wilt thou change thy glory For this same youth of mine?

And I will give my days i' the sun For that great song of thine.

MATTHEW ARNOLD

(DIED, APRIL 15, 1888)

Within that wood where thine own scholar strays, O! Poet, thou art pa.s.sed, and at its bound Hollow and sere we cry, yet win no sound But the dark muttering of the forest maze We may not tread, nor pierce with any gaze; And hardly love dare whisper thou hast found That restful moonlit slope of pastoral ground Set in dark dingles of the songful ways.

Gone! they have called our shepherd from the hill, Pa.s.sed is the sunny sadness of his song, That song which sang of sight and yet was brave To lay the ghosts of seeing, subtly strong To wean from tears and from the troughs to save; And who shall teach us now that he is still!

'TENNYSON' AT THE FARM

(TO L. AND H.H.)

O you that dwell 'mid farm and fold, Yet keep so quick undulled a heart, I send you here that book of gold, So loved so long; The fairest art, The sweetest English song.

And often in the far-off town, When summer sits with open door, I'll dream I see you set it down Beside the churn,

Whose round shall slacken more and more, Till you forget to turn.

And I shall smile that you forget, And Dad will scold--but never mind!

b.u.t.ter is good, but better yet, Think such as we, To leave the farm and fold behind, And follow such as he.

'THE DESK'S DRY WOOD'

(TO JAMES WELCH)

Dear Desk, Farewell! I spoke you oft In phrases neither sweet nor soft, But at the end I come to see That thou a friend hast been to me, No flatterer but very friend.

For who shall teach so well again The blessed lesson-book of pain, The truth that souls that would aspire Must bravely face the scourge and fire, If they would conquer in the end?

Two days!

Shall I not hug thee very close?

Two days, And then we part upon our ways.

Ah me!

Who shall possess thee after me?

O pray he be no enemy to poesy, To gentle maid or gentle dream.

How have we dreamed together, I and thou, Sweet dreams that like some incense wrapt us round The last new book, the last new love, The last new trysting-ground.

How many queens have ruled and pa.s.sed Since first we met; how thick and fast The letters used to come at first, how thin at last; Then ceased, and winter for a s.p.a.ce!

Until another hand Brought spring into the land, And went the seasons' pace.

And now, Dear Desk, thou knowest for how long time I have no queen but song: Yea, thou hast seen the last love fade, and now Behold the last of many a secret rhyme!

A LIBRARY IN A GARDEN

'A Library in a garden! The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.'--Mr. EDMUND GOSSE in _Gossip in a Library_.

A world of books amid a world of green, Sweet song without, sweet song again within Flowers in the garden, in the folios too: O happy Bookman, let me live with you!

ON THE MORALS OF POETS

One says he is immoral, and points out Warm sin in ruddy specks upon his soul: Bigot, one folly of the man you flout Is more to G.o.d than thy lean life is whole.

FAERY GOLD

(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER)

A poet hungered, as well he might-- Not a morsel since yesternight!

And sad he grew--good reason why-- For the poet had nought wherewith to buy.

'Are not two sparrows sold,' he cried, 'Sold for a farthing? and,' he sighed, As he pushed his morning post away, 'Are not two sonnets more than they?'

Yet store of gold, great store had he,-- Of the gold that is known as 'faery.'

He had the gold of his burning dreams, He had his golden rhymes--in reams, He had the strings of his golden lyre, And his own was that golden west on fire.

But the poet knew his world too well To dream that such would buy or sell.

He had his poets, 'pure gold,' he said, But the man at the bookstall shook his head, And offered a grudging half-a-crown For the five the poet had brought him down.

Ah, what a world we are in! we sigh, Where a lunch costs more than a Keats can buy, And even Shakespeare's hallowed line Falls short of the requisite sum to dine.

Yet other gold had the poet got, For see from that grey-blue Gouda pot Three golden tulips spouting flame-- From his love, from his love, this morn, they came.

His love he loved even more than fame.

Three golden tulips thrice more fair Than other golden tulips were-- 'And yet,' he smiled as he took one up, And feasted on its yellow cup,-- 'I wonder how many eggs you'd buy!

By Bacchus, I've half a mind to try!

'One golden bloom for one golden yolk-- Nay, on my word, sir, I mean no joke-- Gold for gold is fair dealing, sir.'

Think of the grocer gaping there!

Or the baker, if I went and said, --'This tulip for a loaf of bread, G.o.d's beauty for your kneaded grain;'

Or the vintner--'For this flower of mine A flagon, pray, of yellow wine, And you shall keep the change for gain.'

Ah me, on what a different earth I and these fellows had our birth, Strange that these golden things should be For them so poor, so rich for me.'

Ended his sigh, the poet searched his shelf-- Seeking another poet to feed himself; Then sadly went, and, full of shame and grief, Sold his last Swinburne for a plate of beef.

Thus poets too, to fill the hungry maw, Must eat each other--'tis the eternal law.

ALL SUNG