Alaric at Rome, and other poems

Front matter

FjqiH'^ ALARIC

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

Introduction

THE incontestable importance of Matthew Arnold's place in English poetical literature arises not merely from the beauty of much of his poetry, but from his peculiar distinction as one of the few eminent English poets who are enrolled among the legislators of their art, not more by the indirect influence of their metrical compositions, than by the authority universally accorded to their critical utterances. Coleridge, the most penetrating critic Britain ever possessed, is too casual and desultory to rank among legislators, and the two poets who admit of most profitable comparison with Arnold in this respect are Dryden and Wordsworth. Each of the three had definite convictions on the subject of poetry which he exemplified in his own practice; and each, along with error and exaggerated truth, contributed elements to the formation of a poetical ideal which can never be ignored. To a certain extent Arnold's work was a corrective of that of Wordsworth, the great emancipator of English poetry. In overthrowing a merely conventional orthodoxy, Wordsworth had inevitably given somewhat of a shock to those great models and eternal principles by whose corrupt following this conventionalism had been vii

Introdudtion.

engendered. It was Arnold's mission to restore the balance, inculcating alike by example and precept the cardinal doctrines of antiquity, that form is of equal importance with matter, and that the value of a poem consists more in the force and truth of the total impression, than in isolated fine thoughts sparkling forth in the heat of composition. This, substantially, was Matthew Arnold's critical gospel, a deliverance interesting as an episode in the eternal strife between Classic and Romantic, and valuable as a corrective of tendencies inherent in the English genius. This is not generally architectonic, it overwhelms with affluence of thought and imagery, but the shaping hand is too often absent. Arnold thought that much of the characteristic English indifference to form arose from indiscriminate admiration of Shakespeare; but the truth is that while fancy, passion, and reflection come to gifted Englishmen by nature, the sense of symmetry usually has to be engrafted upon them. We are a nation of colourists, and great colourists, except by determined efforts, rarely became good draughtsmen. Arnold's admonition, therefore, was most serviceable, it may be ranked with Wordsworth's protest against the conventionaUties of his day, and was perhaps even more valuable; for while Wordsworth assailed an aberration which in course of time would have corrected itself, Arnold denounced ingrained vice and besetting sin. It was, moreover, eminently seasonable, appearing in 1853, when there did seem a real danger of English poetry becoming an assemblage of purple patches upon a core of perishable wood, the very definition of a scarecrow. This did not, however viii

Introduftion.

arise as Arnold thought, from a special infirmity in the age, whose imperfections he greatly exaggerated, but from the abuse of what was best in it. The infinite significance of even the humblest human life was beginning to be recognized as it had never been before, but a discovery invaluable in the social sphere had not unnaturally generated the dangerous artistic heresy that what is good enough for a novel is also good enough for a poem. 1853, the date of Arnold's memorable preface, was also the period, not indeed of the culminating, but of the too exclusive influence of Shelley and Keats, who were receiving their long withheld recompense with usury. These great poets, in their more mature productions, rather surpass than fall short of the ordinary English standard of symmetrical construction, but their architecture is obscured by the splendour of their painting, and too many had come to confound the art of poetry with the art of phrasing. To such Matthew Arnold's remonstrance came like an exorcism, and its weight was greatly enhanced by the method of its delivery ; not poured as from a vase into the turbid torrent of periodical criticism, but prefixed as a confession of faith to a volume of poetry designed for and destined to endurance.

It is a great reinforcement to the weight of poetical criticism when the critic is himself a recognized poet. The Goddess of Wisdom herself is not recorded to have lectured to the Muses, and the precepts of mere prose writers, however excellent, have something of the air of instructions to Hannibal in the art of war. Even ix

Introduftion.

Aristotle qualified for his Poetics by writing a song, and a very good one. Arnold, when he came forward in 1853 to discourse on poetry, could produce sufficient credentials as the author of two poetical volumes of great though unequal merit, "The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems" (1849); and "Empedocles on Etna and other Poems ' (1852). Neither of these, however, as we shall see presently, sufficiently exemplified the particular principles which he chiefly desired to enforce. His argument would have wanted the weight which theory derives from conformity to practice, if, upon the republication in 1853 of such of these poems as he then cared to preserve, they had not been accompanied by another so completely exemplifying his views respecting the supreme necessity of perfection of form, dignity of subject, unity of action, and sobriety of treatment that it might have been written to illustrate them. Great poems, nevertheless, cannot be composed to order, and it is much more probable that the preface grew out of the poem than the reverse.

No subject could better than "Sohrab and Rustum'' have enabled Arnold to exempUfy his own precepts: — "Choose a fitting action, penetrate yourself with the feehng of its situations ; this done everything else will follow.'' This exhortation, indeed, is insufficiently limited and defined. The action must be not only abstractedly fitting for a poet to undertake, but the poet must fit the action. Coleridge, perhaps, would have made no more of " Sohrab and Rustum " than Arnold would have made of "The Ancient Mariner;" and when at a later period Arnold

Introduftion.

endeavoured to dramatize the story of Merope, the unanimous voice of criticism informed him that although the subject was undeniably fitting, and the poet adequately penetrated by it, "everything else" had not followed. But " Sohrab and Rustum " suited him to perfection, for it is an heroic action whose greatness consists not in its grandeur, but in its pathos. Pathos is the note of all his best poems, there is hardly one of them which is not more or less an appeal for compassion on account of the character of the incident described, or some human or spiritual sorrow, or some real or imaginary distress of the age. No more affecting incident than the involuntary death of a son by his father's hand can be found in history or fiction, and it especially impressed Arnold, from that strength in him of the parental instinct revealed by his recently published correspondence. What he received intimately he reproduced vividly, and the conduct of his story and the tissue of his diction are masterpieces of judgment. Nothing, he rightly perceived, can be more essential to the impressiveness of a story of profound pathos than that it should be told in the simplest language, yet unrelieved simplicity throughout a long narrative must wear an aspect of poverty, perhaps even of affectation. The general homeliness of the exposition, therefore, is occasionally interrupted by elaborate similes, little poems in themselves, and involving close and accurate word-painting. These for a moment suspend, but do not divert, the reader's attention to the main action, whose pathos goes on deepening with every line, until there is no modern poem, with perhaps the exception of Tennyson's

Introdudlion.

this poem and " Sohrab and Rustum ; " the style is very similar, the action of each equally noble and affecting ; the conduct of either story equally admirable; the interspersed similes equally happy and carefully worked out ; the pathos of the respective situations much on a level, and affording almost equal scope for the tenderness which, even more than depth of thought, is Arnold's strong point as a poet. It may, indeed, be said that the manner and diction of " Balder " are even more Homeric than those of " Sohrab and Rustum," while, considering the peculiarity of the locality and the action, they might with propriety have been less so ; it is also true that there are more lapses into the prosaic, and more hnes deficient in metrical effect. These defects, however, are very inconsiderable in comparison with the general impression of godlike grandeur and human pathos. "Thyrsis," after "Balder" the most important of Arnold's later poems, is an elegy on his friend Arthur Clough, not, certainly, a " Lycidas " or an " Adonais," but rich in beauties both of thought and description. It is somewhat marred for the general reader by a circumstance which probably enhances its charm for Oxonians, the numerous local allusions which endear the poem to those familiar with the scenery, but simply worry when not understood. The note of personal affection is unmistakable, and it may be from over jealousy for his friend's repute and his own that Arnold's poem smells somewhat of the lamp, and hardly produces so much effect as a simpler composition, the exquisite poem on the deaths of his brother and his sister-in-law, full of rich local colouring, and not too local.

xiv

Introduftion.

With these exceptions, and his dignified but frigid tragedy of " Merope," the chief part of Arnold's poetical work was composed by 1853, and is comprehended in three volumes, one mainly a reprint. There is nothing extraordinary in the gradual impoverishment of his poetical vein, which had never been remarkable for affluence. His criticisms and private letters betray a limited sympathy with his poetical predecessors and immediate contemporaries, which, since it assuredly was not in the slightest degree inspired by envy or unworthy jealousy, can only be interpreted as betokening an undue preponderance of the critical instinct, fatal to the enthusiasm required for continuous productiveness in poetry. The teeming soul is enthusiastic and lavish of admiration, for only so can it sufficiently respond to the innumerable impressions, physical and spiritual, through which alone it is possible to sustain incessant poetical activity. Arnold's intellectual force and intellectual interests never waned, but were diverted more and more from the sphere of creation to the sphere of criticism ; in which, however, so novel and striking were his views and so original his method of developing them, that he almost became a creator. He laid English literature, in particular, under the greatest obligation by his two golden little books, " On translating Homer," and "On the Study of Celtic Literature." His own attempts at Homeric translation, indeed, were by no means fortunate, but this in no respect detracts from the value of his criticism. His more ambitious prose writings have permeated modern English thought, and furnished it with a new and most beneficial element ; it may be added,

XV

Introduction.

that in effecting this they have parted with their own individuality, and will soon exist rather as a tint than as a substance. This is merely to say that they were admirably suited for their time, of which his poems are comparatively independent. We entirely agree with Mr. Frederic Harrison, that Arnold's fame will mainly rest upon his poetry, and that it will be durable, pure, and high. We have mentioned his most conspicuous productions, but those which we have not mentioned, or even a few of them, would suffice for an enviable poetical reputation. The development of his mind, nevertheless, as shown in the chronological sequence of his poems (obscured by the classified arrangement adopted in his ow^n edition) is not in the direction of poetry. In the finest productions in his first volume (" The Strayed Reveller," " The Forsaken Merman," " Mycerinus,") the poetical impulse is dominant, the treatment is healthy and objective, spiritual strivings and questionings, though the pieces are really inspired by them, are kept in the background. The finest poems in the second volume, on the other hand (" Memorial Verses," " The Buried Life," "The Youth of Nature," "The Youth of Man," above all " A Summer Night,") come from within. They are not less admirable than their predecessors, but they indicate the waning of that joy in external things without which it is most difficult to keep the flame of poetry alight, especially when, like Arnold, one is tried by the demands of a responsible and harassing official position.

If we were called upon to indicate Arnold's place upon the roll of English poets by comparison with

Introdudlion.

one of accepted fame, we should seek his nearest parallel in Gray. Both are academic poets, the dominant note of each is a tender and appealing pathos, each possessed a refinement of taste which in some measure degenerated into fastidiousness, and tended to limit a productiveness not originally exuberant. If they are to be judged by their strongest performances, the palm must indisputably be given to Gray, for Arnold has nothing that can be equalled with the immortal Elegy. If, on the other hand, diversity of excellence is to be the criterion, he infinitely surpasses his prototype : who would, however, have written much more and even better, if he had enjoyed Arnold's unspeakable advantage of living after the second great age of English poetry instead of before it. It may not be unreasonable to predict that posterity will place them nearly on a level. In venturing this prophecy, full allowance has been made for the inevitable deduction from Arnold's charm when, in the general mutation of things, he shall have ceased to represent contemporary thought and feeUng. He is perhaps the most characteristic representative that the blended religion and scepticism of our exceptional epoch have had, and he will be invaluable as a document for the literary and philosophical historian of the future. But for this very reason he must some day cease to be a vital force in the present, and must rely upon his strictly poetical merits, independent of any reference to the spiritual conflicts of his day. That these merits will preserve his name, we have no doubt whatever. His first charm, to our mind, is depth of pathos ; and in the next place beauty xvii b

Introdudtion.

of description, exquisite but not obtrusive. An analysis of his best poems will show that pathos is hardly ever absent: he is almost invariably representing some sorrow, actual or ideal, but always most tenderly felt and deeply realized. Sohrab, Rustum, Balder, Hoder, Iseult, Mycerinus, Empedocles, the Forsaken Merman, the Sick King of Bokhara, the Modern Sappho — what a gallery of pathetic figures ! The note of sorrow, whether for himself or for mankind, rings equally from nearly all the personal poems ; it is his unique distinction to have been at the same time so elegiac and so manly. His descriptive passages are delightful for their grace and accuracy, but not brilliant, like Tennyson's glowing canvas ; or forcible, like Browning's intense etching ; their charm is rather that of delicate water-colour. His fondness for unrhymed lyric, arising probably from defect of musical volume in his poetical constitution, sometimes, as Froude remarks, renders his "fine imaginative painting" merely "the poetry of well-written, elegant prose." It is hardly necessary to add that Arnold is before all things the poet of culture, and that, though his pathos usually appeals to the universal feelings of the human heart, the appeal will seldom find an echo in uncultivated or semi-educated readers. For example, the beautiful final stanza of that beautiful poem " On the Rhine : "

"Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm ! Those blue hills too, this river's flow, Were restless once, but long ago Tam'd is their turbulent youthful glow : Their joy is in their calm,"

will be lost upon him who does not know that the

Introdu(5lion.

hills which border the Rhine were at one time volcanoes.

Of the two early prize poems, which appear for the first time in this edition, " Alaric at Rome," composed at Rugby, and " Cromwell," which obtained the Chancellor's medal at Oxford, not much need be said, except that they well deserve to be retrieved from oblivion. The Rugby poem is the more important, and is one of the very few pieces of the kind from which the writer's subsequent poetical distinction might have been predicted with some confidence. It perhaps owes something of its excellence to the interest in Roman history engendered by the writer's devotion to his illustrious father, so pleasingly manifested in his correspondence. The production of such a poem as " Cromwell " was a safe guarantee of intellectual eminence ; but, although much above the usual standard, it is not more remarkable poetically than the similar compositions of many who have never become distinguished as poets.

R. Garnett.

CHRONOLOGY OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.

DATE

Matthew Arnold born at Laleham . December 24th, 1822

At School at Winchester 1836

At Rugby School August, 1837

Wrote Prize Poem, " Alaric at Rome " . . . 1840

Entered Balliol College, Oxford 1841

Won the Newdigate Prize with " Cromwell . . 1843

Elected Fellow of Oriel 1845

Private Secretary to Lord Lansdowne . . . 1847

"The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems ". . . 1849

Poems. Second Series 185s

Professor of Poetry, Oxford, for ten years, from . . 1857

"Merope. A Tragedy'' 1858

England and the Italian Question .... 1859

Popular Education in France 1 86 1

On Translating Homer 1861

Last Words on Translating Homer .... 1862

A French Eton 1864

Essays in Criticism 1865

On the Study of Celtic Literature .... 1867

New Poems 1867

Schools and Universities on the Continent . . . 1868

Culture and Anarchy 1869

Poems. 2 volumes 1869

xxi

Chronology of Matthew Arnold.

St. Paul and Protestantism

Friendship's Garland . .

A Bible Reading for Schools

Literature and Dogma . . . .

Higher Schools and Universities in Germany

God and the Bible

The Great Prophecy of Israel's Restoration Poems. 2 volumes . . . • Last Essays on Church and Religion .

" Selected Poems "

Johnson's Lives of the Poets (Edited)

Mixed Essays

Poems of Wordsworth (Edited) .

Poetry of Byron (Edited) .

Irish Essays

Isaiah of Jerusalem .

Poems. 3 volumes ....

Discourses in America . ...

Essays in Criticism. Second Series .

Special Report on Elementary Education Abroad

Civilization in the United States

Matthew Arnold died at Liverpool . . April I

Reports on Elementary Schools .

" Poetical Works " (Popular Edition) .

On Home Rule for Ireland ....

The story of Matthew Arnold's Life is contained in two volumes of " Letters" edited by George W. E. Russell in 1895. An admirable bibliography of Mr. Arnold's works has been compiled by Thomas Burnett Smart (J. Davy and Sons, 137, Long Acre), 1892.

The Editor is indebted to Mr. Smart for much supervision of the text of this edition.

DATE

Contents

PAGE

Alaric at Rome . .... . i

The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems . 25

I

UNWELCOME shroud of the forgotten dead, ObHvion's dreary fountain, where art thou : Why speed'st thou not thy deathhke wave to shed O'er humbled pride, and self-reproaching woe : Or time's stern hand, why blots it not away The saddening tale that tells of sorrow and decay ?

II

There are, whose glory passeth not away — Even in the grave their fragrance cannot fade : Others there are as deathless full as they, Who for themselves a monument have made By their own crimes — a lesson to all eyes — Of wonder to the fool — of warning to the wise. 3

Alaric at Rome.

III

Yes, there are stories registered on high, Yes, there are stains time's fingers cannot blot. Deeds that shall live when they who did them, die ; Things that may cease, but never be forgot : Yet some there are, their very lives would give To be remembered thus, and yet they cannot live.

IV

But thou, imperial City ! that hast stood In greatness once, in sackcloth now and tears, A mighty name, for evil or for good. Even in the loneness of thy widowed years : Thou that hast gazed, as the world hurried by. Upon its headlong course with sad prophetic eye.

V

Is thine the laurel-crown that greatness wreathes Round the wan temples of the hallowed dead — Is it the blighting taint dishonour breathes In fires undying o'er the guilty head. Or the brief splendour of that meteor light That for a moment gleams, and all again is night ?

VI

Fain would we deem that thou hast risen so high Thy dazzling light an eagle's gaze should tire ; No meteor brightness to be seen and die. No passing pageant, born but to expire, But full and deathless as the deep dark hue Of ocean's sleeping face, or heaven's unbroken blue. 4

Alaric at Rome.

VII

Yet stains there are to blot thy brightest page, And wither half the laurels on thy tomb ; A glorious manhood, yet a dim old age, And years of crime, and nothingness, and gloom : And then that mightiest crash, that giant fall. Ambition's boldest dream might sober and appal.

VIII

Thou wondrous chaos, where together dwell Present and past, the living and the dead. Thou shattered mass, whose glorious ruins tell The vanisht might of that discrowned head : Where all we see, or do, or hear, or say, Seems strangely echoed back by tones of yesterday :

IX

Thou solemn grave, where every step we tread Treads on the slumbering dust of other years ; The while there sleeps within thy precincts dread What once had human passions, hopes, and fears ; And memory's gushing tide swells deep and full And makes thy very ruin fresh and beautiful.

X

Alas, no common sepulchre art thou, No habitation for the nameless dead. Green turf above, and crumbling dust below, Perchance some mute memorial at their head. But one vast fane where all unconscious sleep Earth's old heroic forms in peaceful slumbers deep. 5

Alaric at Rome.

XI

Thy dead are kings, thy dust are palaces, Relics of nations thy memorial-stones : And the dim glories of departed days Fold like a shroud around thy withered bones : And o'er thy towers the wind's half uttered sigh Whispers, in mournful tones, thy silent elegy.

XII

Yes, in such eloquent silence didst thou lie When the Goth stooped upon his stricken prey, And the deep hues of an Italian sky Flasht on the rude barbarian's wild array : While full and ceaseless as the ocean roll, Horde after horde streamed up thy frowning Capitol.

XIII

Twice, ere that day of shame, the embattled foe Had gazed in wonder on that glorious sight ; Twice had the eternal city bowed her low In sullen homage to the invader's might ; Twice had the pageant of that vast array Swept, from thy walls, O Rome, on its triumphant way.

XIV

Twice, from without thy bulwarks, hath the din Of Gothic clarion smote thy startled ear ; Anger, and strife, and sickness are within, Famine and sorrow are no strangers here : Twice hath the cloud hung o'er thee, twice been stayed Even in the act to burst, twice threatened, twice delayed. 6

Alaric at Rome.

XV

Yet once again, stern Chief, yet once again. Pour forth the foaming vials of thy wrath ; There hes 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.

XVI

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 !

XVII

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.

XVIII

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.

Alaric at Rome.

XIX

Soon was that stillness broken : like the cry Of the hoarse onset of the surging wave, Or louder rush of whirlwinds sweeping by Was the wild shout those Gothic myriads gave, As towered on high, above their moonlit road. Scenes where a Cffisar triumpht, or a Scipio trod.

XX

Think ye it strikes too slow, the sword of fate, Think ye the avenger loiters on his way. That your own hands must open wide the gate, And your own voice guide him to his prey ; Alas, it needs not ; is it hard to know Fate's threat'nings are not vain, the spoiler comes not slow.

XXI

And were there none, to stand and weep alone. And as the pageant swept before their eyes To hear a dim and long forgotten tone Tell of old times, and holiest memories, Till fanciful regret and dreamy woe Peopled night's voiceless shades with forms of long Ago.

XXII

Oh yes ! if fancy feels, beyond to-day. Thoughts of the past and of the future time. How should that mightiest city pass away And not bethink her of her glorious prime, Whilst every chord that thrills at thoughts of home Jarr'd with the bursting shout, " they come, the Goth, they come ! "

XXIII

The trumpet swells yet louder : they are here ! Yea, on your fathers' bones the avengers tread, Not this the time to weep upon the bier That holds the ashes of your hero-dead, If wreaths may twine for you, or laurels wave. They shall not deck your life, but sanctify your grave.

XXIV

Alas ! no wreaths are here. Despair may teach Cowards to conquer and the weak to die ; Nor tongue of man, nor fear, nor shame can preach So stern a lesson as necessity, Yet here it speaks not. Yea, though all around Unhallowed feet are trampling on this haunted ground,

XXV

Though every holiest feeling, every tie That binds the heart of man with mightiest power, All natural love, all human sympathy Be crusht, and outraged in this bitter hour. Here is no echo to the sound of home. No shame that suns should rise to light a conquer'd Rome.

XXVI

That troublous night is over : on the brow Of thy stern hill, thou mighty Capitol, One form stands gazing : silently below The morning mists from tower and temple roll. And lo ! the eternal city, as they rise, Bursts, in majestic beauty, on her conqueror's eyes. 9

Alaric at Rome.

XXVII

Yes, there he stood, upon that silent hill. And there beneath his feet his conquest lay : Unlike that ocean-city, gazing still Smilingly forth upon her sunny bay. But o'er her vanisht might and humbled pride Mourning, as widowed Venice o'er her Adrian tide.

XXVIII

Breathe there not spirits on the peopled air ? Float there not voices on the murmuring wind ? Oh ! sound there not some strains of sadness there, To touch with sorrow even a victor's mind, And wrest one tear from joy ! Oh ! who shall pen The thoughts that toucht thy breast, thou lonely conqueror, then ?

XXIX

Perchance his wandering heart was far away. Lost in dim memories of his early home. And his young dreams of conquest ; how to-day Beheld him master of Imperial Rome, Crowning his wildest hopes : perchance his eyes As they looked sternly on, beheld new victories,

XXX

New dreams of wide dominion, mightier, higher, Come floating up from the abyss of years ; Perchance that solemn sight might quench the fire Even of that ardent spirit ; hopes and fears Might well be mingling at that murmured sigh, Whispering from all around, " All earthly things must die."

Alaric at Rome.

XXXI

Perchance that wondrous city was to him But as one voiceless blank ; a place of graves, And recollections indistinct and dim, Whose sons were conquerors once, and now were

slaves : It may be in that desolate sight his eye Saw but another step to climb to victory !

XXXII

Alas ! that fiery spirit little knew The change of life, the nothingness of power, How both were hastening, as they flowered and grew, Nearer and nearer to their closing hour : How every birth of time's miraculous womb Swept off the withered leaves that hide the naked tomb.

XXXIII

One little year ; that restless soul shall rest. That frame of vigour shall be crumbling clay. And tranquilly, above that troubled breast. The sunny waters hold their joyous way : And gently shall the murmuring ripples flow. Nor wake the weary soul that slumbers on below.

XXXIV

Alas ! far other thoughts might well be ours And dash our holiest raptures while we gaze : Energies wasted, unimproved hours, The saddening visions of departed days : And while they rise here might we stand alone, And mingle with thy ruins somewhat of our own. II

Alaric at Rome.

XXXV

Beautiful city ! If departed things Ever again put earthly likeness on, Here should a thousand forms on fancy's wings Float up to tell of ages that are gone : Yea though hand touch thee not, nor eye should see, Still should the spirit hold communion, Rome, with thee !

XXXVI

Oh ! it is bitter, that each fairest dream Should fleet before us but to melt away ; That wildest visions still should loveliest seem And soonest fade in the broad glare of day : That while we feel the world is dull and low, Gazing on thee, we wake to find it is not so.