Matthew Arnold — A Southern Night

The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes, Melt into open, moonlit sea; The soft Mediterranean breaks        &nbspAt my feet, free. Dotting the fields of corn and vine, Like ghosts the huge, gnarl'd olives stand. Behind, that lovely mountain-line!        &nbspWhile, by the strand, Cette, with its glistening houses white, Curves with the curving beach away To where the lighthouse beacons bright        &nbspFar in the bay. Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone, So moonlit, saw me once of yore Wander unquiet, and my own        &nbspVext heart deplore. But now that trouble is forgot; Thy memory, thy pain, to-night, My brother! and thine early lot,        &nbspPossess me quite. The murmur of this Midland deep Is heard to-night around thy grave, There, where Gibraltar's cannon'd steep        &nbspO'erfrowns the wave. For there, with bodily anguish keen, With Indian heats at last fordone, With public toil and private teen—        &nbspThou sank'st, alone. Slow to a stop, at morning grey, I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come; Slow round her paddles dies away        &nbspThe seething foam. A boat is lower'd from her side; Ah, gently place him on the bench! That spirit—if all have not yet died—        &nbspA breath might quench. Is this the eye, the footstep fast, The mien of youth we used to see, Poor, gallant boy!—for such thou wast,        &nbspStill art, to me. The limbs their wonted tasks refuse; The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak; And whiter than thy white burnous        &nbspThat wasted cheek! Enough! The boat, with quiet shock, Unto its haven coming nigh, Touches, and on Gibraltar's rock        &nbspLands thee to die. Ah me! Gibraltar's strand is far, But farther yet across the brine Thy dear wife's ashes buried are,        &nbspRemote from thine. For there, where morning's sacred fount Its golden rain on earth confers, The snowy Himalayan Mount        &nbspO'ershadows hers. Strange irony of fate, alas, Which, for two jaded English, saves, When from their dusty life they pass,        &nbspSuch peaceful graves! In cities should we English lie, Where cries are rising ever new, And men's incessant stream goes by—        &nbspWe who pursue Our business with unslackening stride, Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast, The soft Mediterranean side,        &nbspThe Nile, the East, And see all sights from pole to pole, And glance, and nod, and bustle by, And never once possess our soul        &nbspBefore we die. Not by those hoary Indian hills, Not by this gracious Midland sea Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills,        &nbspShould our graves be. Some sage, to whom the world was dead, And men were specks, and life a play; Who made the roots of trees his bed,        &nbspAnd once a day With staff and gourd his way did bend To villages and homes of man, For food to keep him till he end        &nbspHis mortal span And the pure goal of being reach; Hoar-headed, wrinkled, clad in white, Without companion, without speech,        &nbspBy day and night Pondering God's mysteries untold, And tranquil as the glacier-snows He by those Indian mountains old        &nbspMight well repose. Some grey crusading knight austere, Who bore Saint Louis company, And came home hurt to death, and here        &nbspLanded to die; Some youthful troubadour, whose tongue Fill'd Europe once with his love-pain, Who here outworn had sunk, and sung        &nbspHis dying strain; Some girl, who here from castle-bower, With furtive step and cheek of flame, 'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower        &nbspBy moonlight came To meet her pirate-lover's ship; And from the wave-kiss'd marble stair Beckon'd him on, with quivering lip        &nbspAnd floating hair; And lived some moons in happy trance, Then learnt his death and pined away— Such by these waters of romance        &nbsp'Twas meet to lay. But you—a grave for knight or sage, Romantic, solitary, still, O spent ones of a work-day age!        &nbspBefits you ill. So sang I; but the midnight breeze, Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main, Comes softly through the olive-trees,        &nbspAnd checks my strain. I think of her, whose gentle tongue All plaint in her own cause controll'd; Of thee I think, my brother! young        &nbspIn heart, high-soul'd— That comely face, that cluster'd brow, That cordial hand, that bearing free, I see them still, I see them now,        &nbspShall always see! And what but gentleness untired, And what but noble feeling warm, Wherever shown, howe'er inspired,        &nbspIs grace, is charm? What else is all these waters are, What else is steep'd in lucid sheen, What else is bright, what else is fair,        &nbspWhat else serene? Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine! Gently by his, ye waters, glide! To that in you which is divine        &nbspThey were allied.