Matthew Arnold - Resignation lyrics

To die be given us, or attain! Fierce work it were, to do again. So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd At burning noon; so warriors said, Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine;—so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. So pray they; and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain; Pain to thread back and to renew Past straits, and currents long steer'd through. But milder natures, and more free— Whom an unblamed serenity Hath freed from pa**ions, and the state Of struggle these necessitate; Whom schooling of the stubborn mind Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd— These mourn not, that their goings pay Obedience to the pa**ing day. These claim not every laughing Hour For handmaid to their striding power; Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, To await their march; and when appear'd, Through the cold gloom, with measured race, To usher for a destined space (Her own sweet errands all forgone) The too imperious traveller on. These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou, Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now! We left, just ten years since, you say, That wayside inn we left to-day. Our jovial host, as forth we fare, Shouts greeting from his easy chair. High on a bank our leader stands, Reviews and ranks his motley bands, Makes clear our goal to every eye— The valley's western boundary. A gate swings to! our tide hath flow'd Already from the silent road. The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun; And now beyond the rude stone bridge Slopes gracious up the western ridge. Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms is past— Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnish'd sycamores; All past! and through the trees we glide, Emerging on the green hill-side. There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colour'd line; There winds, upstreaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill. And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread! Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells. Some two hours' march with serious air, Through the deep noontide heats we fare; The red-grouse, springing at our sound, Skims, now and then, the shining ground; No life, save his and ours, intrudes Upon these breathless solitudes. O joy! again the farms appear. Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; There springs the brook will guide us down, Bright comrade, to the noisy town. Lingering, we follow down; we gain The town, the highway, and the plain. And many a mile of dusty way, Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day; But, Fausta, I remember well, That as the balmy darkness fell We bathed our hands with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering sea. Once more we tread this self-same road, Fausta, which ten years since we trod; Alone we tread it, you and I, Ghosts of that boisterous company. Here, where the brook shines, near its head, In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed; Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town; Here sit we, and again unroll, Though slowly, the familiar whole. The solemn wastes of heathy hill Sleep in the July sunshine still; The self-same shadows now, as then, Play through this gra**y upland glen; The loose dark stones on the green way Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay; On this mild bank above the stream, (You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam. Still this wild brook, the rushes cool, The sailing foam, the shining pool! These are not changed; and we, you say, Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they. The gipsies, whom we met below, They, too, have long roam'd to and fro; They ramble, leaving, where they pa**, Their fragments on the cumber'd gra**. And often to some kindly place Chance guides the migratory race, Where, though long wanderings intervene, They recognise a former scene. The dingy tents are pitch'd; the fires Give to the wind their wavering spires; In dark knots crouch round the wild flame Their children, as when first they came; They see their shackled beasts again Move, browsing, up the gray-wall'd lane. Signs are not wanting, which might raise The ghost in them of former days— Signs are not wanting, if they would; Suggestions to disquietude. For them, for all, time's busy touch, While it mends little, troubles much. Their joints grow stiffer—but the year Runs his old round of dubious cheer; Chilly they grow—yet winds in March, Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch; They must live still—and yet, God knows, Crowded and keen the country grows; It seems as if, in their decay, The law grew stronger every day. So might they reason, so compare, Fausta, times past with times that are. But no!—they rubb'd through yesterday In their hereditary way, And they will rub through, if they can, To-morrow on the self-same plan, Till d**h arrive to supersede, For them, vicissitude and need. The poet, to whose mighty heart Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, Subdues that energy to scan Not his own course, but that of man. Though he move mountains, though his day Be pa**'d on the proud heights of sway, Though he hath loosed a thousand chains, Though he hath borne immortal pains, Action and suffering though he know— He hath not lived, if he lives so. He sees, in some great-historied land, A ruler of the people stand, Sees his strong thought in fiery flood Roll through the heaving multitude Exults—yet for no moment's space Envies the all-regarded place. Beautiful eyes meet his—and he Bears to admire uncravingly; They pa**—he, mingled with the crowd, Is in their far-off triumphs proud. From some high station he looks down, At sunset, on a populous town; Surveys each happy group, which fleets, Toil ended, through the shining streets, Each with some errand of its own— And does not say: I am alone. He sees the gentle stir of birth When morning purifies the earth; He leans upon a gate and sees The pastures, and the quiet trees. Low, woody hill, with gracious bound, Folds the still valley almost round; The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn, Is answer'd from the depth of dawn; In the hedge straggling to the stream, Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam; But, where the farther side slopes down, He sees the drowsy new-waked clown In his white quaint-embroider'd frock Make, whistling, tow'rd his mist-wreathed flock— Slowly, behind his heavy tread, The wet, flower'd gra** heaves up its head. Lean'd on his gate, he gazes—tears Are in his eyes, and in his ears The murmur of a thousand years. Before him he sees life unroll, A placid and continuous whole— That general life, which does not cease, Whose secret is not joy, but peace; That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd If birth proceeds, if things subsist; The life of plants, and stones, and rain, The life he craves—if not in vain Fate gave, what chance shall not control, His sad lucidity of soul. You listen—but that wandering smile, Fausta, betrays you cold the while! Your eyes pursue the bells of foam Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. Those gipsies, so your thoughts I scan, Are less, the poet more, than man. They feel not, though they move and see; Deeper the poet feels; but he Breathes, when he will, immortal air, Where Orpheus and where Homer are. In the day's life, whose iron round Hems us all in, he is not bound; He leaves his kind, o'erleaps their pen, And flees the common life of men. He escapes thence, but we abide— Not deep the poet sees, but wide. The world in which we live and move Outlasts aversion, outlasts love, Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, Remorse, grief, joy;—and were the scope Of these affections wider made, Man still would see, and see dismay'd, Beyond his pa**ion's widest range, Far regions of eternal change. Nay, and since d**h, which wipes out man, Finds him with many an unsolved plan, With much unknown, and much untried, Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried, Still gazing on the ever full Eternal mundane spectacle— This world in which we draw our breath, In some sense, Fausta, outlasts d**h. Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares Judge vain beforehand human cares; Whose natural insight can discern What through experience others learn; Who needs not love and power, to know Love transient, power an unreal show; Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways— Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise! Rather thyself for some aim pray Nobler than this, to fill the day; Rather that heart, which burns in thee, Ask, not to amuse, but to set free; Be pa**ionate hopes not ill resign'd For quiet, and a fearless mind. And though fate grudge to thee and me The poet's rapt security, Yet they, believe me, who await No gifts from chance, have conquer'd fate. They, winning room to see and hear, And to men's business not too near, Through clouds of individual strife Draw homeward to the general life. Like leaves by suns not yet uncurl'd; To the wise, foolish; to the world, Weak;—yet not weak, I might reply, Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye, To whom each moment in its race, Crowd as we will its neutral space, Is but a quiet watershed Whence, equally, the seas of life and d**h are fed. Enough, we live!—and if a life, With large results so little rife, Though bearable, seem hardly worth This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth; Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread, The solemn hills around us spread, This stream which falls incessantly, The strange-scrawl'd rocks, the lonely sky, If I might lend their life a voice, Seem to bear rather than rejoice. And even could the intemperate prayer Man iterates, while these forbear, For movement, for an ampler sphere, Pierce Fate's impenetrable ear; Not milder is the general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In action's dizzying eddy whirl'd, The something that infects the world.