MATTHEW ARNOLD. THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head; But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest! Here, where the reaper was at work of late – In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn All the live murmur of a summer's day. Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And air-swept lindens yield 5 ΙΟ 15 20 25 Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore, And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. But once, years after, in the country-lanes, His mates, had arts to rule as they desired And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. 66 66 And I," he said, the secret of their art, When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill." This said, he left them, and return'd no more. 30 35 40 45 50 55 Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; 60 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. And I myself seem half to know thy looks, And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace; Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground: 65 70 75 And leaning backward in a pensive dream, Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 80 And then they land, and thou art seen no more! Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, 85 Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers the frail-leaf'd, white anemone, Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, But none hath words she can report of thee. 90 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, 95 Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown; Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air- At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, 100 105 Have known thee eying, all an April-day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. I10 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood· Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey, The blackbird, picking food, Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge, And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range; But what I dream! Two hundred years are flown And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 115 120 125 130 That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls 135 Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave, Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 140 - No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls; 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 145 And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, 150 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so? Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead! Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire! 155 And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot, And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, Because thou hadst what we, alas! have not. 160 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. O life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, 165 |