But bring not thou the battle's stormy | He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, Came charging like a star across the lists of death, chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us, Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. MATTHEW ARNOLD. Became a dreadful face which did oppress | The clouds are on the Oberland, Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. It fled, when I burst forth into a cry, A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep; I hid, but in all corners they did pry, And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap; 265 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar, And from the blue twin lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the churchyard fair, They mouthed on me in dream, and tore And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, The house, and is my Marguerite there? me from sweet sleep. "Strange constellations burned above my head, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled, As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through, Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue." The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea, My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you! The wind blows shrill between my love and me. Fond heart! the space between was but the apple-tree. There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Like washing water on the figured sands, His being came and went in sweet unrest, As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, 66 Methinks I'm but half blest: Now when I've found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears.' MATTHEW ARNOLD. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. TEN years!-and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream, and do I linger here? Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, And clap thy hands, and cry, 'Tis thou? Or hast thou long since wandered back, Daughter of France! to France, thy home; And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come? Doth riotous laughter now replace Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare," Thy cheek's soft hue and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair? Or is it over?-art thou dead? Dead?-and no warning shiver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread Of life was cut, and closed thy span! Could from earth's ways that figure slight Fail from earth's air, and I not know? Or shall I find thee still, but changed, But not the Marguerite of thy prime? With all thy being rearranged, Passed through the crucible of time; With spirit vanished, beauty waned, Of all that was my Marguerite's own? I will not know!-for wherefore try To things by mortal course that live A shadowy durability For which they were not meant to give? Like driftwood spars which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain, |