POETRY.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

PAST in a moment ; passed away,

The finest spirit of the day; Past in the full meridian sense Of masterful intelligence : 'The thought that struck—the wit that played

With measured aim—with tempered blade— The hand that with new laurels hung

The temple of the Mother-Tongue, 'The soul that nursed the inner fire Which radiates from Apollo's lyre, And crowns his favourites, now as then,

Among the foremost sons of men ; And through, above, and o'er them all The heart that only friends recall,

Though his the memory that lends To all who knew him, touch of friend's !

Of open brow and cheery mien, Earnest and playful and serene,

Brightest—where duller man may roam—

In the divine repose of Home, Even as he lived, he passed from sight, In all the fullness of the light ; And, never crossed by twilight ray, The radiant spirit flashed away.

"Call no man happy till he die ;" Thrice happy he, then, we reply : Even here on earth this mortal gone His immortality puts on ; For far beyond, and far behind, Shall live his legacy of Mind, A throbbing pulse of English thought, Quick with the lessons that he taught.

Thrice happy he, whose buoyant youth In light of Beauty sought for Truth, Showed stars that guide to eyes that shine, High-priest of Beauty's inmost shrine,

And—wheresoe'er new worships tend—

Ensued his goddess to the end!

Hard pleaded he for those hard bound In Life's dull places' dreariest round, And to the longing listener showed How Beauty decks the ugliest road; For ever, in the rushing race, He claimed for her, her quiet place, Bade Science, on her march of pride.

Yet list the scholar at her side, And grasping all, her world to be, Pause at the fount of Castaly.

His was the gift, nor sting nor smart To lend to Raillery's keenest dart ; Since on his cradle Humour smiled. He played with Humour like a child, Yet, to a great soul's instinct true, Taught greater lessons than he knew. How were his high imaginings Impatient of all meaner things, Of petty words and petty deeds, And petty clash of kindred creeds, Which, darkening counsel for a name, In all unsameness are the same,— Till all the jars and wars outworn Stirred the clear spirit into scorn, To seek beyond some worldless sun The One in All—the All in One ! Was this unfaith ? Not he who erst His walk with God on Rydal nursed, And votary-wise young Arnold won, Would for such doubt disclaim his son. High quest can ask no nobler lot ; What ardent nature questions not ?

So, softly on the closing time Scarce died away the Sunday chime, And on the brave life overpast The quiet church-door closed the last ! Truth's good and faithful servant, thou, And Love thine only Mystery now.