MATTHEW ARNOLD
But what I dream ' Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wander'd from the btudious walls
To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy-tribe:
And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid
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.
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,
And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen,
And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are what we have been.
Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire
Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead' Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire' The generations of thy peers are fled,
And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessed 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!
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