MATTHEW ARNOLD

'And once, in winter, on the causeway chill

Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,

Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,

Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge?

And thou hast climb' d the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumnor range ;

Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,

The line of festal light in Christ Church hall- Then sought thy straw in some sequester' d grange.

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 studious 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.

�� �