MATTHEW ARNOLD

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire:

Else wert thou long since numbered 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 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 !

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without,

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,

And each half lives a hundred different lives ; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven : and we, Vague half-believers of our casual creeds,

Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose weak resolves never have been fulfilled ;

For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?

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