MATTHEW ARNOLD

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves ;

And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail,

And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,

Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,

To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails

There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,

Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; And on the beach undid his corded bales.

��7/2. Philomela

T.JARK! ah, the Nightingale!

• * The tawny-throated !

Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst !

What triumph ! hark what pain !

O Wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain

That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain- Say, will it never heal ?

And can this fragrant lawn

With its cool trees, and night,

And the sweet, tranquil Thames,

And moonshine, and the dew,

To thy racked heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,

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