'Thyrsis a Monody' by Matthew Arnold
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How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,
And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks--
Are ye too changed, ye hills?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!
Here came I often, often, in old days--
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?--
This winter-eve is warm,
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
The tender purple spray on copse and briers!
And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,
She needs not June for beauty's heightening,
Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!--
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power
Befalls me wandering through this upland dim.
Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour;
Now seldom come I, since I came with him.
That single elm-tree bright
Against the west--I miss it! is it goner?
We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,
Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;
While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,
But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;
And with the country-folk acquaintance made
By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd.
Ah me! this many a year
My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday!
Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
Into the world and wave of men depart;
But Thyrsis of his own will went away.
It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest.
He loved each simple joy the country yields,
He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,
For that a shadow lour'd on the fields,
Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
Some life of men unblest
He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head.
He went; his piping took a troubled sound
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
He could not wait their passing, he is dead.
So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,
Before the roses and the longest day--
When garden-walks and all the grassy floor
With blossoms red and white of fallen May
And chestnut-flowers are strewn--
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?
Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on,
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow;
Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!
What matters it? next year he will return,
And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days,
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,
And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,
And scent of hay new-mown.
But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see;
See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,
And blow a strain the world at last shall heed--
For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee!
Alack, for Corydon no rival now!--
But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,
Some good survivor with his flute would go,
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate;
And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,
And relax Pluto's brow,
And make leap up with joy the beauteous head
Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair
Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air,
And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.
O easy access to the hearer's grace
When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!
For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,
She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,
She knew each lily white which Enna yields
Each rose with blushing face;
She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.
But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!
Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd;
And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!
Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour
In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!
Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?
I know the wood which hides the daffodil,
I know the Fyfield tree,
I know what white, what purple fritillaries
The grassy harvest of the river-fields,
Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields,
And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries;
I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?--
But many a tingle on the loved hillside,
With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees,
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried
High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises,
Hath since our day put by
The coronals of that forgotten time;
Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,
And only in the hidden brookside gleam
Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.
Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door,
Above the locks, above the boating throng,
Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats,
Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among
And darting swallows and light water-gnats,
We track'd the shy Thames shore?
Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell
Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass,
Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?--
They all are gone, and thou art gone as well!
Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night
In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.
I see her veil draw soft across the day,
I feel her slowly chilling breath invade
The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey;
I feel her finger light
Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train; --
The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,
The heart less bounding at emotion new,
And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.
And long the way appears, which seem'd so short
To the less practised eye of sanguine youth;
And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,
The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,
Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare!
Unbreachable the fort
Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall;
And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows,
And near and real the charm of thy repose,
And night as welcome as a friend would fall.
But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss
Of quiet!--Look, adown the dusk hill-side,
A troop of Oxford hunters going home,
As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!
From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come.
Quick! let me fly, and cross
Into yon farther field!--'Tis done; and see,
Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify
The orange and pale violet evening-sky,
Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!
I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,
The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,
The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright,
And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out.
I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,
Yet, happy omen, hail!
Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale
(For there thine earth forgetting eyelids keep
The morningless and unawakening sleep
Under the flowery oleanders pale),
Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!--
Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,
These brambles pale with mist engarlanded,
That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him;
To a boon southern country he is fled,
And now in happier air,
Wandering with the great Mother's train divine
(And purer or more subtle soul than thee,
I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see)
Within a folding of the Apennine,
Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!--
Putting his sickle to the perilous grain
In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king,
For thee the Lityerses-song again
Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;
Sings his Sicilian fold,
His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes--
And how a call celestial round him rang,
And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang,
And all the marvel of the golden skies.
There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here
Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair.
Despair I will not, while I yet descry
'Neath the mild canopy of English air
That lonely tree against the western sky.
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,
Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!
Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,
Woods with anemonies in flower till May,
Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?
A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,
Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.
This does not come with houses or with gold,
With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;
'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold--
But the smooth-slipping weeks
Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.
Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound;
Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!
Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,
If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power,
If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.
And this rude Cumner ground,
Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,
Here cams't thou in thy jocund youthful time,
Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!
And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.
What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat--
It fail'd, and thou wage mute!
Yet hadst thou always visions of our light,
And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,
And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,
Left human haunt, and on alone till night.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!
'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,
Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.
--Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,
Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
To chase fatigue and fear:
Why faintest thou! I wander'd till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.
Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill,
Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.
Editor 1 Interpretation
"Thyrsis: A Monody" by Matthew Arnold
Have you ever read a poem that left you with a feeling of melancholy and nostalgia, yet at the same time, a sense of admiration for the beauty of its language? That is precisely what one experiences when reading "Thyrsis: A Monody" by Matthew Arnold.
This poem was written as a tribute to Arnold's friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, who died in Florence, Italy, in 1861. The two had been close friends and fellow poets at Oxford University, and Clough's death deeply affected Arnold. In fact, he was so devastated by the loss that he did not write any poetry for nearly two years after Clough's death.
"Thyrsis: A Monody" is a long poem, consisting of 174 stanzas, each containing four lines of verse. It is written in a pastoral style, which was popular in English literature in the 18th and 19th centuries. This style features descriptions of rural life and natural landscapes, and often includes shepherds or other pastoral figures.
Arnold's poem begins with a description of the landscape around Oxford, where the two poets had studied together. He writes of the River Cherwell, the willows that grow along its banks, and the fields and meadows that surround it. The language is vivid and evocative, bringing the scene to life in the reader's mind.
As the poem progresses, Arnold reminisces about his friendship with Clough. He writes of their long walks through the countryside, their conversations about poetry and literature, and their shared love of nature. He describes Clough as a gentle and thoughtful person, who was always searching for meaning and purpose in life.
Arnold also reflects on the passing of time, and how everything in the natural world is subject to change and decay. He writes of the changing seasons, the cycles of life and death, and the fleeting nature of human existence. This theme of transience is a common one in literature, and Arnold handles it with great skill and sensitivity.
One of the most striking features of "Thyrsis: A Monody" is its use of imagery. Arnold employs a wide range of metaphors and symbols to convey his ideas and emotions. For example, he compares Clough to a shepherd who has been taken by Death, and who now watches over the flock from a distance. This image is both poignant and powerful, and it perfectly captures the sense of loss that Arnold feels.
Throughout the poem, Arnold also makes use of allusions to classical literature and mythology. He refers to the Greek gods Apollo and Pan, and to the pastoral poetry of Virgil and Theocritus. These allusions serve to deepen the poem's meaning and to place its events within a broader cultural context.
At its heart, "Thyrsis: A Monody" is a poem about friendship and loss. Arnold mourns the passing of his friend, but he also celebrates their shared experiences and the beauty of the natural world. The poem is a powerful testament to the enduring power of friendship, and to the importance of finding meaning and purpose in life.
In terms of its structure and style, "Thyrsis: A Monody" is a masterpiece of English literature. Arnold's use of language is exquisite, and his command of poetic form is impressive. The poem is both lyrical and narrative, and it moves with a steady rhythm that draws the reader in.
In conclusion, "Thyrsis: A Monody" is a remarkable poem that deserves to be read and appreciated by anyone who loves literature. It is a work of great beauty and emotional depth, and it stands as a testament to the enduring power of friendship and the beauty of the natural world. If you have not read it yet, I highly recommend that you do so at your earliest opportunity.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
Thyrsis: A Monody, written by Matthew Arnold, is a classic poem that has stood the test of time. It is a beautiful and poignant elegy that pays tribute to Arnold's friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at a young age. The poem is a masterpiece of Victorian literature and is considered one of Arnold's finest works.
The poem is written in the form of a monody, which is a type of poem that is sung or recited by a single voice. The monody is a form of elegy that is used to mourn the death of a loved one. In Thyrsis, Arnold uses the monody form to express his grief and to pay tribute to his friend.
The poem is divided into four parts, each of which represents a different stage in Arnold's mourning process. The first part of the poem is a description of the landscape around Oxford, where Arnold and Clough studied together. Arnold describes the beauty of the landscape and the memories that it holds for him. He also describes the sadness that he feels at the loss of his friend.
The second part of the poem is a description of Clough's life and work. Arnold pays tribute to Clough's talent as a poet and his dedication to his work. He also describes Clough's struggles with his faith and his search for meaning in life.
The third part of the poem is a description of Arnold's own grief. He describes the pain that he feels at the loss of his friend and the emptiness that he feels without him. He also reflects on the nature of grief and the difficulty of coming to terms with loss.
The final part of the poem is a tribute to Clough's memory. Arnold describes the legacy that Clough has left behind and the impact that he has had on those who knew him. He also reflects on the importance of friendship and the value of human connection.
One of the most striking features of Thyrsis is its use of imagery. Arnold uses vivid and evocative imagery to create a sense of place and to convey the emotions that he is feeling. For example, in the first part of the poem, he describes the landscape around Oxford in detail, using images of "the darkening green of the garden-plot" and "the long, light, dusty roads." These images create a sense of nostalgia and longing, as Arnold remembers the happy times that he spent with his friend.
In the second part of the poem, Arnold uses imagery to describe Clough's life and work. He describes Clough's poetry as "a voice of that wide sea of mist / That rolls in ghostly gloom and cold." This image creates a sense of mystery and depth, suggesting that Clough's poetry was a reflection of his own struggles with faith and meaning.
In the third part of the poem, Arnold uses imagery to describe his own grief. He describes himself as "a wanderer wither'd, / And no morning visitant in mirth." This image creates a sense of isolation and despair, as Arnold struggles to come to terms with his loss.
Finally, in the fourth part of the poem, Arnold uses imagery to pay tribute to Clough's memory. He describes Clough as "a star that dwelt apart," suggesting that his friend was a unique and special individual. He also describes Clough's legacy as "a light that shines beyond the earth," suggesting that his work will continue to inspire and enlighten future generations.
In addition to its use of imagery, Thyrsis is also notable for its use of language. Arnold's writing is elegant and poetic, with a rhythm and flow that is both musical and powerful. He uses a range of literary devices, including alliteration, assonance, and repetition, to create a sense of unity and coherence in the poem.
For example, in the first part of the poem, Arnold uses alliteration to create a sense of movement and energy. He writes, "The light airs, laden with the breath of flowers, / Whisper and die away." This use of alliteration creates a sense of movement and flow, suggesting the gentle breeze that is blowing through the garden.
In the second part of the poem, Arnold uses repetition to emphasize the importance of Clough's work. He writes, "He sang of love, and not of fame; / Forgot was Britain's glory." This repetition creates a sense of emphasis and importance, suggesting that Clough's work was focused on the things that really matter in life.
In the third part of the poem, Arnold uses assonance to create a sense of sadness and loss. He writes, "And now I wander, and my heart / Forgets, to me, its earlier pulse." This use of assonance creates a sense of melancholy and despair, as Arnold struggles to come to terms with his loss.
Finally, in the fourth part of the poem, Arnold uses repetition to create a sense of unity and coherence. He writes, "And still the light that led / The great and gracious dead / Shines on." This repetition creates a sense of continuity and connection, suggesting that Clough's legacy will continue to inspire and guide future generations.
In conclusion, Thyrsis: A Monody is a beautiful and poignant elegy that pays tribute to the life and work of Arthur Hugh Clough. It is a masterpiece of Victorian literature, notable for its use of imagery, language, and literary devices. Through its four parts, the poem expresses Arnold's grief and pays tribute to his friend's memory, creating a sense of unity and coherence that is both powerful and moving.
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