Matthew Arnold On Hearing Him Read His Poems In Boston

A stranger, schooled to gentle arts,         He stept before the curious throng;     His path into our waiting hearts         Already paved by song.     Full well we knew his choristers,         Whose plaintive voices haunt our rest,     Those sable-vested harbingers         Of melancholy guest.     We smiled on him for love of these,        With eyes that swift grew dim to scan    Beneath the veil of courteous ease        The faith-forsaken man.    To his wan gaze the weary shows        And fashions of our vain estate,    Our shallow pain and false repose,        Our barren love and hate,    Are shadows in a land of graves,        Where creeds, the bubbles of a dream,    Flash each and fade, like melting waves        Upon a moonlight stream.    Yet loyal to his own despair,        Erect beneath a darkened sky,    He deems the austerest truth more fair        Than any gracious lie;    And stands, heroic, patient, sage,        With hopeless hands that bind the sheaf,    Claiming God's work with His wage,        The bard of unbelief.