s to place him at the open window, that he may see yet once
again--
Bathed in the sacred dews of morn
The wide aerial landscape spread--
The world which was ere I was born,
The world which lasts when I am dead;
Which never was the friend of _one_,
Nor promised love it could not give.
But lit for all its generous sun,
And lived itself, and made us live.
There let me gaze, till I become
In soul, with what I gaze on, wed!
To feel the universe my home;
To have before my mind--instead
Of the sick room, the mortal strife,
The turmoil for a little breath--
The pure eternal course of life,
Not human combatings with death!
Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow
Composed, refresh'd, ennobled, clear;
Then willing let my spirit go
To work or wait elsewhere or here!
This solemn love and reverence for the continuous life of the physical
universe may remind us that Arnold's teaching about humanity, subtle and
searching as it is, has done less to endear him to many of his
disciples, than his feeling for Nature. His is the kind of
Nature-worship which takes nothing at second-hand. He paid "the Mighty
Mother" the only homage which is worthy of her acceptance, a minute and
dutiful study of her moods and methods. He placed himself as a reverent
learner at her feet before he presumed to go forth to the world as an
exponent of her teaching. It is this exactness of observation which
makes his touches of local colouring so vivid and so true. This gives
its winning charm to his landscape-painting, whether the scene is laid
in Kensington Gardens, or the Alps, or the valley of the Thames. This
fills _The Scholar-Gipsy_, and _Thyrsis_, and _Obermann_, and _The
Forsaken Merman_ with flawless gems of natural description, and
felicities of phrase which haunt the grateful memory.
In brief, it seems to me that he was not a great poet, for he lacked the
gifts which sway the multitude, and compel the attention of mankind. But
he was a true poet, rich in those qualities which make the loved and
trusted teacher of a chosen few--as he himself would have said, of "the
Remnant." Often in point of beauty and effectiveness, always in his
purity and elevation, he is worthy to be associated with the noblest
names of all. Alone among his contemporaries, we can venture to say of
him that he was not only of the school, but of the lineage, of
Wordsworth. His own judgment
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