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.