Obermann Once More
Savez-vous
quelque
bien
qui
console
du
regret
d'un
monde?—OBERMANN.
Glion?—Ah,
twenty
years,
it
cuts
All
meaning
from
a
name!
White
houses
prank
where
once
were
huts.
Glion,
but
not
the
same!
And
yet
I
know
not!
All
unchanged
The
turf,
the
pines,
the
sky!
The
hills
in
their
old
order
ranged;
The
lake,
with
Chillon
by!
And,
'neath
those
chestnut-trees,
where
stiff
And
stony
mounts
the
way,
The
crackling
husk-heaps
burn,
as
if
I
left
them
yesterday!
Across
the
valley,
on
that
slope,
The
huts
of
Avant
shine!
lts
pines,
under
their
branches,
ope
Ways
for
the
pasturing
kine.
Full-foaming
milk-pails,
Alpine
fare,
Sweet
heaps
of
fresh-cut
grass,
Invite
to
rest
the
traveller
there
Before
he
climb
the
pass—
The
gentian-flower'd
pass,
its
crown
With
yellow
spires
aflame;
Whence
drops
the
path
to
Allière
down,
And
walls
where
Byron
came,
By
their
green
river,
who
doth
change
His
birth-name
just
below;
Orchard,
and
croft,
and
full-stored
grange
Nursed
by
his
pastoral
flow.
But
stop!—to
fetch
back
thoughts
that
stray
Beyond
this
gracious
bound,
The
cone
of
Jaman,
pale
and
gray,
See,
in
the
blue
profound!
Ah,
Jaman!
delicately
tall
Above
his
sun-warm'd
firs—
What
thoughts
to
me
his
rocks
recall,
What
memories
he
stirs!
And
who
but
thou
must
be,
in
truth,
Obermann!
with
me
here?
Thou
master
of
my
wandering
youth,
But
left
this
many
a
year!
Yes,
I
forget
the
world's
work
wrought,
Its
warfare
waged
with
pain;
An
eremite
with
thee,
in
thought
Once
more
I
slip
my
chain,
And
to
thy
mountain-chalet
come,
And
lie
beside
its
door,
And
hear
the
wild
bee's
Alpine
hum,
And
thy
sad,
tranquil
lore!
Again
I
feel
the
words
inspire
Their
mournful
calm;
serene,
Yet
tinged
with
infinite
desire
For
all
that
might
have
been—
The
harmony
from
which
man
swerved
Made
his
life's
rule
once
more!
The
universal
order
served,
Earth
happier
than
before!
—While
thus
I
mused,
night
gently
ran
Down
over
hill
and
wood.
Then,
still
and
sudden,
Obermann
On
the
grass
near
me
stood.
Those
pensive
features
well
I
knew,
On
my
mind,
years
before,
Imaged
so
oft!
imaged
so
true!
—A
shepherd's
garb
he
wore,
A
mountain-flower
was
in
his
hand,
A
book
was
in
his
breast.
Bent
on
my
face,
with
gaze
which
scann'd
My
soul,
his
eyes
did
rest.
"And
is
it
thou,"
he
cried,
"so
long
Held
by
the
world
which
we
Loved
not,
who
turnest
from
the
throng
Back
to
thy
youth
and
me?
"And
from
thy
world,
with
heart
opprest,
Choosest
thou
now
to
turn?—
Ah
me!
we
anchorites
read
things
best,
Clearest
their
course
discern!
"Thou
fledst
me
when
the
ungenial
earth,
Man's
work-place,
lay
in
gloom.
Return'st
thou
in
her
hour
of
birth,
Of
hopes
and
hearts
in
bloom?
"Perceiv'st
thou
not
the
change
of
day?
Ah!
Carry
back
thy
ken,
What,
some
two
thousand
years!
Survey
The
world
as
it
was
then!
"Like
ours
it
look'd
in
outward
air.
Its
head
was
clear
and
true,
Sumptuous
its
clothing,
rich
its
fare,
No
pause
its
action
knew;
"Stout
was
its
arm,
each
thew
and
bone
Seem'd
puissant
and
alive—
But,
ah!
its
heart,
its
heart
was
stone,
And
so
it
could
not
thrive!
"On
that
hard
Pagan
world
disgust
And
secret
loathing
fell.
Deep
weariness
and
sated
lust
Made
human
life
a
hell.
"In
his
cool
hall,
with
haggard
eyes,
The
Roman
noble
lay;
He
drove
abroad,
in
furious
guise,
Along
the
Appian
way.
"He
made
a
feast,
drank
fierce
and
fast,
And
crown'd
his
hair
with
flowers—
No
easier
nor
no
quicker
pass'd
The
impracticable
hours.
"The
brooding
East
with
awe
beheld
Her
impious
younger
world.
The
Roman
tempest
swell'd
and
swell'd,
And
on
her
head
was
hurl'd.
"The
East
bow'd
low
before
the
blast
In
patient,
deep
disdain;
She
let
the
legions
thunder
past,
And
plunged
in
thought
again.
"So
well
she
mused,
a
morning
broke
Across
her
spirit
grey;
A
conquering,
new-born
joy
awoke,
And
fill'd
her
life
with
day.
"'Poor
world,'
she
cried,
'so
deep
accurst,
That
runn'st
from
pole
to
pole
To
seek
a
draught
to
slake
thy
thirst—
Go,
seek
it
in
thy
soul!'
"She
heard
it,
the
victorious
West,
In
crown
and
sword
array'd!
She
felt
the
void
which
mined
her
breast,
She
shiver'd
and
obey'd.
"She
veil'd
her
eagles,
snapp'd
her
sword,
And
laid
her
sceptre
down;
Her
stately
purple
she
abhorr'd,
And
her
imperial
crown.
"She
broke
her
flutes,
she
stopp'd
her
sports,
Her
artists
could
not
please;
She
tore
her
books,
she
shut
her
courts,
She
fled
her
palaces;
"Lust
of
the
eye
and
pride
of
life
She
left
it
all
behind,
And
hurried,
torn
with
inward
strife,
The
wilderness
to
find.
"Tears
wash'd
the
trouble
from
her
face!
She
changed
into
a
child!
'Mid
weeds
and
wrecks
she
stood—a
place
Of
ruin—but
she
smiled!
"Oh,
had
I
lived
in
that
great
day,
How
had
its
glory
new
Fill'd
earth
and
heaven,
and
caught
away
My
ravish'd
spirit
too!
"No
thoughts
that
to
the
world
belong
Had
stood
against
the
wave
Of
love
which
set
so
deep
and
strong
From
Christ's
then
open
grave.
"No
cloister-floor
of
humid
stone
Had
been
too
cold
for
me.
For
me
no
Eastern
desert
lone
Had
been
too
far
to
flee.
"No
lonely
life
had
pass'd
too
slow,
When
I
could
hourly
scan
Upon
his
Cross,
with
head
sunk
low,
That
nail'd,
thorn-crowned
Man!
"Could
see
the
Mother
with
her
Child
Whose
tender
winning
arts
Have
to
his
little
arms
beguiled
So
many
wounded
hearts!
"And
centuries
came
and
ran
their
course,
And
unspent
all
that
time
Still,
still
went
forth
that
Child's
dear
force,
And
still
was
at
its
prime.
"Ay,
ages
long
endured
his
span
Of
life—'tis
true
received—
That
gracious
Child,
that
thorn-crown'd
Man!
—He
lived
while
we
believed.
"While
we
believed,
on
earth
he
went,
And
open
stood
his
grave.
Men
call'd
from
chamber,
church,
and
tent;
And
Christ
was
by
to
save.
"Now
he
is
dead!
Far
hence
he
lies
In
the
lorn
Syrian
town;
And
on
his
grave,
with
shining
eyes,
The
Syrian
stars
look
down.
"In
vain
men
still,
with
hoping
new,
Regard
his
death-place
dumb,
And
say
the
stone
is
not
yet
to,
And
wait
for
words
to
come.
"Ah,
o'er
that
silent
sacred
land,
Of
sun,
and
arid
stone,
And
crumbling
wall,
and
sultry
sand,
Sounds
now
one
word
alone!
"Unduped
of
fancy,
henceforth
man
Must
labour!—must
resign
His
all
too
human
creeds,
and
scan
Simply
the
way
divine!
"But
slow
that
tide
of
common
thought,
Which
bathed
our
life,
retired;
Slow,
slow
the
old
world
wore
to
nought,
And
pulse
by
pulse
expired.
"Its
frame
yet
stood
without
a
breach
When
blood
and
warmth
were
fled;
And
still
it
spake
its
wonted
speech—
But
every
word
was
dead.
"And
oh,
we
cried,
that
on
this
corse
Might
fall
a
freshening
storm!
Rive
its
dry
bones,
and
with
new
force
A
new-sprung
world
inform!
"—Down
came
the
storm!
O'er
France
it
pass'd
In
sheets
of
scathing
fire;
All
Europe
felt
that
fiery
blast,
And
shook
as
it
rush'd
by
her.
"Down
came
the
storm!
In
ruins
fell
The
worn-out
world
we
knew.
It
pass'd,
that
elemental
swell!
Again
appear'd
the
blue;
"The
sun
shone
in
the
new-wash'd
sky,
And
what
from
heaven
saw
he?
Blocks
of
the
past,
like
icebergs
high,
Float
on
a
rolling
sea!
"Upon
them
plies
the
race
of
man
All
it
before
endeavour'd;
'Ye
live,'
I
cried,
'ye
work
and
plan,
And
know
not
ye
are
sever'd!
"'Poor
fragments
of
a
broken
world
Whereon
men
pitch
their
tent!
Why
were
ye
too
to
death
not
hurl'd
When
your
world's
day
was
spent?
"'That
glow
of
central
fire
is
done
Which
with
its
fusing
flame
Knit
all
your
parts,
and
kept
you
one—
But
ye,
ye
are
the
same!
"'The
past,
its
mask
of
union
on,
Had
ceased
to
live
and
thrive.
The
past,
its
mask
of
union
gone,
Say,
is
it
more
alive?
"'Your
creeds
are
dead,
your
rites
are
dead,
Your
social
order
too!
Where
tarries
he,
the
Power
who
said:
See,
I
make
all
things
new?
"'The
millions
suffer
still,
and
grieve,
And
what
can
helpers
heal
With
old-world
cures
men
half
believe
For
woes
they
wholly
feel?
"'And
yet
men
have
such
need
of
joy!
But
joy
whose
grounds
are
true;
And
joy
that
should
all
hearts
employ
As
when
the
past
was
new.
"'Ah,
not
the
emotion
of
that
past,
Its
common
hope,
were
vain!
Some
new
such
hope
must
dawn
at
last,
Or
man
must
toss
in
pain.
"'But
now
the
old
is
out
of
date,
The
new
is
not
yet
born,
And
who
can
be
alone
elate,
While
the
world
lies
forlorn?'
"Then
to
the
wilderness
I
fled.—
There
among
Alpine
snows
And
pastoral
huts
I
hid
my
head,
And
sought
and
found
repose.
"It
was
not
yet
the
appointed
hour.
Sad,
patient,
and
resign'd,
I
watch'd
the
crocus
fade
and
flower,
I
felt
the
sun
and
wind.
"The
day
I
lived
in
was
not
mine,
Man
gets
no
second
day.
In
dreams
I
saw
the
future
shine—
But
ah!
I
could
not
stay!
"Action
I
had
not,
followers,
fame;
I
pass'd
obscure,
alone.
The
after-world
forgets
my
name,
Nor
do
I
wish
it
known.
"Composed
to
bear,
I
lived
and
died,
And
knew
my
life
was
vain.
With
fate
I
murmur
not,
nor
chide;
At
Sèvres
by
the
Seine
"(If
Paris
that
brief
flight
allow)
My
humble
tomb
explore!
It
bears:
Eternity,
be
thou
My
refuge!
and
no
more.
"But
thou,
whom
fellowship
of
mood
Did
make
from
haunts
of
strife
Come
to
my
mountain-solitude,
And
learn
my
frustrate
life;
"O
thou,
who,
ere
thy
flying
span
Was
past
of
cheerful
youth,
Didst
find
the
solitary
man
And
love
his
cheerless
truth—
"Despair
not
thou
as
I
despair'd,
Nor
be
cold
gloom
thy
prison!
Forward
the
gracious
hours
have
fared,
And
see!
the
sun
is
risen!
"He
breaks
the
winter
of
the
past;
A
green,
new
earth
appears.
Millions,
whose
life
in
ice
lay
fast,
Have
thoughts,
and
smiles,
and
tears.
"What
though
there
still
need
effort,
strife?
Though
much
be
still
unwon?
Yet
warm
it
mounts,
the
hour
of
life!
Death's
frozen
hour
is
done!
"The
world's
great
order
dawns
in
sheen,
After
long
darkness
rude,
Divinelier
imaged,
clearer
seen,
With
happier
zeal
pursued.
"With
hope
extinct
and
brow
composed
I
mark'd
the
present
die;
Its
term
of
life
was
nearly
closed,
Yet
it
had
more
than
I.
"But
thou,
though
to
the
world's
new
hour
Thou
come
with
aspect
marr'd,
Shorn
of
the
joy,
the
bloom,
the
power,
Which
best
befits
its
bard—
"Though
more
than
half
thy
years
be
past,
And
spent
thy
youthful
prime;
Though,
round
thy
firmer
manhood
cast,
Hang
weeds
of
our
sad
time
"Whereof
thy
youth
felt
all
the
spell,
And
traversed
all
the
shade—
Though
late,
though
dimm'd,
though
weak,
yet
tell
Hope
to
a
world
new-made!
"Help
it
to
fill
that
deep
desire,
The
want
which
rack'd
our
brain,
Consumed
our
heart
with
thirst
like
fire,
Immedicable
pain;
"Which
to
the
wilderness
drove
out
Our
life,
to
Alpine
snow,
And
palsied
all
our
word
with
doubt,
And
all
our
work
with
woe—
"What
still
of
strength
is
left,
employ
That
end
to
help
attain:
One
common
wave
of
thought
and
joy
Lifting
mankind
again!"
—The
vision
ended.
I
awoke
As
out
of
sleep,
and
no
Voice
moved;—only
the
torrent
broke
The
silence,
far
below.
Soft
darkness
on
the
turf
did
lie.
Solemn,
o'er
hut
and
wood,
In
the
yet
star-sown
nightly
sky,
The
peak
of
Jaman
stood.
Still
in
my
soul
the
voice
I
heard
Of
Obermann!—away
I
turn'd;
by
some
vague
impulse
stirr'd,
Along
the
rocks
of
Naye
Past
Sonchaud's
piny
flanks
I
gaze
And
the
blanch'd
summit
bare
Of
Malatrait,
to
where
in
haze
The
Valais
opens
fair,
And
the
domed
Velan,
with
his
snows,
Behind
the
upcrowding
hills,
Doth
all
the
heavenly
opening
close
Which
the
Rhone's
murmur
fills—
And
glorious
there,
without
a
sound,
Across
the
glimmering
lake,
High
in
the
Valais-depth
profound,
I
saw
the
morning
break.
Matthew Arnold
Matthew Arnold (born December 24, 1822, Laleham, Middlesex, England—died April 15, 1888, Liverpool) English Victorian poet and literary and social critic, noted especially for his classical attacks on the contemporary tastes and manners of the “Barbarians” (the aristocracy), the “Philistines” (the commercial middle class), and the “Populace.” He became the apostle of “culture” in such works as Culture and Anarchy (1869). His literary career -- leaving out the two prize poems -- had begun in 1849 with the publication of The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems by A., which attracted little notice -- although it contained perhaps Arnold's most purely poetical poem "The Forsaken Merman" -- and was soon withdrawn. Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems (among them "Tristram and Iseult"), published in 1852, had a similar fate. In his poetry he derived not only the subject matter of his narrative poems from various traditional or literary sources but even much of the romantic melancholy of his earlier poems from Senancour's Obermann. His greatest defects as a poet stem from his lack of ear and his frequent failure to distinguish between poetry and prose. His significant if curious estimate of his own poems in 1869 was that they represented "on the whole, the main movement of mind of the last quarter of a century."