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.