The Study of Poetry by Matthew Arnold - Poetry Foundation

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E S S AY ON POETIC THEORY
The Study of Poetry

B Y M AT T H E W A R N O L D
Introduction
Matthew Arnold was one of the foremost poets and critics of the 19th century. While
often regarded as the father of modern literary criticism, he also wrote extensively on
social and cultural issues, religion, and education. Arnold was born into an influential
English family—his father was a famed headmaster at Rugby—and graduated from
Balliol College, Oxford. He began his career as a school inspector, traveling throughout
much of England on the newly built railway system. When he was elected professor of
poetry at Oxford in 1857, he was the first in the post to deliver his lectures in English
rather than Latin. Walt Whitman famously dismissed him as a “literary dude,” and
while many have continued to disparage Arnold for his moralistic tone and literary
judgments, his work also laid the foundation for important 20th century critics like
T.S. Eliot, Cleanth Brooks, and Harold Bloom. His poetry has also had an enormous,
though underappreciated, influence; Arnold is frequently acknowledged as being one
of the first poets to display a truly Modern perspective in his work.
Perhaps Arnold’s most famous piece of literary criticism is his essay “The Study of
Poetry.” In this work, Arnold is fundamentally concerned with poetry’s “high destiny;”
he believes that “mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to interpret life
for us, to console us, to sustain us” as science and philosophy will eventually prove
flimsy and unstable. Arnold’s essay thus concerns itself with articulating a “high
standard” and “strict judgment” in order to avoid the fallacy of valuing certain poems
(and poets) too highly, and lays out a method for discerning only the best and therefore
“classic” poets (as distinct from the description of writers of the ancient world).
Arnold’s classic poets include Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, and Homer; and the
passages he presents from each are intended to show how their poetry is timeless and
moving. For Arnold, feeling and sincerity are paramount, as is the seriousness of
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69374/the-study-of-poetry#:~:text=Perhaps Arnold%60s most famous piece,sustain us” as science and 1/29
subject: “The superior character of truth and seriousness, in the matter and substance
of the best poetry, is inseparable from the superiority of diction and movement
marking its style and manner.” An example of an indispensable poet who falls short of
Arnold’s “classic” designation is Geoffrey Chaucer, who, Arnold states, ultimately lacks
the “high seriousness” of classic poets.
At the root of Arnold’s argument is his desire to illuminate and preserve the poets he
believes to be the touchstones of literature, and to ask questions about the moral value
of poetry that does not champion truth, beauty, valor, and clarity. Arnold’s belief that
poetry should both uplift and console drives the essay’s logic and its conclusions.
The essay was originally published as the introduction to T. H. Ward’s anthology, The
English Poets (1880). It appeared later in Essays in Criticism, Second Series.
“The future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies,
our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is
not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received
tradition which does not threaten to dissolve. Our religion has materialised itself in the fact,
in the supposed fact; it has attached its emotion to the fact, and now the fact is failing it.
But for poetry the idea is everything; the rest is a world of illusion, of divine illusion. Poetry
attaches its emotion to the idea; the idea is the fact. The strongest part of our religion to-
day is its unconscious poetry.”
Let me be permitted to quote these words of my own [from The Hundred Greatest Men—
ed.], as uttering the thought which should, in my opinion, go with us and govern us in all our
study of poetry. In the present work [The English Poets—ed.] it is the course of one great
contributory stream to the world-river of poetry that we are invited to follow. We are here
invited to trace the stream of English poetry. But whether we set ourselves, as here, to follow
only one of the several streams that make the mighty river of poetry, or whether we seek to
know them all, our governing thought should be the same. We should conceive of poetry
worthily, and more highly than it has been the custom to conceive of it. We should conceive
of it as capable of higher uses, and called to higher destinies, than those which in general
men have assigned to it hitherto. More and more mankind will discover that we have to

turn to poetry to interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without poetry, our
science will appear incomplete; and most of what now passes with us for religion and
philosophy will be replaced by poetry. Science, I say, will appear incomplete without it. For
finely and truly does Wordsworth call poetry “the impassioned expression which is in the
countenance of all science”; and what is a countenance without its expression? Again,
Wordsworth finely and truly calls poetry “the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge”; our
religion, parading evidences such as those on which the popular mind relies now; our
philosophy, pluming itself on its reasonings about causation and finite and infinite being;
what are they but the shadows and dreams and false shows of knowledge? The day will
come when we shall wonder at ourselves for having trusted to them, for having taken them
seriously; and the more we perceive their hollowness, the more we shall prize “the breath
and finer spirit of knowledge” offered to us by poetry.
But if we conceive thus highly of the destinies of poetry, we must also set our standard for
poetry high, since poetry, to be capable of fulfilling such high destinies, must be poetry of a
high order of excellence. We must accustom ourselves to a high standard and to a strict
judgment. Sainte-Beuve relates that Napoleon one day said, when somebody was spoken of
in his presence as a charlatan: “Charlatan as much as you please; but where is there not
charlatanism?”—“Yes” answers Sainte-Beuve, “in politics, in the art of governing mankind,
that is perhaps true. But in the order of thought, in art, the glory, the eternal honour is that
charlatanism shall find no entrance; herein lies the inviolableness of that noble portion of
man’s being” [Les Cahiers—ed.]. It is admirably said, and let us hold fast to it. In poetry,
which is thought and art in one, it is the glory, the eternal honour, that charlatanism shall
find no entrance; that this noble sphere be kept inviolate and inviolable. Charlatanism is for
confusing or obliterating the distinctions between excellent and inferior, sound and
unsound or only half-sound, true and untrue or only half-true. It is charlatanism, conscious
or unconscious, whenever we confuse or obliterate these. And in poetry, more than
anywhere else, it is unpermissible to confuse or obliterate them. For in poetry the
distinction between excellent and inferior, sound and unsound or only half-sound, true and
untrue or only half-true, is of paramount importance. It is of paramount importance
because of the high destinies of poetry. In poetry, as in criticism of life under the conditions

fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty, the spirit of our race
will find, we have said, as time goes on and as other helps fail, its consolation and stay. But
the consolation and stay will be of power in proportion to the power of the criticism of life.
And the criticism of life will be of power in proportion as the poetry conveying it is
excellent rather than inferior, sound rather than unsound or half-sound, true rather than
untrue on half-true.
The best poetry is what we want; the best poetry will be found to have a power of forming,
sustaining, and delighting us, as nothing else can. A clearer, deeper sense of the best in
poetry, and of the strength and joy to be drawn from it, is the most precious benefit which
we can gather from a poetical collection such as the present. And yet in the very nature and
conduct of such a collection there is inevitably something which tends to obscure in us the
consciousness of what our benefit should be, and to distract us from the pursuit of it. We
should therefore steadily set it before our minds at the outset, and should compel ourselves
to revert constantly to the thought of it as we proceed.
Yes; constantly in reading poetry, a sense for the best, the really excellent, and of the
strength and joy to be drawn from it, should be present in our minds and should govern
our estimate of what we read. But this real estimate, the only true one, is liable to be
superseded, if we are not watchful, by two other kinds of estimate, the historic estimate and
the personal estimate, both of which are fallacious. A poet or a poem may count to us
historically, they may count to us on grounds personal to ourselves, and they may count to
us really. They may count to us historically. The course of development of a nation’s
language, thought, and poetry, is profoundly interesting; and by regarding a poet’s work as a
stage in this course of development we may easily bring ourselves to make it of more
importance as poetry than in itself it really is, we may come to use a language of quite
exaggerated praise in criticising it; in short, to overrate it. So arises in our poetic judgments
the fallacy caused by the estimate which we may call historic. Then, again, a poet or poem
may count to us on grounds personal to ourselves. Our personal affinities, likings and
circumstances, have great power to sway our estimate of this or that poet’s work, and to
make us attach more importance to it as poetry than in itself it really possesses, because to
us it is, or has been, of high importance. Here also we overrate the object of our interest,
and apply to it a language of praise which is quite exaggerated. And thus we get the source
of a second fallacy in our poetic judgments—the fallacy caused by an estimate which we
may call personal.
Both fallacies are natural. It is evident how naturally the study of the history and
development of poetry may incline a man to pause over reputations and works once
conspicuous but now obscure, and to quarrel with a careless public for skipping, in
obedience to mere tradition and habit, from one famous name or work in its national
poetry to another, ignorant of what it misses, and of the reason for keeping what it keeps,
and of the whole process of growth in its poetry. The French have become diligent students
of their own early poetry, which they long neglected; the study makes many of them
dissatisfied with their so-called classical poetry, the court-tragedy of the seventeenth century,
a poetry which Pellisson long ago reproached with its want of the true poetic stamp, with its
politesse stérile et rampante [sterile and bombastic politeness—ed.], but which nevertheless
has reigned in France as absolutely as if it had been the perfection of classical poetry indeed.
The dissatisfaction is natural; yet a lively and accomplished critic, M. Charles d’Héricault,
the editor of Clément Marot, goes too far when he says that “the cloud of glory playing
round a classic is a mist as dangerous to the future of a literature as it is intolerable for the
purposes of history.” “It hinders,” he goes on, “it hinders us from seeing more than one
single point, the culminating and exceptional point; the summary, fictitious and arbitrary,
of a thought and of a work. It substitutes a halo for a physiognomy, it puts a statue where
there was once a man, and hiding from us all trace of the labour, the attempts, the
weaknesses, the failures, it claims not study but veneration; it does not show us how the
thing is done, it imposes upon us a model. Above all, for the historian this creation of
classic personages is inadmissible; for it withdraws the poet from his time, from his proper
life, it breaks historical relationships, it blinds criticism by conventional admiration, and
renders the investigation of literary origins unacceptable. It gives us a human personage no
longer but a God seated immovable amidst His perfect work, like Jupiter on Olympus; and
hardly will it be possible for the young student to whom such work is exhibited at such a
distance from him, to believe that it did not issue ready—made from that divine head.”

All this is brilliantly and tellingly said, but we must plead for a distinction. Everything
depends on the reality of a poet’s classic character. If he is a dubious classic, let us sift him; if
he is a false classic, let us explode him. But if he is a real classic, if his work belongs to the
class of the very best (for this is the true and right meaning of the word classic, classical),
then the great thing for us is to feel and enjoy his work as deeply as ever we can, and to
appreciate the wide difference between it and all work which has not the same high
character. This is what is salutary, this is what is formative; this is the great benefit to be got
from the study of poetry. Everything which interferes with it, which hinders it, is injurious.
True, we must read our classic with open eyes, and not with eyes blinded with superstition;
we must perceive when his work comes short, when it drops out of the class of the very
best, and we must rate it, in such cases, at its proper value. But the use of this negative
criticism is not in itself, it is entirely in its enabling us to have a clearer sense and a deeper
enjoyment of what is truly excellent. To trace the labour, the attempts, the weaknesses, the
failures of a genuine classic, to acquaint oneself with his time and his life and his historical
relationships, is mere literary dilettantism unless it has that clear sense and deeper
enjoyment for its end. It may be said that the more we know about a classic the better we
shall enjoy him; and, if we lived as long as Methuselah and had all of us heads of perfect
clearness and wills of perfect steadfastness, this might be true in fact as it is plausible in
theory. But the case here is much the same as the case with the Greek and Latin studies of
our schoolboys. The elaborate philological groundwork which we require them to lay is in
theory an admirable preparation for appreciating the Greek and Latin authors worthily. The
more thoroughly we lay the groundwork, the better we shall be able, it may be said, to
enjoy the authors. True, if time were not so short, and schoolboys wits not so soon tired and
their power of attention exhausted; only, as it is, the elaborate philological preparation goes
on, but the authors are little known and less enjoyed. So with the investigator of “historic
origins” in poetry. He ought to enjoy the true classic all the better for his investigations; he
often is distracted from the enjoyment of the best, and with the less good he overbusies
himself, and is prone to over-rate it in proportion to the trouble which it has cost him.
The idea of tracing historic origins and historical relationships cannot be absent from a
compilation like the present. And naturally the poets to be exhibited in it will be assigned to

those persons for exhibition who are known to prize them highly, rather than to those who
have no special inclination towards them. Moreover, the very occupation with an author,
and the business of exhibiting him, disposes us to affirm and amplify his importance. In the
present work, therefore, we are sure of frequent temptation to adopt the historic estimate,
or the personal estimate, and to forget the real estimate; which latter, nevertheless, we must
employ if we are to make poetry yield us its full benefit. So high is that benefit, the benefit
of clearly feeling and of deeply enjoying the really excellent, the truly classic in poetry, that
we do well, I say, to set it fixedly before our minds as our object in studying poets and
poetry, and to make the desire of attaining it the one principle to which, as the Imitation
says, whatever we may read or come to know, we always return. Cum multa legeris et
cognoveris, ad unum semper oportet redire principium [“When you have read and learned
many things, you should always return to the one principle.” Thomas à Kempis, The
Imitation of Christ—ed.].
The historic estimate is likely in especial to affect our judgment and our language when we
are dealing with ancient poets; the personal estimate when we are dealing with poets our
contemporaries, or at any rate modern. The exaggerations due to the historic estimate are
not in themselves, perhaps, of very much gravity. Their report hardly enters the general ear;
probably they do not always impose even on the literary men who adopt them. But they
lead to a dangerous abuse of language. So we hear Cædmon, amongst our own poets,
compared to Milton. I have already noticed the enthusiasm of one accomplished French
critic for “historic origins.” Another eminent French critic, M. Vitet, comments upon that
famous document of the early poetry of his nation, the Chanson de Roland. It is indeed a
most interesting document. The joculator or jongleur Taillefer, who was with William the
Conqueror’s army at Hastings, marched before the Norman troops, so said the tradition,
singing “of Charlemagne and of Roland and of Oliver, and of the vassals who died at
Roncevaux”, and it is suggested that in the Chanson de Roland by one Turoldus or
Théroulde, a poem preserved in a manuscript of the twelfth century in the Bodleian Library
at Oxford, we have certainly the matter, perhaps even some of the words, of the chant
which Taillefer sang. The poem has vigour and freshness; it is not without pathos. But M.
Vitet is not satisfied with seeing in it a document of some poetic value, and of very high

historic and linguistic value; he sees in it a grand and beautiful work, a monument of epic
genius. In its general design he finds the grandiose conception, in its details he finds the
constant union of simplicity with greatness, which are the marks, he truly says, of the
genuine epic, and distinguish it from the artificial epic of literary ages. One thinks of
Homer; this is the sort of praise which is given to Homer, and justly given. Higher praise
there cannot well be, and it is the praise due to epic poetry of the highest order only, and to
no other. Let us try, then, the Chanson de Roland at its best. Roland, mortally wounded,
lay himself down under a pine-tree, with his face turned towards Spain and the enemy—
De plusurs choses à remembrer li prist,

De tantes teres cume li bers cunquist,
De dulce France, des humes de sun lign,
De Carlemagne sun seignor ki l’nurrit.”
[“Then began he to call many things to remembrance,—all the lands which his valour conquered, and
pleasant France, and the men of his lineage, and Charlemagne, his liege lord who nourished him”—
Chanson de Roland, iii, 939–42. Arnold’s note.]
That is primitive work, I repeat, with an undeniable poetic quality of its own. It deserves
such praise, and such praise is sufficient for it. But now turn to Homer—
Hös phato tous d’eide katechen physizoos aia

en Lakedaimoni auphi philei en patridi gaiei
[“So said she; they long since in Earth’s soft arms were reposing, / There, in their own dear land, their
fatherland, Lacedaemon”—Iliad, iii, 243, 244 (translated by Dr. Hawtry). Arnold’s note.]
We are here in another world, another order of poetry altogether; here is rightly due such
supreme praise as that which M. Vitet gives to the Chanson de Roland. If our words are to
have any meaning, if our judgments are to have any solidity, we must not heap that
supreme praise upon poetry of an order immeasurably inferior.

Indeed there can be no more useful help for discovering what poetry belongs to the class of
the truly excellent, and can therefore do us most good, than to have always in one’s mind
lines and expressions of the great masters, and to apply them as a touchstone to other
poetry. Of course we are not to require this other poetry to resemble them; it may be very
dissimilar. But if we have any tact we shall find them, when we have lodged them well in
our minds, infallible touchstone for detecting the presence or absence of high poetic quality,
and also the degree of this quality, in all other poetry which we may place beside them.
Short passages, even single lines, will serve our turn quite sufficiently. Take the two lines
which I have just quoted from Homer, the poet’s comment on Helen’s mention of her
brothers;—or take his
A deilo, ti sphoi, domen Pelei anakti

Thneta; hymeis d’ eston agero t’ athanato’ te.
ei hina dystenoisi met’ andrasin alge’ echeton
[“Ah, unhappy pair, why gave we you to King Peleus, to a mortal? but ye are without old age, and
immortal. Was it that with men born to misery ye might have sorrow?”—Iliad, xvii. 443–45.]
the address of Zeus to the horses of Peleus;—or take finally his
Kai se, geron, to prin men akouomen olbion einai
[“Nay, and thou too, old man, in former days wast, as we hear, happy.”—Iliad, xxiv. 543.]
the words of Achilles to Priam, a suppliant before him. Take that incomparable line and a
half of Dante, Ugolino’s tremendous words—
Io no piangeva; sì dentro impietrai.

Piangevan elli …
[“I wailed not, so of stone grew I within; / they wailed.—Inferno, xxxiii. 39–40.]

take the lovely words of Beatrice to Virgil—
Io son fatta da Dio, sua mercè, tale,

Che la vostra miseria non mi tange,
Nè fiamma d’esto incendio non m’assale . . .
[“Of such sort hath God, thanked be His mercy, made me, / That your misery toucheth me not, /
Neither doth the flame of this fire strike me.”—Inferno, ii. 91–93.]
take the simple, but perfect, single line—
In la sua volontade è nostra pace
[“In His will is our peace.”—Paradiso, iii. 85.]
Take of Shakespeare a line or two of Henry the Fourth’s expostulation with sleep—
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge . . .
and take, as well, Hamlet’s dying request to Horatio—
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,

Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain
To tell my story . . .
Take of Milton that Miltonic passage—
Darken’d so, yet shone

Above them all the archangel; but his face

Deep scars of thunder had intrench’d, and care

Sat on his faded cheek . . .
add two such lines as—
And courage never to submit or yield

And what is else not to be overcome . . .
and finish with the exquisite close to the loss of Proserpine, the loss
. . . which cost Ceres all that pain

To seek her through the world.”
These few lines, if we have tact and can use them, are enough even of themselves to keep
clear and sound our judgments about poetry, to save us from fallacious estimates of it, to
conduct us to a real estimate.
The specimens I have quoted differ widely from one another, but they have in common
this: the possession of the very highest poetical quality. If we are thoroughly penetrated by
their power, we shall find that we have acquired a sense enabling us, whatever poetry may
be laid before us, to feel the degree in which a high poetical quality is present or wanting
there. Critics give themselves great labour to draw out what in the abstract constitutes the
characters of a high quality of poetry. It is much better simply to have recourse to concrete
examples;—to take specimens of poetry of the high, the very highest quality, and to say:
The characters of a high quality of poetry are what is expressed there. They are far better
recognised by being felt in the verse of the master, than by being perused in the prose of the
critic. Nevertheless if we are urgently pressed to give some critical account of them, we may
safely, perhaps, venture on laying down, not indeed how and why the characters arise, but
where and in what they arise. They are in the matter and substance of the poetry, and they
are in its manner and style. Both of these, the substance and matter on the one hand, the
style and manner on the other, have a mark, an accent, of high beauty, worth, and power.

But if we are asked to define this mark and accent in the abstract, our answer must be: No,
for we should thereby be darkening the question, not clearing it. The mark and accent are
as given by the substance and matter of that poetry, by the style and manner of that poetry,
and of all other poetry which is akin to it in quality.
Only one thing we may add as to the substance and matter of poetry, guiding ourselves by
Aristotle’s profound observation that the superiority of poetry over history consists in its
possessing a higher truth and a higher seriousness (philosophoteron kai spoudaioteron [Poetics,
ix—ed.]). Let us add, therefore, to what we have said, this: that the substances and matter
of the best poetry acquire their special character from possessing, in an eminent degree,
truth and seriousness. We may add yet further, what is in itself evident, that to the style and
manner of the best poetry their special character, their accent, is given by their diction, and,
even yet more, by their movement. And though we distinguish between the two characters,
the two accents, of superiority, yet they are nevertheless vitally connected one with the
other. The superior character of truth and seriousness, in the matter and substance of the
best poetry, is inseparable from the superiority of diction and movement marking its style
and manner. The two superiorities are closely related, and are in steadfast proportion one to
the other. So far as high poetic truth and seriousness are wanting to a poet’s matter and
substance, so far also, we may be sure, will a high poetic stamp of diction and movement be
wanting to his style and manner. In proportion as this high stamp of diction and
movement, again, is absent from a poet’s style and manner, we shall find, also, that high
poetic truth and seriousness are absent from his substance and matter.
So stated, these are but dry generalities; their whole force lies in their application. And I
could wish every student of poetry to make the application of them for himself. Made by
himself, the application would impress itself upon his mind far more deeply than made by
me. Neither will my limits allow me to make any full application of the generalities above
propounded; but in the hope of bringing out, at any rate, some significance in them, and of
establishing an important principle more firmly by their means, I will, in the space which
remains to me, follow rapidly from the commencement the course of our English poetry
with them in my view.

Once more I return to the early poetry of France, with which our own poetry, in its origins,
is indissolubly connected. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that seedtime of all
modern language and literature, the poetry of France had a clear predominance in Europe.
Of the two divisions of that poetry, its productions in the langue d’oil and its productions in
the langue d’oc, the poetry of the langue d’oc, of southern France, of the troubadours, is of
importance because of its effect on Italian literature;—the first literature of modern Europe
to strike the true and grand note, and to bring forth, as in Dante and Petrarch it brought
forth, classics. But the predominance of French poetry in Europe, during the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries, is due to its poetry of the langue d’oil, the poetry of northern France
and of the tongue which is now the French language. In the twelfth century the bloom of
this romance-poetry was earlier and stronger in England, at the court of our Anglo-Norman
kings, than in France itself. But it was a bloom of French poetry; and as our native poetry
formed itself, it formed itself out of this. The romance-poems which took possession of the
heart and imagination of Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are French; “they
are,” as Southey justly says, “the pride of French literature, nor have we anything which can
be placed in competition with them.” Themes were supplied from all quarters; but the
romance-setting which was common to them all, and which gained the ear of Europe, was
French. This constituted for the French poetry, literature, and language, at the height of the
Middle Age, an unchallenged predominance. The Italian Brunetto Latini, the master of
Dante, wrote his Treasure in French because, he says, “la parleure en est plus delitable et plus
commune a toutes gens” [the language is more agreeable and more widely known—ed.]. In
the same century, the thirteenth, the French romance-writer, Christian of Troyes, formulates
the claims, in chivalry and letters, of France, his native country, as follows:—
Or vous ert par ce livre apris,

Que Gresse ot de chevalerie
Le premier los et de clergie;
Puis vint chevalerie à Rome,
Et de la clergie la some,
Qui ore est en France venue.
Diex doinst qu’ele i soit retenue,
Et que li lius li abelisse

Tant que de France n’isse

L’onor qui s’i est arestée!
“Now by this book you will learn that first Greece had the renown for chivalry and letters:
then chivalry and the primacy in letters passed to Rome, and now it is come to France. God
grant it may be kept there; and that the place may please it so well, that the honour which
has come to make stay in France may never depart thence!”
Yet it is now all gone, this French romance-poetry of which the weight of substance and the
power of style are not unfairly represented by this extract from Christian of Troyes. Only by
means of the historic estimate can we persuade ourselves not to think that any of it is of
poetical importance.
But in the fourteenth century there comes an Englishman nourished on this poetry, taught
his trade by this poetry, getting words, rhyme, metre from this poetry; for even of that
stanza which the Italians used, and which Chaucer derived immediately from the Italians,
the basis and suggestion was probably given in France. Chaucer (I have already named him)
fascinated his contemporaries, but so too did Christian of Troyes and Wolfram of
Eschenbach. Chaucer’s power of fascination, however, is enduring; his poetical importance
does not need the assistance of the historic estimate; it is real. He is a genuine source of joy
and strength, which is flowing still for us and will flow always. He will be read, as time goes
on, far more generally than he is read now. His language is a cause of difficulty for us; but so
also, and I think in quite as great a degree, is the language of Burns. In Chaucer’s case, as in
that of Burns, it is a difficulty to be unhesitatingly accepted and overcome.
If we ask ourselves wherein consists the immense superiority of Chaucer’s poetry over the
romance-poetry—why it is that in passing from this to Chaucer we suddenly feel ourselves
to be in another world, we shall find that his superiority is both in the substance of his
poetry and in the style of his poetry. His superiority in substance is given by his large, free,
simple, clear yet kindly view of human life,—so unlike the total want, in the romance-
poets, of all intelligent command of it. Chaucer has not their helplessness; he has gained the
power to survey the world from a central, a truly human point of view. We have only to call

to mind the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales. The right comment upon it is Dryden’s: “It is
sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God’s plenty.” And again: “He is a
perpetual fountain of good sense.” It is by a large, free, sound representation of things, that
poetry, this high criticism of life, has truth of substance; and Chaucer’s poetry has truth of
substance.
Of his style and manner, if we think first of the romance-poetry and then of Chaucer’s
divine liquidness of diction, his divine fluidity of movement, it is difficult to speak
temperately. They are irresistible, and justify all the rapture with which his successors speak
of his “gold dew-drops of speech.” Johnson misses the point entirely when he finds fault
with Dryden for ascribing to Chaucer the first refinement of our numbers, and says that
Gower also can show smooth numbers and easy rhymes. The refinement of our numbers
means something far more than this. A nation may have versifiers with smooth numbers
and easy rhymes, and yet may have no real poetry at all. Chaucer is the father of our
splendid English poetry; he is our “well of English undefiled,” because by the lovely charm
of his diction, the lovely charm of his movement, he makes an epoch and founds a
tradition. In Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, we can follow the tradition of the liquid
diction, the fluid movement of Chaucer; at one time it is his liquid diction of which in
these poets we feel the virtue, and at another time it is his fluid movement. And the virtue is
irresistible.
Bounded as is my space, I must yet find room for an example of Chaucer’s virtue, as I have
given examples to show the virtue of the great classics. I feel disposed to say that a single
line is enough to show the charm of Chaucer’s verse; that merely one line like this—
O martyr souded in virginitee!
[“The French soudé; soldered, fixed fast.” Arnold’s note.]
has a virtue of manner and movement such as we shall not find in all the verse of romance
—poetry;—but this is saying nothing. The virtue is such as we shall not find, perhaps, in all
English poetry, outside the poets whom I have named as the special inheritors of Chaucer’s
tradition. A single line, however, is too little if we have not the strain of Chaucer’s verse well
in our memory; let us take a stanza. It is from The Prioress’ Tale, the story of the Christian
child murdered in a Jewry—
My throte is cut unto my nekke-bone

Saidè this child, and as by way of kinde
I should have deyd, yea, longè time agone;
But Jesus Christ, as ye in bookès finde,
Will that his glory last and be in minde,
And for the worship of his mother dere
Yet may I sing O Alma loud and clere.”
Wordsworth has modernised this Tale, and to feel how delicate and evanescent is the charm
of verse, we have only to read Wordsworth’s first three lines of this stanza after Chaucer’s—
My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,

Said this young child, and by the law of kind
I should have died, yea, many hours ago.
The charm is departed. It is often said that the power of liquidness and fluidity in Chaucer’s
verse was dependent upon a free, a licentious dealing with language, such as is now
impossible; upon a liberty, such as Burns too enjoyed, of making words like neck, bird, into
a disyllable by adding to them, and words like cause, rhyme, into a disyllable by sounding
the e mute. It is true that Chaucer’s fluidity is conjoined with this liberty, and is admirably
served by it; but we ought not to say that it was dependent upon it. It was dependent upon
his talent. Other poets with a like liberty do not attain to the fluidity of Chaucer; Burns
himself does not attain to it. Poets, again, who have a talent akin to Chaucer’s, such as
Shakespeare or Keats, have known how to attain his fluidity without the like liberty.
And yet Chaucer is not one of the great classics. His poetry transcends and effaces, easily
and without effort, all the romance-poetry of Catholic Christendom; it transcends and
effaces all the English poetry contemporary with it, it transcends and effaces all the English
poetry subsequent to it down to the age of Elizabeth. Of such avail is poetic truth of
substance, in its natural and necessary union with poetic truth of style. And yet, I say,
Chaucer is not one of the great classics. He has not their accent. What is wanting to him is
suggested by the mere mention of the name of the first great classic of Christendom, the
immortal poet who died eighty years before Chaucer,—Dante. The accent of such verse as
In la sua volontade è nostra pace . . .
is altogether beyond Chaucer’s reach; we praise him, but we feel that this accent is out of
the question for him. It may be said that it was necessarily out of the reach of any poet in
the England of that stage of growth. Possibly; but we are to adopt a real, not a historic,
estimate of poetry. However we may account for its absence, something is wanting, then, to
the poetry of Chaucer, which poetry must have before it can be placed in the glorious class
of the best. And there is no doubt what that something is. It is the spoudaiotes, the high and
excellent seriousness, which Aristotle assigns as one of the grand virtues of poetry. The
substance of Chaucer’s poetry, his view of things and his criticism of life, has largeness,
freedom, shrewdness, benignity; but it has not this high seriousness. Homer’s criticism of
life has it, Dante’s has it, Shakespeare’s has it. It is this chiefly which gives to our spirits what
they can rest upon; and with the increasing demands of our modern ages upon poetry, this
virtue of giving us what we can rest upon will be more and more highly esteemed. A voice
from the slums of Paris, fifty or sixty years after Chaucer, the voice of poor Villon out of his
life of riot and crime, has at its happy moments (as, for instance, in the last stanza of La
Belle Heaulmière) [“The name Heaulmière is said to be derived from a head-dress (helm)
worn as a mark by courtesans. In Villon’s ballad, a poor old creature of this class laments her
days of youth and beauty . . . . ”—Arnold’s note.] more of this important poetic virtue of
seriousness than all the productions of Chaucer. But its apparition in Villon, and in men
like Villon, is fitful; the greatness of the great poets, the power of their criticism of life, is
that their virtue is sustained.
To our praise, therefore, of Chaucer as a poet there must be this limitation; he lacks the
high seriousness of the great classics, and therewith an important part of their virtue. Still,
the main fact for us to bear in mind about Chaucer is his sterling value according to that
real estimate which we firmly adopt for all poets. He has poetic truth of substance, though
he has not high poetic seriousness, and corresponding to his truth of substance he has an
exquisite virtue of style and manner. With him is born our real poetry.
For my present purpose I need not dwell on our Elizabethan poetry, or on the continuation
and close of this poetry in Milton. We all of us profess to be agreed in the estimate of this
poetry; we all of us recognise it as great poetry, our greatest, and Shakespeare and Milton as
our poetical classics. The real estimate, here, has universal currency. With the next age of
our poetry divergency and difficulty begin. An historic estimate of that poetry has
established itself; and the question is, whether it will be found to coincide with the real
estimate.
The age of Dryden, together with our whole eighteenth century which followed it, sincerely
believed itself to have produced poetical classics of its own, and even to have made advance,
in poetry, beyond all its predecessors. Dryden regards as not seriously disputable the
opinion “that the sweetness of English verse was never understood or practised by our
fathers.” Cowley could see nothing at all in Chaucer’s poetry. Dryden heartily admired it,
and, as we have seen, praised its matter admirably; but of its exquisite manner and
movement all he can find to say is that “there is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it,
which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect.” Addison, wishing to praise Chaucer’s
numbers, compares them with Dryden’s own. And all through the eighteenth century, and
down even into our own times, the stereotyped phrase of approbation for good verse found
in our early poetry has been, that it even approached the verse of Dryden, Addison, Pope,
and Johnson.
Are Dryden and Pope poetical classics? Is the historic estimate, which represents them as
such, and which has been so long established that it cannot easily give way, the real
estimate? Wordsworth and Coleridge; as is well known, denied it; but the authority of
Wordsworth and Coleridge does not weigh much with the young generation, and there are
many signs to show that the eighteenth century and its judgments are coming into favour
again. Are the favourite poets of the eighteenth century classics?

It is impossible within my present limits to discuss the question fully. And what man of
letters would not shrink from seeming to dispose dictatorially of the claims of two men who
are, at any rate, such masters in letters as Dryden and Pope; two men of such admirable
talent, both of them, and one of them, Dryden, a man, on all sides, of such energetic and
genial power? And yet, if we are to gain the full benefit from poetry, we must have the real
estimate of it. I cast about for some mode of arriving, in the present case, at such an
estimate without offence. And perhaps the best way is to begin, as it is easy to begin, with
cordial praise.
When we find Chapman, the Elizabethan translator of Homer, expressing himself in this
preface thus: “Though truth in her very nakedness sits in so deep a pit, that from Gades to
Aurora and Ganges few eyes can sound her, I hope yet those few here will so discover and
confirm that, the date being out of her darkness in this morning of our poet, he shall now
gird his temples with the sun,”—we pronounce that such a prose is intolerable. When we
find Milton writing: “And long it was not after, when I was confirmed in this opinion, that
he, who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought
himself to be a true poem,”—we pronounce that such a prose has its own grandeur, but that
it is obsolete and inconvenient. But when we find Dryden telling us: “What Virgil wrote in
the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to translate in my declining
years; struggling with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to be
misconstrued in all I write,”—then we exclaim that here at last we have the true English
prose, a prose such as we would all gladly use if we only knew how. Yet Dryden was Milton’s
contemporary.
But after the Restoration the time had come when our nation felt the imperious need of a
fit prose. So, too, the time had likewise come when our nation felt the imperious need of
freeing itself from the absorbing preoccupation which religion in the Puritan age had
exercised. It was impossible that this freedom should be brought about without some
negative excess, without some neglect and impairment of the religious life of the soul; and
the spiritual history of the eighteenth century shows us that the freedom was not achieved
without them. Still, the freedom was achieved; the preoccupation, an undoubtedly baneful
and retarding one if it had continued, was got rid of. And as with religion amongst us at
that period, so it was also with letters. A fit prose was a necessity; but it was impossible that
a fit prose should establish itself amongst us without some touch of frost to the imaginative
life of the soul. The needful qualities for a fit prose are regularity, uniformity, precision,
balance. The men of letters, whose destiny it may be to bring their nation to the attainment
of a fit prose, must of necessity, whether they work in prose or in verse, give a
predominating, an almost exclusive attention to the qualities of regularity, uniformity,
precision, balance. But an almost exclusive attention to these qualities involves some
repression and silencing of poetry.
We are to regard Dryden as the puissant and glorious founder, Pope as the splendid high
priest, of our age of prose and reason, of our excellent and indispensable eighteenth century.
For the purposes of their mission and destiny their poetry, like their prose, is admirable. Do
you ask me whether Dryden’s verse, take it almost where you will, is not good?
A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,

Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged.
I answer: Admirable for the purposes of the inaugurator of an age of prose and reason. Do
you ask me whether Pope’s verse, take it almost where you will, is not good?
To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down

Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own.
I answer: Admirable for the purposes of the high priest of an age of prose and reason. But
do you ask me whether such verse proceeds from men with an adequate poetic criticism of
life, from men whose criticism of life has a high seriousness, or even, without that high
seriousness, has poetic largeness, freedom, insight, benignity? Do you ask me whether the
application of ideas to life in the verse of these men, often a powerful application, no doubt,
is a powerful poetic application? Do you ask me whether the poetry of these men has either
the matter or the inseparable manner of such an adequate poetic criticism; whether it has
the accent of
Absent thee from felicity awhile . . .
or of
And what is else not to be overcome . . .
or of
O martyr souded in virginitee!
I answer: It has not and cannot have them; it is the poetry of the builders of an age of prose
and reason. Though they may write in verse, though they may in a certain sense be masters
of the art of versification, Dryden and Pope are not classics of our poetry, they are classics of
our prose.
Gray is our poetical classic of that literature and age; the position of Gray is singular, and
demands a word of notice here. He has not the volume or the power of poets who, coming
in times more favourable, have attained to an independent criticism of life. But he lived
with the great poets, he lived, above all, with the Greeks, through perpetually studying and
enjoying them; and he caught their poetic point of view for regarding life, caught their
poetic manner. The point of view and the manner are not self-sprung in him, he caught
them of others; and he had not the free and abundant use of them. But, whereas Addison
and Pope never had the use of them, Gray had the use of them at times. He is the scantiest
and frailest of classics in our poetry, but he is a classic.
And now, after Gray, we are met, as we draw towards the end of the eighteenth century, we
are met by the great name of Burns. We enter now on times where the personal estimate of
poets begins to be rife, and where the real estimate of them is not reached without difficulty.
But in spite of the disturbing pressures of personal partiality, of national partiality, let us try
to reach a real estimate of the poetry of Burns.

By his English poetry Burns in general belongs to the eighteenth century, and has little
importance for us.
Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes,

Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way;
While subtle Litigation’s pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong!
Evidently this is not the real Burns, or his name and fame would have disappeared long ago.
Nor is Clarinda’s love-poet, Sylvander, the real Burns either. But he tells us himself: “These
English songs gravel me to death. I have not the command of the language that I have of
my native tongue. In fact, I think that my ideas are more barren in English than in Scotch.
I have been at Duncan Gray to dress it in English, but all I can do is desperately stupid.”
We English turn naturally, in Burns, to the poems in our own language, because we can
read them easily; but in those poems we have not the real Burns.
The real Burns is of course in this Scotch poems. Let us boldly say that of much of this
poetry, a poetry dealing perpetually with Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch
manners, a Scotchman’s estimate is apt to be personal. A Scotchman is used to this world of
Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners; he has a tenderness for it; he meets its
poet halfway. In this tender mood he reads pieces like the Holy Fair or Halloween. But this
world of Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners is against a poet, not for him,
when it is not a partial countryman who reads him; for in itself it is not a beautiful world,
and no one can deny that it is of advantage to a poet to deal with a beautiful world. Burns
world of Scotch drink, Scotch religion, and Scotch manners, is often a harsh, a sordid, a
repulsive world: even the world of his Cotter’s Saturday Night is not a beautiful world. No
doubt a poet’s criticism of life may have such truth and power that it triumphs over its
world and delights us. Burns may triumph over his world, often he does triumph over his
world, but let us observe how and where. Burns is the first case we have had where the bias
of the personal estimate tends to mislead; let us look at him closely, he can bear it.

Many of his admirers will tell us that we have Burns, convivial, genuine, delightful, here—
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair

Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fou o’ knowledge.
Be’t whisky gill or penny wheep
Or only stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion
By night or day.
There is a great deal of that sort of thing in Burns, and it is unsatisfactory, not because it is
bacchanalian poetry, but because it has not that accent of sincerity which bacchanalian
poetry, to do it justice, very often has. There is something in it of bravado, something which
makes us feel that we have not the man speaking to us with his real voice; something,
therefore, poetically unsound.
With still more confidence will his admirers tell us that we have the genuine Burns, the
great poet, when his strain asserts the independence, equality, dignity, of men, as in the
famous song “For A’ That, and A’ That”—
A prince can mak’ a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, a pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.
Here they find his grand, genuine touches; and still more, when this puissant genius, who
so often set morality at defiance, falls moralising—

The sacred lowe o’ weel-placed love

Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
Tho’ naething should divulge it.
I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
The hazard o’ concealing,
But och! it hardens a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling
Or on a higher strain—
Who made the heart, ’tis He alone

Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone;
Each spring, its various bias.
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.
Or in a better strain yet, a strain, his admirers will say, unsurpassable—
To make a happy fireside clime

To weans and wife,
That’s the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
There is criticism of life for you, the admirers of Burns will say to us; there is the
application of ideas to life! There is, undoubtedly. The doctrine of the last-quoted lines
coincides almost exactly with what was the aim and end, Xenophon tells us, of all the
teaching of Socrates. And the application is a powerful one; made by a man of vigorous
understanding, and (need I say?) a master of language.
But for supreme poetical success more is required than the powerful application of ideas to
life; it must be an application under the conditions fixed by the laws of poetic truth and
poetic beauty. Those laws fix as an essential condition, in the poet’s treatment of such
matters as are here in question, high seriousness;— the high seriousness which comes from
absolute sincerity. The accent of high seriousness, born of absolute sincerity, is what gives to
such verse as
In la sua volontade e nostra pace . . .
to such criticism of life as Dante’s, its power. Is this accent felt in the passages which I have
been quoting from Burns? Surely not; surely, if our sense is quick, we must perceive that we
have not in those passages a voice from the very inmost soul of the genuine Burns; he is not
speaking to us from these depths, he is more or less preaching. And the compensation for
admiring such passages less, from missing the perfect poetic accent in them, will be that we
shall admire more the poetry where that accent is found.
No; Burns, like Chaucer, comes sort of the high seriousness of the great classics, and the
virtue of matter and manner which goes with that high seriousness is wanting to his work.
At moments he touches it in a profound and passionate melancholy, as in those four
immortal lines taken by Byron as a motto for The Bride of Abydos, but which have in them a
depth of poetic quality such as resides in no verse of Byron’s own—
Had we never loved sae kindly,

Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
But a whole poem of that quality Burns cannot make; the rest, in the Farewell to Nancy, is
verbiage.
We arrive best at the real estimate of Burns, I think, by conceiving his work as having truth
of matter and truth of manner, but not the accent or the poetic virtue of the highest

masters. His genuine criticism of life, when the sheer poet in him speaks, is ironic; it is not
—
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest, they must be best
Because they are Thy will!
It is far rather: Whistle owre the lave o’t! Yet we may say of him as of Chaucer, that of life and
the world, as they come before him, his view is large, free, shrewd, benignant,—truly poetic
therefore; and his manner of rendering what he sees is to match. But we must note, at the
same time, his great difference from Chaucer. The freedom of Chaucer is heightened, in
Burns, by a fiery, reckless energy; the benignity of Chaucer deepens, in Burns, into an over-
whelming sense of the pathos of things;—of the pathos of human nature, the pathos, also,
of non-human nature. Instead of the fluidity of Chaucer’s manner, the manner of Burns has
spring, boundless swiftness. Burns is by far the greater force, though he has perhaps less
charm. The world of Chaucer is fairer, richer, more significant than that of Burns; but when
the largeness and freedom of Burns get full sweep, as in Tam o’ Shanter, or still more in that
puissant and splendid production, The Jolly Beggars, his world may be what it will, his
poetic genius triumphs over it. In the world of The Jolly Beggars there is more than
hideousness and squalor, there is bestiality; yet the piece is a superb poetic success. It has a
breadth, truth, and power which make the famous scene in Auerbach’s Cellar, of Goethe’s
Faust, seem artificial and tame beside it, and which are only matched by Shakespeare and
Aristophanes.
Here, where his largeness and freedom serve him so admirably, and also in those poems and
songs where to shrewdness he adds infinite archness and wit, and to benignity infinite
pathos, where his manner is flawless, and a perfect poetic whole is the result,—in things like
the address to the mouse whose home he had ruined, in things like “Duncan Gray,” “Tam
Glen,” “Whistle and I’ll Come To You, My Lad,” “Auld Lang Syne” (this list might be made
much longer),—here we have the genuine Burns, of whom the real estimate must be high
indeed. Not a classic, nor with the excellent spoudaiotes [high seriousness—ed.] of the great
classics, nor with a verse rising to a criticism of life and a virtue like theirs; but a poet with
thorough truth of substance and an answering truth of style, giving us a poetry sound to the
core. We all of us have a leaning towards the pathetic, and may be inclined perhaps to prize
Burns most for his touches of piercing, sometimes almost intolerable, pathos; for verse like
—
We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn

From mornin’ sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin auld lang syne . . .
where he is as lovely as he is sound. But perhaps it is by the perfection of soundness of his

lighter and archer masterpieces that he is poetically most wholesome for us. For the votary
misled by a personal estimate of Shelley, as so many of us have been, are, and will be,—of
that beautiful spirit building his many-coloured haze of words and images.
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane—
no contact can be wholesomer than the contact with Burns at his archest and soundest. Side
by side with the
On the brink of the night and the morning

My coursers are wont to respire,
But the Earth has just whispered a warning
That their flight must be swifter than fire . . .
of Prometheus Unbound, how salutary, how very salutary, to place this from Tam Glen—
My minnie does constantly deave me

And bids me beware o’ young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me;
But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen?

But we enter on burning ground as we approach the poetry of times so near to us—poetry
like that of Byron, Shelley, and Wordsworth—of which the estimates are so often not only
personal, but personal with passion. For my purpose, it is enough to have taken the single
case of Burns, the first poet we come to of whose work the estimate formed is evidently apt
to be personal, and to have suggested how we may proceed, using the poetry of the great
classics as a sort of touchstone, to correct this estimate, as we had previously corrected by
the same means the historic estimate where we met with it. A collection like the present,
with its succession of celebrated names and celebrated poems, offers a good opportunity to
us for resolutely endeavouring to make our estimates of poetry real. I have sought to point
out a method which will help us in making them so, and to exhibit it in use so far as to put
any one who likes in a way of applying it for himself.
At any rate the end to which the method and the estimate are designed to lead, and from
leading to which, if they do lead to it, they get their whole value,—the benefit of being able
clearly to feel and deeply to enjoy the best, the truly classic, in poetry,—is an end, let me say
it once more at parting, of supreme importance. We are often told that an era is opening in
which we are to see multitudes of a common sort of readers, and masses of a common sort
of literature; that such readers do not want and could not relish anything better than such
literature, and that to provide it is becoming a vast and profitable industry. Even if good
literature entirely lost currency with the world, it would still be abundantly worth while to
continue to enjoy it by oneself. But it never will lose currency with the world, in spite of
monetary appearances; it never will lose supremacy. Currency and supremacy are insured to
it, not indeed by the world’s deliberate and conscious choice, but by something far deeper,
—by the instinct of self-preservation in humanity.
Originally Published: October 13th, 2009
Among the major Victorian writers, Matthew Arnold is unique in that his reputation rests equally upon his poetry and his
poetry criticism. Only a quarter of his productive life was given to writing poetry, but many of the same values, attitudes,
and feelings that are expressed in his poems achieve...
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1/10/23, 5:32 PM The Study of Poetry by Matthew Arnold | Poetry Foundation

The Study of Poetry

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69374/the-study-of-poetry#:~:text=Perhaps Arnold%60s most famous piece,sustain us” as science and 2/29

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De plusurs choses à remembrer li prist,

Hös phato tous d’eide katechen physizoos aia

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A deilo, ti sphoi, domen Pelei anakti

the address of Zeus to the horses of Peleus;—or take finally his

Kai se, geron, to prin men akouomen olbion einai

Io no piangeva; sì dentro impietrai.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69374/the-study-of-poetry#:~:text=Perhaps Arnold%60s most famous piece,sustain us” as science and 9/29

take the lovely words of Beatrice to Virgil—

Io son fatta da Dio, sua mercè, tale,

take the simple, but perfect, single line—

In la sua volontade è nostra pace

[“In His will is our peace.”—Paradiso, iii. 85.]

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

and take, as well, Hamlet’s dying request to Horatio—

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,

Take of Milton that Miltonic passage—

Darken’d so, yet shone

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Deep scars of thunder had intrench’d, and care

add two such lines as—

And courage never to submit or yield

. . . which cost Ceres all that pain

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Or vous ert par ce livre apris,

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Tant que de France n’isse

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O martyr souded in virginitee!

[“The French soudé; soldered, fixed fast.” Arnold’s note.]

My throte is cut unto my nekke-bone

My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,

In la sua volontade è nostra pace . . .

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A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,

To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down

Absent thee from felicity awhile . . .

And what is else not to be overcome . . .

O martyr souded in virginitee!

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Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes,

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Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair

A prince can mak’ a belted knight,

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The sacred lowe o’ weel-placed love

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone

Or in a better strain yet, a strain, his admirers will say, unsurpassable—

To make a happy fireside clime

In la sua volontade e nostra pace . . .

Had we never loved sae kindly,