# The poetical works of Matthew Arnold/Heine's Grave

HEINE'S GRAVE.
"Henri Heine"—'tis here! The black tombstone, the name Carved there—no more; and the smooth Swarded alleys, the limes Touched with yellow by hot Summer, but under them still, In September's bright afternoon, Shadow, and verdure, and cool. Trim Montmartre! the faint Murmur of Paris outside; Crisp everlasting-flowers, Yellow and black, on the graves.
Half blind, palsied, in pain, Hither to come, from the streets' Uproar, surely not loath Wast thou, Heine! to lie Quiet, to ask for closed Shutters, and darkened room, And cool drinks, and an eased Posture, and opium, no more; Hither to come, and to sleep Under the wings of Renown.
​Ah! not little, when pain Is most quelling, and man Easily quelled, and the fine Temper of genius so soon Thrills at each smart, is the praise, Not to have yielded to pain! No small boast, for a weak Son of mankind, to the earth Pinned by the thunder, to rear His bolt-scathed front to the stars; And, undaunted, retort 'Gainst thick-crashing, insane, Tyrannous tempests of bale, Arrowy lightnings of soul.
Hark! through the alley resounds Mocking laughter! A film Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze Ruffles the warm afternoon, Saddens my soul with its chill. Gibing of spirits in scorn Shakes every leaf of the grove, Mars the benignant repose Of this amiable home of the dead.
Bitter spirits, ye claim Heine? Alas, he is yours! Only a moment I longed Here in the quiet to snatch From such mates the outworn Poet, and steep him in calm. Only a moment! I knew Whose he was who is here Buried: I knew he was yours! Ah! I knew that I saw ​Here no sepulchre built In the laurelled rock, o'er the blue Naples bay, for a sweet Tender Virgil; no tomb On Ravenna sands, in the shade Of Ravenna pines, for a high Austere Dante; no grave By the Avon side, in the bright Stratford meadows, for thee, Shakspeare, loveliest of souls, Peerless in radiance, in joy!
What, then, so harsh and malign, Heine! distils from thy life? Poisons the peace of thy grave?
I chide with thee not, that thy sharp Upbraidings often assailed England, my country; for we, Heavy and sad, for her sons, Long since, deep in our hearts, Echo the blame of her foes. We too sigh that she flags; We too say that she now— Scarce comprehending the voice Of her greatest, golden-mouthed sons Of a former age any more— Stupidly travels her round Of mechanic business, and lets Slow die out of her life Glory, and genius, and joy.
So thou arraign'st her, her foe; So we arraign her, her sons.
​Yes, we arraign her! but she, The weary Titan, with deaf Ears, and labor-dimmed eyes, Regarding neither to right Nor left, goes passively by, Staggering on to her goal; Bearing on shoulders immense, Atlanteän, the load, Well-nigh not to be borne, Of the too vast orb of her fate.
But was it thou—I think Surely it was!—that bard Unnamed, who, Goethe said, Had every other gift, but wanted love— Love, without which the tongue Even of angels sounds amiss?
Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine. Love is the fountain of charm. How without charm wilt thou draw, Poet! the world to thy way? Not by the lightnings of wit, Not by the thunder of scorn. These to the world too are given; Wit it possesses, and scorn: Charm is the poet's alone. Hollow and dull are the great, And artists envious, and the mob profane. We know all this, we know! Cam'st thou from heaven, O child Of light! but this to declare? Alas! to help us forget ​Such barren knowledge a while, God gave the poet his song.
Therefore a secret unrest Tortured thee, brilliant and bold; Therefore triumph itself Tasted amiss to thy soul. Therefore, with blood of thy foes, Trickled in silence thine own. Therefore the victor's heart Broke on the field of his fame.
Ah! as of old, from the pomp Of Italian Milan, the fair Flower of marble of white Southern palaces,—steps Bordered by statues, and walks Terraced, and orange bowers Heavy with fragrance,—the blond German Kaiser full oft Longed himself back to the fields, Rivers, and high-roofed towns Of his native Germany; so, So, how often! from hot Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps Blazing, and brilliant crowds, Starred and jewelled, of men Famous, of women the queens Of dazzling converse; from fumes Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain That mount, that madden,—how oft Heine's spirit outworn Longed itself out of the din, Back to the tranquil, the cool Far German home of his youth!
​See! in the May afternoon, O'er the fresh short turf of the Hartz, A youth, with the foot of youth, Heine! thou climbest again: Up through the tall dark firs Warming their heads in the sun, Checkering the grass with their shade; Up by the stream, with its huge Moss-hung bowlders, and thin Musical water half-hid; Up o'er the rock-strewn slope, With the sinking sun, and the air Chill, and the shadows now Long on the gray hillside,— To the stone-roofed hut at the top!
Or, yet later, in watch On the roof of the Brocken-tower Thou standest, gazing!—to see The broad red sun over field, Forest, and city, and spire, And mist-tracked steam of the wide, Wide German land, going down In a bank of vapors,—again Standest, at nightfall, alone!
Or, next morning, with limbs Rested by slumber, and heart Freshened and light with the May, O'er the gracious spurs coming down Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks And beechen coverts, and copse Of hazels green, in whose depth Ilse, the fairy transformed, In a thousand water-breaks light ​Pours her petulant youth; Climbing the rock which juts O'er the valley,—the dizzily perched Rock,—to its iron cross Once more thou cling'st; to the cross Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh!
Goethe too had been there. In the long-past winter he came To the frozen Hartz, with his soul Passionate, eager; his youth All in ferment. But he, Destined to work and to live, Left it, and thou, alas! Only to laugh and to die.
But something prompts me: Not thus Take leave of Heine! not thus Speak the last word at his grave! Not in pity, and not With half censure: with awe Hail, as it passes from earth Scattering lightnings, that soul!
The Spirit of the world, Beholding the absurdity of men,— Their vaunts, their feats,—let a sardonic smile, For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. That smile was Heine! For its earthly hour The strange guest sparkled; now 'tis passed away.
That was Heine! and we, Myriads who live, who have lived, What are we all, but a mood, A single mood, of the life ​Of the Spirit in whom we exist, Who alone is all things in one?
Spirit, who fillest us all! Spirit, who utterest in each New-coming son of mankind Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt! O thou, one of whose moods, Bitter and strange, was the life Of Heine,—his strange, alas! His bitter life,—may a life Other and milder be mine! May'st thou a mood more serene, Happier, have uttered in mine! May'st thou the rapture of peace Deep have imbreathed at its core; Made it a ray of thy thought, Made it a beat of thy joy!