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Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse

Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
  With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
  Past the dark forges long disused,
  The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
  The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,
  Through forest, up the mountain-side.

  The autumnal evening darkens round,
  The wind is up, and drives the rain;
  While, hark! far down, with strangled sound
  Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain,
  Where that wet smoke, among the woods,
  Over his boiling cauldron broods.

  Swift rush the spectral vapours white
  Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
  Showing--then blotting from our sight!--
  Halt--through the cloud-drift something shines!
  High in the valley, wet and drear,
  The huts of Courrerie appear.

  Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher
  Mounts up the stony forest-way.
  At last the encircling trees retire;
  Look! through the showery twilight grey
  What pointed roofs are these advance?--
  A palace of the Kings of France?

  Approach, for what we seek is here!
  Alight, and sparely sup, and wait
  For rest in this outbuilding near;
  Then cross the sward and reach that gate.
  Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come
  To the Carthusians' world-famed home.

  The silent courts, where night and day
  Into their stone-carved basins cold
  The splashing icy fountains play--
  The humid corridors behold!
  Where, ghostlike in the deepening night,
  Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white.

  The chapel, where no organ's peal
  Invests the stern and naked prayer--
  With penitential cries they kneel
  And wrestle; rising then, with bare
  And white uplifted faces stand,
  Passing the Host from hand to hand;

  Each takes, and then his visage wan
  Is buried in his cowl once more.
  The cells!--the suffering Son of Man
  Upon the wall--the knee-worn floor--
  And where they sleep, that wooden bed,
  Which shall their coffin be, when dead!

  The library, where tract and tome
  Not to feed priestly pride are there,
  To hymn the conquering march of Rome,
  Nor yet to amuse, as ours are!
  They paint of souls the inner strife,
  Their drops of blood, their death in life.

  The garden, overgrown--yet mild,
  See, fragrant herbs are flowering there!
  Strong children of the Alpine wild
  Whose culture is the brethren's care;
  Of human tasks their only one,
  And cheerful works beneath the sun.

  Those halls, too, destined to contain
  Each its own pilgrim-host of old,
  From England, Germany, or Spain--
  All are before me! I behold
  The House, the Brotherhood austere!
  --And what am I, that I am here?

  For rigorous teachers seized my youth,
  And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire,
  Show'd me the high, white star of Truth,
  There bade me gaze, and there aspire.

  Even now their whispers pierce the gloom:
  What dost thou in this living tomb?

  Forgive me, masters of the mind!
  At whose behest I long ago
  So much unlearnt, so much resign'd--
  I come not here to be your foe!
  I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,
  To curse and to deny your truth;

  Not as their friend, or child, I speak!
  But as, on some far northern strand,
  Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek
  In pity and mournful awe might stand
  Before some fallen Runic stone--
  For both were faiths, and both are gone.

  Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
  The other powerless to be born,
  With nowhere yet to rest my head,
  Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
  Their faith, my tears, the world deride--
  I come to shed them at their side.

  Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,
  Ye solemn seats of holy pain!
  Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round,
  Till I possess my soul again;
Till free my thoughts before me roll,
Not chafed by hourly false control!

For the world cries your faith is now
But a dead time's exploded dream;
My melancholy, sciolists say,
Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme--
As if the world had ever had
A faith, or sciolists been sad!

Ah, if it be pass'd, take away,
At least, the restlessness, the pain;
Be man henceforth no more a prey
To these out-dated stings again!
The nobleness of grief is gone
Ah, leave us not the fret alone!

But--if you cannot give us ease--
Last of the race of them who grieve
Here leave us to die out
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

3:36 min read
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Matthew Arnold

Matthew Arnold was a British poet and cultural critic who worked as an inspector of schools. more…

All Matthew Arnold poems | Matthew Arnold Books

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    "Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 4 Aug. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/27284/stanzas-from-the-grande-chartreuse>.

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