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.