Rising or setting, would he stand alone
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him.-And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals
And long halloos, and screams and echoes loud,
Redoubled and redoubled: concourse wild
Of jocund din! And when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind,
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

Another fine description of the owl occurs in a late poem (1834), "The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill". The mountains enclosing Grasmere are very favourable to the reverberation of sound, and this is the point which the poet elaborates.

Sound is there none at which the faintest heart
Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start;
Save when the owlet's unexpected scream

Pierces the ethereal vault; and the imaginative bird

Seems 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard.

Grave creature!—whether, while the moon shines bright On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight,

Thou art uncovered in a roofless tower,

Rising from what may once have been a lady's bower;

Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy mew

At the dim centre of a churchyard yew;

Or, from a rifted crag or ivy-tod

Deep in a forest, thy secure abode,

Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout,
A puzzling notice of thy whereabout.-

May the night never come, nor day be seen,

When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien !

This is less poetical, but it gathers up very successfully the different amenities of owl life, and seems to be a versified account of the bird's natural history, such as might be found in a scientific book.

CHAPTER VII

MATTHEW ARNOLD AS NATURALIST

THOUGH a genuine lover of Nature, and educated during the period of the scientific awakening of the nineteenth century, M. Arnold did not infuse much of the scientific spirit into his verse. Yet there is ample material in his poetry for a short exposition from this standpoint, and we render him such a tribute all the more heartily that as a poet he has not received the meed of popularity and appreciation that were his due. He is a great poet, a greater master of his art than many give him credit for, and his poetry well rewards most careful study, only it does not appeal to a large class of readers, being somewhat too classical in form and in allusion for the man in the street; to the cultured reader, however, it is a source of perpetual and unfailing delight. Arnold had the misfortune to be eclipsed by both Tennyson and Browning, and the lack of support which he suffered,

and of which he was too conscious, served to dry

up his poetic springs. It is safe to say that if he had come a generation later he would have touched a wider circle of readers, and reached a deeper appreciation.

In early life he was much in the country, and although as an inspector of schools he was a strenuous advocate of the Humanities, and insisted on the supreme importance of literature as an educational force, in opposition to the aridities of mere science teaching, yet he was by no means out of touch with scientific truth, and went to Nature for several of his most impressive and characteristic lessons. Even in Kensington Gardens, within hearing of the roar of London traffic, he could say :

Here at my feet what wonders pass-
What endless active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass-
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear!

In the huge world, which roars hard by,
Be others happy if they can ;

But in my helpless cradle I

Was breathed on by the rural Pan.

This is sufficiently explicit, but even without such definite avowal, one could guess as much from the

poet's frequent references to Nature's activities. One thought is constar ely recurring, namely, that man should copy Nature's steady, silent, serious work, so different from the feverous excitability and fussiness and turmoil of human ways.

One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee—
One lesson which in every wind is blown,
Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity.

We should strive

To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool, for Nature is mild and inscrutably calm.

Calm soul of all things! make it mine

To feel amid the city's jar

That there abides a peace of thine

Man did not make and cannot mar.

Apart from these declarations, we have only to read the following description of vanishing winter (in Balder Dead) to see what a close observer M. Arnold is of external phenomena, and how well he can choose the proper words to express them.

And as in winter, when the frost breaks up—
At winter's end, before the spring begins

And a warm west wind blows, and thaw sets in-
After an hour a dripping sound is heard

In all the forests, and the soft strewn snow
Under the trees is dibbled thick with holes,

And from the boughs the snow loads shuffle down,