Joy hath not found her yet, nor ever will,
Is it this thought that makes her mien so still?
Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,
So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet
Her children’s? She moves slow; her voice alone
Hath yet an infantine and silvery tone,
But even that comes languidly; in truth,
She seems one dying in the mask of youth.
Mr. Arnold does not attain to the first rank of either men or poets, but there is a charm about him and his poetry. Too bad it is that he has not the joy and nerve that come of Christian faith “which worketh by love.” He would diffuse sweetness and light indeed. But is his poetry, as poetry, the worse for his lack of faith? Its plaintive utterance of the sadness of a soul whose wants are proudly shut from their true satisfaction, will long be read by those who strive to still the heart with supplies from the intellect and to make genius serve for Living Bread. No English poet has made the soul-hunger so attractive, or given airy negatives in forms and colors so fascinating.
