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.