THE epoch ends, the world is still,
The age has talk'd and work'd its fill --
The famous orators have shone,
The famous poets sung and gone,
The famous men of war have fought,
The famous speculators thought,
The famous players, sculptors, wrought,
The famous painters fill'd their wall,
The famous critics judged it all.
The combatants are parted now --
Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,
The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.
And in the after silence sweet,
Now strifes are hush'd, our ear doth meet,
Ascending pure, the bell-like fame
Of this or that down-trodden name,
Delicate spirits, push'd away
In the hot press of the noon-day.
And o'er the plain, where the dead age
Did its now silent warfare wage --
O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,
Where many a splendor finds its tomb,
Many spent fames and fallen mights --
The one or two immortal lights
Rise slowly up into the sky
To shine there everlastingly,
Like stars over the bounding hill.
The epoch ends, the world is still.

MATTHEW ARNOLD: Bacchanalia; or the New Age.

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