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Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

Page 2

by Matthew Arnold


  Thy voice is sweet.

  It may be thou hast follow’d

  Through the islands some divine bard,

  By age taught many things,

  Age and the Muses; 120

  And heard him delighting

  The chiefs and people

  In the banquet, and learn’d his songs,

  Of Gods and Heroes,

  Of war and arts, 125

  And peopled cities

  Inland, or built

  By the grey sea. — If so, then hail!

  I honour and welcome thee.

  THE YOUTH

  The Gods are happy. 130

  They turn on all sides

  Their shining eyes:

  And see, below them,

  The Earth, and men.

  They see Tiresias 135

  Sitting, staff in hand,

  On the warm, grassy

  Asopus’ bank:

  His robe drawn over

  His old, sightless head: 140

  Revolving inly

  The doom of Thebes.

  They see the Centaurs

  In the upper glens

  Of Pelion, in the streams, 145

  Where red-berried ashes fringe

  The clear-brown shallow pools;

  With streaming flanks, and heads

  Rear’d proudly, snuffing

  The mountain wind. 150

  They see the Indian

  Drifting, knife in hand,

  His frail boat moor’d to

  A floating isle thick matted

  With large-leav’d, low-creeping melon-plants, 155

  And the dark cucumber.

  He reaps, and stows them,

  Drifting — drifting: — round him,

  Round his green harvest-plot,

  Flow the cool lake-waves: 160

  The mountains ring them.

  They see the Scythian

  On the wide Stepp, unharnessing

  His wheel’d house at noon.

  He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal, 165

  Mares’ milk, and bread

  Bak’d on the embers: — all around

  The boundless waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr’d

  With saffron and the yellow hollyhock

  And flag-leav’d iris flowers. 170

  Sitting in his cart

  He makes his meal: before him, for long miles,

  Alive with bright green lizards,

  And the springing bustard fowl,

  The track, a straight black line, 175

  Furrows the rich soil: here and there

  Clusters of lonely mounds

  Topp’d with rough-hewn,

  Grey, rain-blear’d statues, overpeer

  The sunny Waste. 180

  They see the Ferry

  On the broad, clay-laden

  Lone Chorasmian stream: thereon

  With snort and strain,

  Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 185

  The ferry-boat, with woven ropes

  To either bow

  Firm-harness’d by the mane: — a Chief,

  With shout and shaken spear

  Stands at the prow, and guides them: but astern, 190

  The cowering Merchants, in long robes,

  Sit pale beside their wealth

  Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,

  Of gold and ivory,

  Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 195

  Jasper and chalcedony,

  And milk-barr’d onyx stones.

  The loaded boat swings groaning

  In the yellow eddies.

  The Gods behold them. 200

  They see the Heroes

  Sitting in the dark ship

  On the foamless, long-heaving,

  Violet sea:

  At sunset nearing 205

  The Happy Islands.

  These things, Ulysses,

  The wise Bards also

  Behold and sing.

  But oh, what labour! 210

  O Prince, what pain!

  They too can see

  Tiresias: — but the Gods,

  Who give them vision,

  Added this law: 215

  That they should bear too

  His groping blindness,

  His dark foreboding,

  His scorn’d white hairs;

  Bear Hera’s anger 220

  Through a life lengthen’d

  To seven ages.

  They see the Centaurs

  On Pelion: — then they feel,

  They too, the maddening wine 225

  Swell their large veins to bursting: in wild pain

  They feel the biting spears

  Of the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive,

  Drive crashing through their bones: they feel

  High on a jutting rock in the red stream 230

  Alcmena’s dreadful son

  Ply his bow: — such a price

  The Gods exact for song;

  To become what we sing.

  They see the Indian 235

  On his mountain lake: — but squalls

  Make their skiff reel, and worms

  In the unkind spring have gnaw’d

  Their melon-harvest to the heart: They see

  The Scythian: — but long frosts 240

  Parch them in winter-time on the bare Stepp,

  Till they too fade like grass: they crawl

  Like shadows forth in spring.

  They see the Merchants

  On the Oxus’ stream: — but care 245

  Must visit first them too, and make them pale.

  Whether, through whirling sand,

  A cloud of desert robber-horse has burst

  Upon their caravan: or greedy kings,

  In the wall’d cities the way passes through, 250

  Crush’d them with tolls: or fever-airs,

  On some great river’s marge,

  Mown them down, far from home.

  They see the Heroes

  Near harbour: — but they share 255

  Their lives, and former violent toil, in Thebes,

  Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy:

  Or where the echoing oars

  Of Argo, first,

  Startled the unknown Sea. 260

  The old Silenus

  Came, lolling in the sunshine,

  From the dewy forest coverts,

  This way, at noon.

  Sitting by me, while his Fauns 265

  Down at the water side

  Sprinkled and smooth’d

  His drooping garland,

  He told me these things.

  But I, Ulysses, 270

  Sitting on the warm steps,

  Looking over the valley,

  All day long, have seen,

  Without pain, without labour,

  Sometimes a wild-hair’d Maenad; 275

  Sometimes a Faun with torches;

  And sometimes, for a moment,

  Passing through the dark stems

  Flowing-rob’d — the belov’d,

  The desir’d, the divine, 280

  Belov’d Iacchus.

  Ah cool night-wind, tremulous stars!

  Ah glimmering water —

  Fitful earth-murmur —

  Dreaming woods! 285

  Ah golden-hair’d, strangely-smiling Goddess,

  And thou, prov’d, much enduring,

  Wave-toss’d Wanderer!

  Who can stand still?

  Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me. 290

  The cup again!

  Faster, faster,

  O Circe, Goddess,

  Let the wild thronging train,

  The bright procession 295

  Of eddying forms,

  Sweep through my soul!

  Fragment of an ‘Antigone’

  THE CHORUS

  WELL hath he done who hath seiz’d happiness.

  For little do the all-containing Hours,

  Though opulent, freely give.

  Who, weighing that
life well

  Fortune presents unpray’d, 5

  Declines her ministry, and carves his own:

  And, justice not infring’d,

  Makes his own welfare his unswerv’d-from law.

  He does well too, who keeps that clue the mild

  Birth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave. 10

  For from the day when these

  Bring him, a weeping child,

  First to the light, and mark

  A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home,

  Unguided he remains, 15

  Till the Fates come again, alone, with death.

  In little companies,

  And, our own place once left,

  Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid,

  By city and household group’d, we live: and many shocks 20

  Our order heaven-ordain’d

  Must every day endure.

  Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars.

  Besides what waste He makes,

  The all-hated, order-breaking, 25

  Without friend, city, or home,

  Death, who dissevers all.

  Him then I praise, who dares

  To self-selected good

  Prefer obedience to the primal law, 30

  Which consecrates the ties of blood: for these, indeed,

  Are to the Gods a care:

  That touches but himself.

  For every day man may be link’d and loos’d

  With strangers: but the bond 35

  Original, deep-inwound,

  Of blood, can he not bind:

  Nor, if Fate binds, not bear.

  But hush! Haemon, whom Antigone,

  Robbing herself of life in burying, 40

  Against Creon’s law, Polynices,

  Robs of a lov’d bride; pale, imploring,

  Waiting her passage,

  Forth from the palace hitherward comes.

  HAEMON

  No, no, old men, Creon I curse not. 45

  I weep, Thebans,

  One than Creon crueller far.

  For he, he, at least, by slaying her,

  August laws doth mightily vindicate:

  But thou, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless, 50

  Ah me! — honourest more than thy lover,

  O Antigone,

  A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse.

  THE CHORUS

  Nor was the love untrue

  Which the Dawn-Goddess bore 55

  To that fair youth she erst

  Leaving the salt sea-beds

  And coming flush’d over the stormy frith

  Of loud Euripus, saw:

  Saw and snatch’d, wild with love, 60

  From the pine-dotted spurs

  Of Parnes, where thy waves,

  Asopus, gleam rock-hemm’d;

  The Hunter of the Tanagraean Field.

  But him, in his sweet prime, 65

  By severance immature,

  By Artemis’ soft shafts,

  She, though a Goddess born,

  Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.

  Such end o’ertook that love. 70

  For she desir’d to make

  Immortal mortal man,

  And blend his happy life,

  Far from the Gods, with hers:

  To him postponing an eternal law. 75

  HAEMON

  But, like me, she, wroth, complaining,

  Succumb’d to the envy of unkind Gods:

  And, her beautiful arms unclasping,

  Her fair Youth unwillingly gave.

  THE CHORUS

  Nor, though enthron’d too high 80

  To fear assault of envious Gods,

  His belov’d Argive Seer would Zeus retain

  From his appointed end

  In this our Thebes: but when

  His flying steeds came near 85

  To cross the steep Ismenian glen,

  The broad Earth open’d and whelm’d them and him;

  And through the void air sang

  At large his enemy’s spear.

  And fain would Zeus have sav’d his tired son 90

  Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand

  O’er the sun-redden’d Western Straits:

  Or at his work in that dim lower world.

  Fain would he have recall’d

  The fraudulent oath which bound 95

  To a much feebler wight the heroic man:

  But he preferr’d Fate to his strong desire.

  Nor did there need less than the burning pile

  Under the towering Trachis crags,

  And the Spercheius’ vale, shaken with groans, 100

  And the rous’d Maliac gulph,

  And scar’d Oetaean snows,

  To achieve his son’s deliverance, O my child.

  The Sick King in Bokhara

  HUSSEIN

  O MOST just Vizier, send away

  The cloth-merchants, and let them be,

  Them and their dues, this day: the King

  Is ill at ease, and calls for thee.

  THE VIZIER

  O merchants, tarry yet a day 5

  Here in Bokhara: but at noon

  To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay

  Each fortieth web of cloth to me,

  As the law is, and go your way.

  O Hussein, lead me to the King. 10

  Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,

  Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead.

  How is it with my lord?

  HUSSEIN

  Alone,

  Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, 15

  O Vizier, without lying down,

  In the great window of the gate,

  Looking into the Registàn;

  Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves

  Are this way bringing the dead man. 20

  O Vizier, here is the King’s door.

  THE KING

  O Vizier, I may bury him?

  THE VIZIER

  O King, thou know’st, I have been sick

  These many days, and heard no thing

  (For Allah shut my ears and mind), 25

  Not even what thou dost, O King.

  Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,

  Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste

  To speak in order what hath chanc’d.

  THE KING

  O Vizier, be it as thou say’st. 30

  HUSSEIN

  Three days since, at the time of prayer,

  A certain Moollah, with his robe

  All rent, and dust upon his hair,

  Watch’d my lord’s coming forth, and push’d

  The golden mace-bearers aside, 35

  And fell at the King’s feet, and cried;

  ‘Justice, O King, and on myself!

  On this great sinner, who hath broke

  The law, and by the law must die!

  Vengeance, O King!’

  But the King spoke: 40

  ‘What fool is this, that hurts our ears

  With folly? or what drunken slave?

  My guards, what, prick him with your spears!

  Prick me the fellow from the path!’

  As the King said, so was it done, 45

  And to the mosque my lord pass’d on.

  But on the morrow, when the King

  Went forth again, the holy book

  Carried before him, as is right,

  And through the square his path he took; 50

  My man comes running, fleck’d with blood

  From yesterday, and falling down

  Cries out most earnestly; ‘O King,

  My lord, O King, do right, I pray!

  ‘How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern 55

  If I speak folly? but a king,

  Whether a thing be great or small,

  Like Allah, hears and judges all.

  ‘Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierce

  In these last days the sun hath burn’d: 60

  That the green wa
ter in the tanks

  Is to a putrid puddle turn’d:

  And the canal, that from the stream

  Of Samarcand is brought this way,

  Wastes, and runs thinner every day. 65

  ‘Now I at nightfall had gone forth

  Alone, and in a darksome place

  Under some mulberry trees I found

  A little pool; and in brief space

  With all the water that was there 70

  I fill’d my pitcher, and stole home

  Unseen: and having drink to spare,

  I hid the can behind the door,

  And went up on the roof to sleep.

  ‘But in the night, which was with wind 75

  And burning dust, again I creep

  Down, having fever, for a drink.

  ‘Now meanwhile had my brethren found

  The water-pitcher, where it stood

  Behind the door upon the ground, 80

  And call’d my mother: and they all,

  As they were thirsty, and the night

  Most sultry, drain’d the pitcher there;

  That they sate with it, in my sight,

  Their lips still wet, when I came down. 85

  ‘Now mark! I, being fever’d, sick,

  (Most unblest also) at that sight

  Brake forth, and curs’d them — dost thou hear?

  One was my mother — Now, do right!’

  But my lord mus’d a space, and said: 90

  ‘Send him away, Sirs, and make on.

  It is some madman,’ the King said:

  As the King said, so was it done.

  The morrow at the self-same hour

  In the King’s path, behold, the man, 95

  Not kneeling, sternly fix’d: he stood

  Right opposite, and thus began,

  Frowning grim down:— ‘Thou wicked King,

  Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!

  What, must I howl in the next world, 100

  Because thou wilt not listen here?

  ‘What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,

  And all grace shall to me be grudg’d?

  Nay but, I swear, from this thy path

  I will not stir till I be judg’d.’ 105

  Then they who stood about the King

  Drew close together and conferr’d:

  Till that the King stood forth and said,

  ‘Before the priests thou shalt be heard.’

  But when the Ulemas were met 110

  And the thing heard, they doubted not;

 

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