Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold

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by Matthew Arnold


  ‘Tis that the lot they have 150

  Fails their own will to please;

  For man would make no murmuring, were his will obey’d.

  And why is it, that still

  Man with his lot thus fights? —

  ‘Tis that he makes this will 155

  The measure of his rights,

  And believes Nature outraged if his will’s gainsaid.

  Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn

  How deep a fault is this!

  Couldst thou but once discern 160

  Thou hast no right to bliss,

  No title from the Gods to welfare and repose;

  Then thou wouldst look less mazed

  Whene’er from bliss debarr’d,

  Nor think the Gods were crazed 165

  When thy own lot went hard.

  But we are all the same — the fools of our own woes!

  For, from the first faint morn

  Of life, the thirst for bliss

  Deep in man’s heart is born; 170

  And, sceptic as he is,

  He fails not to judge clear if this be quench’d or no.

  Nor is that thirst to blame!

  Man errs not that he deems

  His welfare his true aim, 175

  He errs because he dreams

  The world does but exist that welfare to bestow.

  We mortals are no kings

  For each of whom to sway

  A new-made world up-springs 180

  Meant merely for his play;

  No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old.

  In vain our pent wills fret,

  And would the world subdue.

  Limits we did not set 185

  Condition all we do;

  Born into life we are, and life must be our mould.

  Born into life — man grows

  Forth from his parents’ stem,

  And blends their bloods, as those 190

  Of theirs are blent in them;

  So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time.

  Born into life — we bring

  A bias with us hero,

  And, when here, each new thing 195

  Affects us we come near;

  To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime.

  Born into life — in vain,

  Opinions, those or these,

  Unalter’d to retain 200

  The obstinate mind decrees;

  Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in.

  Born into life — who lists

  May what is false hold dear,

  And for himself make mists 205

  Through which to see less clear;

  The world is what it is, for all our dust and din.

  Born into life— ‘tis we,

  And not the world, are new.

  Our cry for bliss, our plea, 210

  Others have urged it too;

  Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before.

  No eye could be too sound

  To observe a world so vast,

  No patience too profound 215

  To sort what’s here amass’d;

  How man may here best live no care too great to explore.

  But we — as some rude guest

  Would change, where’er he roam,

  The manners there profess’d 220

  To those he brings from home —

  We mark not the world’s course, but would have it take ours.

  The world’s course proves the terms

  On which man wins content;

  Reason the proof confirms; 225

  We spurn it, and invent

  A false course for the world, and for ourselves, false powers.

  Riches we wish to get,

  Yet remain spendthrifts still;

  We would have health, and yet 230

  Still use our bodies ill;

  Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life’s last scenes.

  We would have inward peace,

  Yet will not look within;

  We would have misery cease, 235

  Yet will not cease from sin;

  We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means;

  We do not what we ought,

  What we ought not, we do,

  And lean upon the thought 240

  That chance will bring us through;

  But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers.

  Yet, even when man forsakes

  All sin, — is just, is pure,

  Abandons all which makes 245

  His welfare insecure —

  Other existences there are, that clash with ours.

  Like us, the lightning fires

  Love to have scope and play;

  The stream, like us, desires 250

  An unimpeded way;

  Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large.

  Streams will not curb their pride

  The just man not to entomb,

  Nor lightnings go aside 255

  To leave his virtues room;

  Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man’s barge.

  Nature, with equal mind,

  Sees all her sons at play;

  Sees man control the wind, 260

  The wind sweep man away;

  Allows the proudly-riding and the founder’d bark.

  And, lastly, though of ours

  No weakness spoil our lot,

  Though the non-human powers 265

  Of Nature harm us not,

  The ill-deeds of other men make often our life dark.

  What were the wise man’s plan? —

  Through this sharp, toil-set life,

  To fight as best he can, 270

  And win what’s won by strife.

  But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found.

  Scratch’d by a fall, with moans

  As children of weak age

  Lend life to the dumb stones 275

  Whereon to vent their rage,

  And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground;

  So, loath to suffer mute,

  We, peopling the void air,

  Make Gods to whom to impute 280

  The ills we ought to bear;

  With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily.

  Yet grant — as sense long miss’d

  Things that are now perceiv’d,

  And much may still exist 285

  Which is not yet believ’d —

  Grant that the world were full of Gods we cannot see;

  All things the world which fill

  Of but one stuff are spun,

  That we who rail are still, 290

  With what we rail at, one;

  One with the o’er-labour’d Power that through the breadth and length

  Of earth, and air, and sea,

  In men, and plants, and stones,

  Hath toil perpetually, 295

  And struggles, pants, and moans;

  Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength.

  And patiently exact

  This universal God

  Alike to any act 300

  Proceeds at any nod,

  And quietly declaims the cursings of himself.

  This is not what man hates,

  Yet he can curse but this.

  Harsh Gods and hostile Fates 305

  Are dreams! this only is;

  Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf.

  Nor only, in the intent

  To attach blame elsewhere,

  Do we at will invent 310

  Stern Powers who make their care

  To embitter human life, malignant Deities;

  But, next, we would reverse

  The scheme ourselves have spun,

  And what we made to curse 315

  We now would lean upon,

  And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries.

  Look, the world tempts our eye,

 
And we would know it all!

  We map the starry sky, 320

  We mine this earthen ball,

  We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands;

  We scrutinize the dates

  Of long-past human things,

  The bounds of effac’d states, 325

  The lines of deceas’d kings;

  We search out dead men’s words, and works of dead men’s hands;

  We shut our eyes, and muse

  How our own minds are made,

  What springs of thought they use, 330

  How righten’d, how betray’d;

  And spend our wit to name what most employ unnam’d;

  But still, as we proceed,

  The mass swells more and more

  Of volumes yet to read, 335

  Of secrets yet to explore.

  Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm’d, our heat is tamed.

  We rest our faculties,

  And thus address the Gods:

  ‘True science if there is, 340

  It stays in your abodes;

  Man’s measures cannot mete the immeasurable All;

  ‘You only can take in

  The world’s immense design,

  Our desperate search was sin, 345

  Which henceforth we resign,

  Sure only that your mind sees all things which befall!’

  Fools! that in man’s brief term

  He cannot all things view,

  Affords no ground to affirm 350

  That there are Gods who do!

  Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest!

  Again: our youthful blood

  Claims rapture as its right;

  The world, a rolling flood 355

  Of newness and delight,

  Draws in the enamour’d gazer to its shining breast;

  Pleasure to our hot grasp

  Gives flowers after flowers,

  With passionate warmth we clasp 360

  Hand after hand in ours;

  Nor do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent.

  At once our eyes grow clear;

  We see in blank dismay

  Year posting after year, 365

  Sense after sense decay;

  Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent;

  Yet still, in spite of truth,

  In spite of hopes entomb’d,

  That longing of our youth 370

  Burns ever unconsum’d,

  Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare.

  We pause; we hush our heart,

  And then address the Gods:

  ‘The world hath fail’d to impart 375

  The joy our youth forbodes,

  Fail’d to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.

  ‘Changefull till now, we still

  Look’d on to something new;

  Let us, with changeless will, 380

  Henceforth look on to you,

  To find with you the joy we in vain here require!’

  Fools! that so often here

  Happiness mock’d our prayer,

  I think, might make us fear 385

  A like event elsewhere!

  Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire!

  And yet, for those who know

  Themselves, who wisely take

  Their way through life, and bow 390

  To what they cannot break,

  Why should I say that life need yield but moderate bliss?

  Shall we, with temper spoil’d,

  Health sapp’d by living ill,

  And judgement all embroil’d 395

  By sadness and self-will,

  Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is?

  Is it so small a thing

  To have enjoy’d the sun,

  To have lived light in the spring, 400

  To have loved, to have thought, to have done;

  To have advanc’d true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

  That we must feign a bliss

  Of doubtful future date,

  And, while we dream on this, 405

  Lose all our present state,

  And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

  Not much, I know, you prize

  What pleasures may be had,

  Who look on life with eyes 410

  Estrang’d, like mine, and sad;

  And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you,

  Who’s loath to leave this life

  Which to him little yield;

  His hard-task’d sunburnt wife, 415

  His often-labour’d fields,

  The boors with whom he talk’d, the country spots he knew.

  But thou, because thou hear’st

  Men scoff at Heaven and Fate,

  Because the Gods thou fear’st 420

  Fail to make blest thy state,

  Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.

  I say: Fear not! Life still

  Leaves human effort scope.

  But, since life teems with ill, 425

  Nurse no extravagant hope;

  Because thou must not dream, thou need’st not then despair!

  A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a harp below are again heard, and CALLICLES sings: —

  Far, far from here,

  The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay

  Among the green Illyrian hills; and there 430

  The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,

  And by the sea, and in the brakes.

  The grass is cool, the sea-side air

  Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers

  As virginal and sweet as ours. 435

  And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,

  Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia,

  Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore,

  In breathless quiet, after all their ills.

  Nor do they see their country, nor the place 440

  Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills,

  Nor the unhappy palace of their race,

  Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more.

  There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes.

  They had stay’d long enough to see, 445

  In Thebes, the billow of calamity

  Over their own dear children roll’d,

  Curse upon curse, pang upon pang,

  For years, they sitting helpless in their home,

  A grey old man and woman; yet of old 450

  The Gods had to their marriage come,

  And at the banquet all the Muses sang.

  Therefore they did not end their days

  In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away,

  To where the west wind plays, 455

  And murmurs of the Adriatic come

  To those untrodden mountain lawns; and there

  Placed safely in changed forms, the Pair

  Wholly forget their first sad life, and home,

  And all that Theban woe, and stray 460

  For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.

  EMPEDOCLES

  That was my harp-player again! — where is he?

  Down by the stream?

  PAUSANIAS

  Yes, Master, in the wood.

  EMPEDOCLES

  He ever loved the Theban story well!

  But the day wears. Go now, Pausanias, 465

  For I must be alone. Leave me one mule;

  Take down with thee the rest to Catana.

  And for young Callicles, thank him from me;

  Tell him I never fail’d to love his lyre:

  But he must follow me no more to-night. 470

  PAUSANIAS

  Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city?

  EMPEDOCLES

  Either to-morrow or some other day,

  In the sure revolutions of the world,

  Good friend, I shall revisit Catana.

  I have seen many cities in my time 475


  Till my eyes ache with the long spectacle,

  And I shall doubtless see them all again;

  Thou know’st me for a wanderer from of old.

  Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias!

  He departs on his way up the mountain.

  PAUSANIAS (alone)

  I dare not urge him further; he must go. 480

  But he is strangely wrought! — I will speed back

  And bring Peisianax to him from the city;

  His counsel could once soothe him. But, Apollo!

  How his brow lighten’d as the music rose!

  Callicles must wait here, and play to him; 485

  I saw him through the chestnuts far below,

  Just since, down at the stream. — Ho! Callicles!

  He descends, calling.

  Act II

  Evening. The Summit of Etna

  EMPEDOCLES

  Alone! —

  On this charr’d, blacken’d, melancholy waste,

  Crown’d by the awful peak, Etna’s great mouth,

  Round which the sullen vapour rolls — alone!

  Pausanias is far hence, and that is well, 5

  For I must henceforth speak no more with man.

  He has his lesson too, and that debt’s paid;

  And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man,

  May bravelier front his life, and in himself

  Find henceforth energy and heart; but I, 10

  The weary man, the banish’d citizen —

  Whose banishment is not his greatest ill,

  Whose weariness no energy can reach,

  And for whose hurt courage is not the cure —

  What should I do with life and living more? 15

  No, thou art come too late, Empedocles!

  And the world hath the day, and must break thee,

  Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live,

  Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine;

  And being lonely thou art miserable, 20

  For something has impair’d thy spirit’s strength,

  And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy.

 

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