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Matthew Arnold (1822–88).  The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840–1867.  1909.
 
Empedocles on Etna, and Other Poems
Empedocles on Etna. Act I. Scene II
 
Noon.    A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of Etna

EMPEDOCLES.    PAUSANIAS

PAUSANIAS
The noon is hot; when we have cross’d the stream
We shall have left the woody tract, and come
Upon the open shoulder of the hill.
See how the giant spires of yellow bloom
Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat,        5
Are shining on those naked slopes like flame!
Let us rest here; and now, Empedocles,
Pantheia’s history.    [A harp-note below is heard.
 
EMPEDOCLES
  Hark! what sound was that
Rose from below? If it were possible,        10
And we were not so far from human haunt,
I should have said that some one touch’d a harp.
Hark! there again!

PAUSANIAS
                ’Tis the boy Callicles,
The sweetest harp-player in Catana,
He is for ever coming on these hills,        15
In summer, to all country festivals,
With a gay revelling band; he breaks from them
Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens.
But heed him not, he will not mount to us;
I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore,        20
Instruct me of Pantheia’s story, Master,
As I have pray’d thee.

EMPEDOCLES
                    That? and to what end?
 
PAUSANIAS
It is enough that all men speak of it.
But I will also say, that when the Gods
Visit us as they do with sign and plague,        25
To know those spells of time that stay their hand
Were to live free 1 from terror.

EMPEDOCLES
                    Spells? Mistrust them.
Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven.
Man has a mind with which to plan his safety;
Know that, and help thyself.

PAUSANIAS
                    But thy own words?
        30
‘The wit and counsel of man was never clear,
Troubles confuse the little wit he has.’
Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with,
To lead those false who trust it.    [The harp sounds again

EMPEDOCLES
                    Hist! once more!
Listen, Pausanias!—Aye, ’tis Callicles!        35
I know those notes among a thousand. Hark!
 
CALLICLES
[Sings unseen, from below.
The track winds down to the clear stream, 2
To cross the sparkling shallows; there
The cattle love to gather, on their way
To the high mountain pastures, and to stay,        40
Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,
Knee-deep in the cool ford; for ’tis the last
Of all the woody, high, well-water’d dells
On Etna; and the beam
Of noon is broken there by chestnut boughs        45
Down its steep verdant sides; the air
Is freshen’d by the leaping stream, which throws
Eternal showers of spray on the moss’d roots
Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots
Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells        50
Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies,
That muffle its wet banks; but glade,
And stream, and sward, and chestnut trees,
End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare
Of the hot noon, without a shade,        55
Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare;
The peak, round which the white clouds play.
      In such a glen, on such a day,
      On Pelion, on the grassy ground,
      Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay,        60
      The young Achilles standing by.
      The Centaur taught him to explore
      The mountains; where the glens are dry,
      And the tired Centaurs come to rest,
      And where the soaking springs abound,        65
      And the straight ashes grow for spears,
      And where the hill-goats come to feed,
      And the sea-eagles build their nest.
      He show’d him Phthia far away,
      And said: O boy, I taught this lore        70
      To Peleus, in long distant years!
      He told him of the Gods, the stars,
      The tides;—and then of mortal wars,
      And of the life which 3 heroes lead
      Before they reach the Elysian place        75
      And rest in the immortal mead;
      And all the wisdom of his race.
[The music below ceases, and EMPEDOCLES speaks, accompanying himself in a solemn manner on his harp.
    The out-spread world 4 to span
    A cord the Gods first slung,
    And then the soul of man        80
    There, like a mirror, hung,
And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy.
 
    Hither and thither spins
    The wind-borne mirroring soul,
    A thousand glimpses wins,        85
    And never sees a whole;
Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ.
 
    The Gods laugh in their sleeve
    To watch man doubt and fear,
    Who knows not what to believe        90
    Since 5 he sees nothing clear,
And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing sure.
 
    Is this, Pausanias, so?
    And can our souls not strive,
    But with the winds must go,        95
    And hurry where they drive?
Is Fate indeed so strong, man’s strength indeed so poor?
 
    I will not judge! that man,
    Howbeit, I judge as lost,
    Whose mind allows a plan        100
    Which would degrade it most;
And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill.
 
    Be not, then, fear’s blind slave!
    Thou art my friend; to thee,
    All knowledge that I have,        105
    All skill I wield, are free;
Ask not the latest news of the last miracle,
 
    Ask not what days and nights
    In trance Pantheia lay,
    But ask how thou such sights        110
    May’st see without dismay;
Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus!
 
    What? hate, and awe, and shame
    Fill thee to see our world; 6
    Thou feelest thy soul’s frame        115
    Shaken and rudely hurl’d. 7
What? life and time go hard with thee too, as with us;
 
    Thy citizens, ’tis said,
    Envy thee and oppress,
    Thy goodness no men aid,        120
    All strive to make it less;
Tyranny, pride, and lust fill Sicily’s abodes;
 
    Heaven is with earth at strife,
    Signs make thy soul afraid,
    The dead return to life,        125
    Rivers are dried, winds stay’d;
Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the Gods;
 
    And we feel, day and night,
    The burden of ourselves—
    Well, then, the wiser wight        130
    In his own bosom delves,
And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can.
 
    The sophist sneers: Fool, take
    Thy pleasure, right or wrong!
    The pious wail: Forsake        135
    A world these sophists throng!
Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man.
 
    These hundred doctors try
    To preach thee to their school.
    We have the truth! they cry,        140
    And yet their oracle,
Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine.
 
    Once read thy own breast right,
    And thou hast done with fears!
    Man gets no other light,        145
    Search he a thousand years.
Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine!
 
    What makes thee struggle and rave?
    Why are men ill at ease?—
    ’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 8 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 9
    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, 10
    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 11
    May what is false hold dear, 12
    And for himself make mists        205
    Through which to see less clear; 13
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 14 ours.
 
    The world’s course proves 15 the terms
    On which man wins content;
    Reason the proof 16 confirms;        225
    We spurn it, 17 and invent
A false course for the world, and for 18 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 19 makes        245
    His welfare insecure—
Other existences there are, that 20 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 21 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 22 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 23 toil perpetually,        295
    And struggles, pants, and moans;
Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength.
 
    And patiently 24 exact
    This universal God
    Alike to any act        300
    Proceeds at any nod,
And quietly 25 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 26 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 27 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 28 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, 29
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 30 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.
 
Note 1. free] free’d 1852. [back]
Note 2. 36–76 in 1855 as The harp-player on Etna. I. The Last Glen. [back]
Note 3. which] that 1852, 1855. [back]
Note 4. out-spread world] howling void 1852. [back]
Note 5. Since] Where 1852. [back]
Note 6. world] day 1852. [back]
Note 7. rudely hurl’d.] in dismay: 1852. [back]
Note 8. be] is 1852 [back]
Note 9. 187–196 first inserted in 1867. [back]
Note 10. 197–201 follow [back]
Note 11. 202–206 in 1852. [back]
Note 12. hold dear] maintain 1852. [back]
Note 13. clear] plain 1852. [back]
Note 14. course … take] ways … learn 1852. [back]
Note 15. world’s course proves] world proclaims 1852. [back]
Note 16. the proof] its voice 1852. [back]
Note 17. it] them 1852. [back]
Note 18. A false course for … for] False weakness in … in 1852. [back]
Note 19. which] that 1852. [back]
Note 20. that] which 1852. [back]
Note 21. that … which] the … that 1852 [back]
Note 22. which] that 1852. [back]
Note 23. hath] has 1852. [back]
Note 24. patiently] punctually 1852. [back]
Note 25. quietly] patiently 1852. [back]
Note 26. mete … immeasurable] span … illimitable 1852. [back]
Note 27. temper] tempers 1852. [back]
Note 28. true] high 1852. [back]
Note 29. 427–460 in 1853, 1854, 1857, as Cadmus and Harmonia. [back]
Note 30. As … as] more … than 1853, 1854, 1857. [back]
 
 
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