The Strayed Reveller. The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems. Matthew Arnold. 1909. The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840-1867

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Matthew Arnold (1822–88). The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840–1867. 1909.

The Strayed Reveller, and Other Poems

The Strayed Reveller

	[First published 1849. Reprinted 1853, ’54, ’57.]

	The portico of Circe’s Palace. Evening 1
	A YOUTH. CIRCE

THE YOUTH

FASTER, faster,

O Circe, Goddess,

Let the wild, thronging train,

The bright procession

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me; thy right arm,

Lean’d up against the column there,

Props thy soft cheek;

Thy left holds, hanging loosely,

The deep cup, ivy-cinctur’d,

I held but now.

Is it then evening

So soon? I see, the night dews,

Cluster’d in thick beads, dim

The agate brooch-stones

On thy white shoulder.

The cool night-wind, too,

Blows through the portico,

Stirs thy hair, Goddess,

Waves thy white robe.

CIRCE

Whence art thou, sleeper?

THE YOUTH

When the white dawn first

Through the rough fir-planks

Of my hut, by the chestnuts,

Up at the valley-head,

Came breaking, Goddess,

I sprang up, I threw round me

My dappled fawn-skin:

Passing out, from the wet turf,

Where they lay, by the hut door,

I snatch’d up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,

All drench’d in dew:

Came swift down to join

The rout early gather’d

In the town, round the temple,

Iacchus’ white fane

On yonder hill.

Quick I pass’d, following

The wood-cutters’ cart-track

Down the dark valley;—I saw

On my left, through the beeches,

Thy palace, Goddess,

Smokeless, empty:

Trembling, I enter’d; beheld

The court all silent,

The lions sleeping;

On the altar, this bowl.

I drank, Goddess—

And sunk down here, sleeping,

On the steps of thy portico.

CIRCE

Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?

Thou lovest it, then, my wine?

Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,

Through the delicate flush’d marble,

The red creaming liquor,

Strown with dark seeds!

Drink, then! I chide thee not,

Deny thee not my bowl.

Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so,—

Drink, drink again!

THE YOUTH

Thanks, gracious One!

Ah, the sweet fumes again!

More soft, ah me!

More subtle-winding

Than Pan’s flute-music.

Faint—faint! Ah me!

Again the sweet sleep.

CIRCE

Hist! Thou—within there!

Come forth, Ulysses!

Art tired with hunting?

While we range the woodland,

See what the day brings.

ULYSSES

Ever new magic!

Hast thou then lur’d hither,

Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,

The young, languid-ey’d Ampelus,

Iacchus’ darling—

Or some youth belov’d of Pan,

Of Pan and the Nymphs?

That he sits, bending downward

His white, delicate neck

To the ivy-wreath’d marge

Of thy cup:—the bright, glancing vine-leaves

That crown his hair;

Falling forwards, mingling

With the dark ivy-plants,

His fawn-skin, half united,

Smear’d with red wine-stains? Who is he,

That he sits, overweigh’d

By fumes of wine and sleep,

So late, in thy portico?

What youth, Goddess,—what guest

Of Gods or mortals?

CIRCE

Hist! he wakes!

I lur’d him not hither, Ulysses.

Nay, ask him!

THE YOUTH

Who speaks? Ah! Who comes forth

To thy side, Goddess, from within?

100

How shall I name him?

This spare, dark-featur’d,

Quick-ey’d stranger?

Ah! and I see too

His sailor’s bonnet,

105

His short coat, travel-tarnish’d,

With one arm bare.—

Art thou not he, whom fame

This long time rumours

The favour’d guest of Circe, brought by the waves?

110

Art thou he, stranger?

The wise Ulysses,

Laertes’ son?

ULYSSES

I am Ulysses.

And thou, too, sleeper?

115

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 2

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 3 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!

Note 1. The portico of Circe’s Palace. Evening] First inserted in 1853. [back]

Note 2. Hercules. [back]

Note 3. In] I’ 1849. [back]

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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