Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 67

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 thine own words?

"The wit and counsel of man was never clear, Troubles confound the little wit he has."

Mind is a light which the G.o.ds mock us with, To lead those false who trust it.

[_The harp sounds again._

_Empedocles_

Hist! once more!

Listen, Pausanias!--Ay, 'tis Callicles; I know these notes among a thousand. Hark!

_Callicles_

(_Sings unseen, from below_).

The track winds down to the clear stream, To cross the sparkling shallows; there The cattle love to gather, on their way To the high mountain-pastures, and to stay, 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 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 Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies, That m.u.f.fle 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, 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 gra.s.sy ground, Chiron, the aged Centaur lay, 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 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 To Peleus, in long distant years!

He told him of the G.o.ds, the stars, The tides;--and then of mortal wars, And of the life which heroes lead Before they reach the Elysian place 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 to span A cord the G.o.ds first slung, And then the soul of man There, like a mirror, hung, And bade the winds through s.p.a.ce impel the gusty toy

Hither and thither spins The wind-borne, mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole; Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ.

The G.o.ds laugh in their sleeve To watch man doubt and fear, Who knows not what to believe Since 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, 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, 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, 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 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 time; Thou feelest thy soul's frame Shaken and out of chime?

What? life and chance go hard with thee too, as with us;

Thy citizens, 'tis said, Envy thee and oppress, Thy goodness no men aid, All strive to make it less; Tyranny, pride, and l.u.s.t, fill Sicily's abodes;

Heaven is with earth at strife, Signs make thy soul afraid, The dead return to life, Rivers are dried, winds stay'd; Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the G.o.ds;

And we feel, day and night, The burden of ourselves-- Well, then, the wiser wight 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 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; 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, 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 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_ 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 Thou hast no _right_ to bliss, No t.i.tle from the G.o.ds to welfare and repose;

Then thou wouldst look less mazed Whene'er of bliss debarr'd, Nor think the G.o.ds were crazed 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; And, sceptic as he is, He fails not to judge clear if this be quench'd or no.

Nor is the thirst to blame.

Man errs not that he deems His welfare his true aim, 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, 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 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 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 here, And, when here, each new thing 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 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 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, 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 To sort what's here ama.s.s'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 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-- 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 Still use our bodies ill; Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last scenes.