Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 28

_The Chorus_

Well hath he done who hath seized happiness!

For little do the all-containing hours, Though opulent, freely give.

Who, weighing that life well Fortune presents unpray'd, Declines her ministry, and carves his own; And, justice not infringed, Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law.

He does well too, who keeps that clue the mild Birth-G.o.ddess and the austere Fates first gave.

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, Till the Fates come again, this time 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 Our order heaven-ordain'd Must every day endure: Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars.

Besides what waste _he_ makes, The all-hated, order-breaking, 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, Which consecrates the ties of blood; for these, indeed, Are to the G.o.ds a care; That touches but himself.

For every day man may be link'd and loosed With strangers; but the bond 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, Against Creon's law, Polynices, Robs of a loved bride--pale, imploring, Waiting her pa.s.sage, Forth from the palace hitherward comes.

_Haemon_

No, no, old men, Creon, I curse not!

I weep, Thebans, One than Creon crueller far!

For he, he, at least, by slaying her, August laws doth mightily vindicate; But them, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless!

Ah me!--honourest more than thy lover, O Antigone!

A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse.

_The Chorus_

Nor was the love untrue Which the Dawn-G.o.ddess bore 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 s.n.a.t.c.h'd, wild with love, From the pine-dotted spurs Of Parnes, where thy waves, Asopus! gleam rock-hemm'd-- The Hunter of the Tanagraean Field.[14]

But him, in his sweet prime, By severance immature, By Artemis' soft shafts, She, though a G.o.ddess born, Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die.

Such end o'ertook that love.

For she desired to make Immortal mortal man, And blend his happy life, Far from the G.o.ds, with hers; To him postponing an eternal law.

_Haemon_

But like me, she, wroth, complaining, Succ.u.mb'd to the envy of unkind G.o.ds; And, her beautiful arms unclasping, Her fair youth unwillingly gave.

_The Chorus_

Nor, though enthroned too high To fear a.s.sault of envious G.o.ds, His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retain From his appointed end

In this our Thebes; but when His flying steeds came near 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 saved his tired son Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand O'er the sun-redden'd western straits,[15]

Or at his work in that dim lower world.

Fain would he have recall'd The fraudulent oath which bound 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 Spercheios vale, shaken with groans, And the roused Maliac gulph, And scared OEtaean snows, To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child!

FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A "DEJANEIRA"

O frivolous mind of man, Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts!

Though man bewails you not, How _I_ bewail you!

Little in your prosperity Do you seek counsel of the G.o.ds.

Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone.

In profound silence stern, Among their savage gorges and cold springs, Unvisited remain The great oracular shrines.

Thither in your adversity Do you betake yourselves for light, But strangely misinterpret all you hear.

For you will not put on New hearts with the enquirer's holy robe, And purged, considerate minds.

And him on whom, at the end Of toil and dolour untold, The G.o.ds have said that repose At last shall descend undisturb'd-- Him you expect to behold In an easy old age, in a happy home; No end but this you praise.

But him, on whom, in the prime Of life, with vigour undimm'd, With unspent mind, and a soul Unworn, undebased, undecay'd, Mournfully grating, the gates Of the city of death have for ever closed-- _Him_, I count _him_, well-starr'd.

EARLY DEATH AND FAME

For him who must see many years, I praise the life which slips away Out of the light and mutely; which avoids Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife, Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal, Insincere praises; which descends The quiet mossy track to age.

But, when immature death Beckons too early the guest From the half-tried banquet of life, Young, in the bloom of his days; Leaves no leisure to press, Slow and surely, the sweets Of a tranquil life in the shade-- Fuller for him be the hours!

Give him emotion, though pain!

Let him live, let him feel: _I have lived._ Heap up his moments with life!

Triple his pulses with fame!

PHILOMELA

Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated!

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark!--what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian sh.o.r.e, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English gra.s.s, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?

Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more a.s.say Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?