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The Strayed Reveller

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-cinctured,    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 sank 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, thee!

I chide thee not,    Deny thee not my bowl.    Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-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 lured hither,    Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,    The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,    Iacchus' darling-    Or some youth beloved of Pan,    Of Pan and the Nymphs?    That he sits, bending downward    His white, delicate neck    To the ivy-wreathed marge    Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves    That crown his hair,    Falling forward, mingling    With the dark ivy-plants—    His fawn-skin, half untied,    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 lured him not hither,

Ulysses.    Nay, ask him!

The Youth.    Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth     To thy side,

Goddess, from within?     How shall I name him?     This spare, dark-featured,     Quick-eyed stranger?     Ah, and I see too     His sailor's bonnet,     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?     Art thou he, stranger?     The wise Ulysses,     Laertes' son?

Ulysses.     I am Ulysses.     And thou, too, sleeper?     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;     And heard him delighting     The chiefs and people     In the banquet, and learn'd his songs.     Of Gods and Heroes,     Of war and arts,     And peopled cities,     Inland, or built     By the gray sea.-If so, then hail!     I honour and welcome thee.

The Youth.     The Gods are happy.     They turn on all sides     Their shining eyes,     And see below them     The earth and men.     They see Tiresias     Sitting, staff in hand,     On the warm, grassy     Asopus bank,     His robe drawn over     His old sightless head,     Revolving inly     The doom of Thebes.     They see the Centaurs     In the upper glens     Of Pelion, in the streams,     Where red-berried ashes fringe     The clear-brown shallow pools,     With streaming flanks, and heads     Rear'd proudly, snuffing     The mountain wind.     They see the Indian     Drifting, knife in hand,     His frail boat moor'd to     A floating isle thick-matted     With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants     And the dark cucumber.     He reaps, and stows them,     Drifting—drifting;—round him,     Round his green harvest-plot,     Flow the cool lake-waves,     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—     Mares' milk, and bread     Baked on the embers;—all around     The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd     With saffron and the yellow hollyhock     And flag-leaved iris-flowers.     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,     Furrows the rich soil; here and there     Cluster of lonely mounds     Topp'd with rough-hewn,     Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer     The sunny waste.     They see the ferry     On the broad, clay-laden     Lone Chorasmian stream;—thereon,     With snort and strain,     Two horses, strongly swimming, tow     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     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,     Jasper and chalcedony,     And milk-barred onyx-stones.     The loaded boat swings groaning     In the yellow eddies;     The Gods behold him.     They see the Heroes     Sitting in the dark ship     On the foamless, long-heaving     Violet sea.     At sunset nearing     The Happy Islands.     These things,

Ulysses,     The wise bards, also     Behold and sing.     But oh, what labour!     O prince, what pain!     They too can see     Tiresias;—but the Gods,     Who give them vision,     Added this law:     That they should bear too     His groping blindness,     His dark foreboding,     His scorn'd white hairs;     Bear Hera's anger     Through a life lengthen'd     To seven ages.     They see the Centaurs     On Pelion:—then they feel,     They too, the maddening wine     Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain     They feel the biting spears     Of the grim Lapithæ, and Theseus, drive,     Drive crashing through their bones; they feel     High on a jutting rock in the red stream     Alcmena's dreadful son     Ply his bow;—such a price     The Gods exact for song:     To become what we sing.     They see the Indian     On his mountain lake; but squalls     Make their skiff reel, and worms     In the unkind spring have gnawn     Their melon-harvest to the heart.—They see     The Scythian: but long frosts     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     Must visit first them too, and make them pale.     Whether, through whirling sand,     A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst     Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,     In the wall'd cities the way passes through,     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     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.     The old Silenus     Came, lolling in the sunshine,     From the dewy forest-coverts,     This way at noon.     Sitting by me, while his Fauns     Down at the water-side     Sprinkled and smoothed     His drooping garland,     He told me these things.     But I,

Ulysses,     Sitting on the warm steps,     Looking over the valley,     All day long, have seen,     Without pain, without labour,     Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad—     Sometimes a Faun with torches—     And sometimes, for a moment,     Passing through the dark stems     Flowing-robed, the beloved,     The desired, the divine,     Beloved Iacchus.     Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!     Ah, glimmering water,     Fitful earth-murmur,     Dreaming woods!     Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess,     And thou, proved, much enduring,     Wave-toss'd Wanderer!     Who can stand still?     Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—     The cup again!     Faster, faster,     O Circe,

Goddess.     Let the wild, thronging train,     The bright procession     Of eddying forms,     Sweep through my soul!

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Matthew Arnold

Matthew Arnold (24 December 1822 – 15 April 1888) was an English poet and cultural critic who worked as an inspector of schools. He was the son …

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