THE STRAYED REVELLER TO ULYSSES

by: Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

HE 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-leav'd, 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

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.

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

Clusters of lonely mounds

Topp'd with rough-hewn,

Grey, 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 mild-barr'd onyx stones.

The loaded boat swings groaning

In the yellow eddies.

The Gods behold them.

 

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 lenthen'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 Lapithae, 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 gnaw'd

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 has 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 smooth'd

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 Maenad;

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,

Belov'd Iacchus.

 

Ah cool night-wind, tremulous stars!

Ah glimmering water--

Fitful earth-murmur--

Dreaming woods!

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.

The cup again!

 

Faster, faster,

O Circe, Goddess,

Let the wild thronging train,

The bright procession

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

• Matthew Arnold: Bibliography - A bibliography of Arnold's poetic, prose and dramatic works; includes a list of critical resources.
• Purchase books by Matthew Arnold