Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/264

226 Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,

Knee-deep in the cool ford; for 'tis the last

Of all the woody, high, well-watered dells

On Etna; and the beam

Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs

Down its steep verdant sides; the air

Is freshened by the leaping stream, which throws

Eternal showers of spray on the mossed roots

Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots

Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells

Of hyacinths, and on late anemones,

That muffle 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 grassy 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 showed him Phthia far away,

And said, "O boy, I taught this lore

To Peleus, in long-distant years!"

He told him of the gods, the stars,

The tides; and then of mortal wars,