Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/268

230 Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn

How deep a fault is this;

Couldst thou but once discern

Thou hast no right to bliss,

No title from the gods to welfare and repose,—

Then thou wouldst look less mazed

Whene'er of bliss debarred,

Nor think the gods 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 quenched or no.

Nor is that 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 upsprings,

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.