Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/280

242 For something has impaired thy spirit's strength,

And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy.

Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself,

O sage! O sage! Take, then, the one way left;

And turn thee to the elements, thy friends,

Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers,

And say: Ye servants, hear Empedocles,

Who asks this final service at your hands!

Before the sophist-brood hath overlaid

The last spark of man's consciousness with words;

Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world,

Be disarrayed of their divinity;

Before the soul lose all her solemn joys,

And awe be dead, and hope impossible,

And the soul's deep eternal night come on,—

Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me home!

The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere;

In the court of gods, in the city of men,

And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen,

In the still mountain air.

Only to Typho it sounds hatefully,—

To Typho only, the rebel o'erthrown,

Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone,

To embed them in the sea.

Wherefore dost thou groan so loud?

Wherefore do thy nostrils flash,

Through the dark night, suddenly,

Typho, such red jets of flame?

Is thy tortured heart still proud?

Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash?