Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/283

Rh Who worshipped me in their houses,

And asked, not wisdom,

But drugs to charm with,

But spells to mutter

All the fool's-armory of magic! Lie there,

My golden circlet,

My purple robe!

CALLICLES (from below).

As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day,

And makes the massed clouds roll,

The music of the lyre blows away

The clouds which wrap the soul.

Oh that fate had let me see

That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,

That famous, final victory

When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire!

When, from far Parnassus' side,

Young Apollo, all the pride

Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,

To the Phrygian highlands came;

Where the long green reed-beds sway

In the rippled waters gray

Of that solitary lake

Where Mæander's springs are born;

Where the ridged pine-wooded roots

Of Messogis westward break,

Mounting westward, high and higher.

There was held the famous strife;

There the Phrygian brought his flutes,

And Apollo brought his lyre;

And, when now the westering sun

Touched the hills, the strife was done,