Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/379

Rh THE CHORUS.

Ah me!

MEROPE.

Thou confessest the prize

In the rushing, thundering, mad,

Cloud-enveloped, obscure,

Unapplauded, unsung

Race of calamity, mine?

THE CHORUS.

None can truly claim that

Mournful pre-eminence, not

Thou.

MEROPE.

Fate gives it, ah me!

THE CHORUS.

Not, above all, in the doubts,

Double and clashing, that hang ——

MEROPE.

What then?

Seems it lighter, my loss,

If, perhaps, unpierced by the sword,

My child lies in his jagg'd

Sunless prison of rock,

On the black wave borne to and fro?

THE CHORUS.

Worse, far worse, if his friend,

If the Arcadian within,

If ——