Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/452

414 Of the midmost ocean, have swelled,

Foamed for a moment, and gone.

And there are some whom a thirst

Ardent, unquenchable, fires,

Not with the crowd to be spent,

Not without aim to go round

In an eddy of purposeless dust,

Effort unmeaning and vain.

Ah yes! some of us strive

Not without action to die

Fruitless, but something to snatch

From dull oblivion, nor all

Glut the devouring grave.

We, we have chosen our path,—

Path to a clear-purposed goal,

Path of advance; but it leads

A long, steep journey, through sunk

Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.

Cheerful, with friends, we set forth:

Then, on the height, comes the storm.

Thunder crashes from rock

To rock; the cataracts reply;

Lightnings dazzle our eyes;

Roaring torrents have breached

The track; the stream-bed descends

In the place where the wayfarer once

Planted his footstep; the spray

Boils o'er its borders; aloft,

The unseen snow-beds dislodge

Their hanging ruin. Alas!

Havoc is made in our train!

Friends who set forth at our side

Falter, are lost in the storm.