Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/92

54 They must live still—and yet, God knows,

Crowded and keen the country grows;

It seems as if, in their decay,

The law grew stronger every day.

So might they reason, so compare,

Fausta, times past with times that are;

But no! they rubbed through yesterday

In their hereditary way,

And they will rub through, if they can,

To-morrow on the self-same plan,

Till death arrive to supersede,

For them, vicissitude and need.

The poet, to whose mighty heart

Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart,

Subdues that energy to scan

Not his own course, but that of man.

Though he move mountains, though his day

Be passed on the proud heights of sway.

Though he hath loosed a thousand chains,

Though he hath borne immortal pains,

Action and suffering though he know,—

He hath not lived, if he lives so.

He sees, in some great-historied land,

A ruler of the people stand,

Sees his strong thought in fiery flood

Roll through the heaving multitude,

Exults—yet for no moment's space

Envies the all-regarded place.

Beautiful eyes meet his, and he

Bears to admire uncravingly;

They pass: he, mingled with the crowd,

Is in their far-off triumphs proud.