MATTHEW ARNOLD
They feel the biting spears
Of the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive,
Drive crashing through their bones, they feel
High on a jutting rock in the red stream
Alcmena's dreadful son
Ply his bow. such a price
The Gods exact for song;
To become what we sing.
They sec the Indian
On his mountain lake. but squalls
Make their skiff reel, and worms
In the unkind spring have gnaw'd
Their melon-harvest to the heart They see
The Scythian but long frosts
Parch them in winter-time on the bare Stepp,
Till they too fade like grass* they crawl
Like shadows forth in spring.
They see the Merchants
On the Oxus' stream. but care
Must visit first them too, and make them pale.
Whether, through whirling sand,
A cloud of desert robber-horse has burst
Upon their caravan or greedy kings,
In the wall'd cities the way passes through,
Crush'd them with tolls or fever-airs,
On some great river's marge,
Mown them down, far from home.
They see the Heroes Near harbour. but they share Their lives, and former violent toil, in Thebes,
�� �
