The World And The Quietist
By Matthew Arnold
Why, when the Worlds great mind
Hath finally inclind,
Why, you say, Critias, be debating still?
Why, with these mournful rhymes
Learnd in more languid climes,
Blame our activity,
Who, with such passionate will,
Are, what we mean to be?
Critias, long since, I know,
(For Fate decreed it so,)
Long since the World hath set its heart to live.
Long since with credulous zeal
It turns Lifes mighty wheel;
Still doth for labourers send,
Who still their labour give;
And still expects an end.
Yet, as the wheel flies round,
With no ungrateful sound
Do adverse voices fall on the Worlds ear.
Deafend by his own stir
The rugged Labourer
Caught not till then a sense
So glowing and so near
Of his omnipotence.
So, when the feast grew loud
In Susas palace proud,
A white-robd slave stole to the Monarchs side.
He spoke: the Monarch heard:
Felt the slow-rolling word
Swell his attentive soul.
Breathd deeply as it died,
And draind his mighty bowl.