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��MATTHEW ARNOLD . From the Hymn of Empedocks

S it so small a thing

To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done ; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes ;

That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date, And while we dream on this Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose ?

Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad : And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you ;

Who's loth to leave this life Which to him little yields : His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, His often-labour'd fields ; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear'st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate ; Because the gods thou fear'st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.

I say, Fear not ! life still Leaves human effort scope. But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope.

Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.

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