Matthew Arnold - The Strayed Reveller lyrics

  The Youth Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! Thou standest, smiling Down on me! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek; Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, I held but now. Is it, then, evening So soon? I see, the night-dews, Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe!   Circe Whence art thou, sleeper?   The Youth When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; Pa**ing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew— Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, Iacchus' white fane On yonder hill. Quick I pa**'d, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;—I saw On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty! Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl. I drank, Goddess! And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico.   Circe Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Thou lovest it, then, my wine? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, then! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so! Drink—drink again!   The Youth Thanks, gracious one! Ah, the sweet fumes again! More soft, ah me, More subtle-winding That Pan's flute-music! Faint—faint! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep!   Circe Hist! Thou—within there! Come forth, Ulysses! Art tired with hunting? While we range the woodland, See what the day brings.   Ulysses Ever new magic! Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus' darling— Or some youth beloved of Pan, Of Pan and the Nymphs? That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants— His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,—what guest Of Gods or mortals?   Circe Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him!   The Youth Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within? How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare!— Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circed Wanderer! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me— The cup again! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul!