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The Pagan World

 In his cool hall, with haggard eyes,
The Roman noble lay;
He drove abroad, in furious guise,
Along the Appian way.
He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crowned his hair with flowers— No easier nor no quicker passed The impracticable hours.
The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world.
The Roman tempest swelled and swelled, And on her head was hurled.
The East bowed low before the blast In patient, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again.
So well she mused, a morning broke Across her spirit grey; A conquering, new-born joy awoke, And filled her life with day.
"Poor world," she cried, "so deep accurst That runn'st from pole to pole To seek a draught to slake thy thirst— Go, seek it in thy soul!" She heard it, the victorious West, In crown and sword arrayed! She felt the void which mined her breast, She shivered and obeyed.
She veiled her eagles, snapped her sword, And laid her sceptre down; Her stately purple she abhorred, And her imperial crown.
She broke her flutes, she stopped her sports, Her artists could not please; She tore her books, she shut her courts, She fled her palaces; Lust of the eye and pride of life She left it all behind, And hurried, torn with inward strife, The wilderness to find.
Tears washed the trouble from her face! She changed into a child! Mid weeds and wrecks she stood—a place Of ruin—but she smiled!

Poem by Matthew Arnold
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