  Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of Etna. Empedocles—Pausanias Pausanias The noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream, We shall have left the woody tract, and come Upon the open shoulder of the hill. See how the giant spires of yellow bloom Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat, Are shining on those naked slopes like flame! Let us rest here; and now, Empedocles, Pantheia's history! [A harp-note below is heard. Empedocles Hark! what sound was that Rose from below? If it were possible, And we were not so far from human haunt, I should have said that some one touch'd a harp Hark! there again! Pausanias 'Tis the boy Callicles, The sweetest harp-player in Catana. He is for ever coming on these hills, In summer, to all country-festivals, With a gay revelling band; he breaks from them Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. But heed him not, he will not mount to us; I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore, Instruct me of Pantheia's story, Master, As I have pray'd thee. Empedocles That? and to what end? Pausanias It is enough that all men speak of it. But I will also say, that when the Gods Visit us as they do with sign and plague, To know those spells of thine which stay their hand Were to live free from terror. Empedocles Spells? Mistrust them! Man has a mind with which to plan his safety; Know that, and help thyself! Pausanias But thine own words? "The wit and counsel of man was never clear, Troubles confound the little wit he has." Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, To lead those false who trust it. [The harp sounds again. Empedocles Hist! once more! Listen, Pausanias!—Ay, 'tis Callicles; I know these notes among a thousand. Hark! Callicles (Sings unseen, from below). The track winds down to the clear stream, To cross the sparkling shallows; there The cattle love to gather, on their way To the high mountain-pastures, and to stay, Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, Knee-deep in the cool ford; for 'tis the last Of all the woody, high, well-water'd dells On Etna; and the beam Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs Down its steep verdant sides; the air Is freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throws Eternal showers of spray on the moss'd roots Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies, That muffle its wet banks; but glade, And stream, and sward, and chestnut-trees, End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare Of the hot noon, without a shade, Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare; The peak, round which the white clouds play. In such a glen, on such a day, On Pelion, on the grassy ground, Chiron, the aged Centaur lay, The young Achilles standing by. The Centaur taught him to explore The mountains; where the glens are dry And the tired Centaurs come to rest, And where the soaking springs abound And the straight ashes grow for spears, And where the hill-goats come to feed, And the sea-eagles build their nest. He show'd him Phthia far away, And said: O boy, I taught this lore To Peleus, in long distant years! He told him of the Gods, the stars, The tides;—and then of mortal wars, And of the life which heroes lead Before they reach the Elysian place And rest in the immortal mead; And all the wisdom of his race. The music below ceases, and Empedocles speaks, accompanying himself in a solemn manner on his harp. The out-spread world to span A cord the Gods first slung, And then the soul of man There, like a mirror, hung, And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy Hither and thither spins The wind-borne, mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole; Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ. The Gods laugh in their sleeve To watch man doubt and fear, Who knows not what to believe Since he sees nothing clear, And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing sure. Is this, Pausanias, so? And can our souls not strive, But with the winds must go, And hurry where they drive? Is fate indeed so strong, man's strength indeed so poor? I will not judge. That man, Howbeit, I judge as lost, Whose mind allows a plan, Which would degrade it m e Cadmus and Harmonia, Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, In breathless quiet, after all their ills; Nor do they see their country, nor the place Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, Nor the unhappy palace of their race, Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes! They had stay'd long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children roll'd, Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A grey old man and woman; yet of old The Gods had to their marriage come, And at the banquet all the Muses sang. Therefore they did not end their days In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away, To where the west-wind plays, And murmurs of the Adriatic come To those untrodden mountain-lawns; and there Placed safely in changed forms, the pair Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, And all that Theban woe, and stray For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. Empedocles That was my harp-player again!—where is he? Down by the stream? Pausanias Yes, Master, in the wood. Empedocles He ever loved the Theban story well! But the day wears. Go now, Pausanias, For I must be alone. Leave me one mule; Take down with thee the rest to Catana. And for young Callicles, thank him from me; Tell him, I never fail'd to love his lyre— But he must follow me no more to-night. Pausanias Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city? Empedocles Either to-morrow or some other day, In the sure revolutions of the world, Good friend, I shall revisit Catana. I have seen many cities in my time, Till mine eyes ache with the long spectacle, And I shall doubtless see them all again; Thou know'st me for a wanderer from of old. Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias! He departs on his way up the mountain. Pausanias (alone) I dare not urge him further—he must go; But he is strangely wrought!—I will speed back And bring Peisianax to him from the city; His counsel could once soothe him. But, Apollo! Callicles must wait here, and play to him; I saw him through the chestnuts far below, Just since, down at the stream.—Ho! Callicles! He descends, calling. |
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