_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!

How his brow lighten'd as the music rose!

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._

ACT II

_Evening. The Summit of Etna._

EMPEDOCLES

Alone!-- On this charr'd, blacken'd, melancholy waste, Crown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth.

Round which the sullen vapour rolls--alone!

Pausanias is far hence, and that is well, For I must henceforth speak no more with man He hath his lesson too, and that debt's paid; And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man, May bravelier front his life, and in himself Find henceforth energy and heart. But I-- The weary man, the banish'd citizen, Whose banishment is not his greatest ill, Whose weariness no energy can reach, And for whose hurt courage is not the cure-- What should I do with life and living more?

No, thou art come too late, Empedocles!

And the world hath the day, and must break thee, Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live, Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine; And being lonely thou art miserable, For something has impair'd thy spirit's strength, And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy.

Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself-- O sage! O sage!--Take then the one way left; And turn thee to the elements, thy friends, Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers, And say: Ye helpers, hear Empedocles, Who asks this final service at your hands!

Before the sophist-brood hath overlaid The last spark of man's consciousness with words-- Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world Be disarray'd of their divinity-- Before the soul lose all her solemn joys, And awe be dead, and hope impossible, And the soul's deep eternal night come on-- Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me home!

_He advances to the edge of the crater. Smoke and fire break forth with a loud noise, and_ CALLICLES _is heard below singing:--_

The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere; In the court of G.o.ds, in the city of men, And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen, In the still mountain air.

Only to Typho it sounds hatefully; To Typho only, the rebel o'erthrown, Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone To imbed them in the sea.

Wherefore dost thou groan so loud?

Wherefore do thy nostrils flash, Through the dark night, suddenly, Typho, such red jets of flame?-- Is thy tortured heart still proud?

Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash?

Still alert thy stone-crush'd frame?

Doth thy fierce soul still deplore Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills, And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore?[31]

Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep The fight which crown'd thine ills, Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep?

Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair, Where erst the strong sea-currents suck'd thee down, Never to cease to writhe, and try to rest, Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair?

That thy groans, like thunder prest, Begin to roll, and almost drown The sweet notes whose lulling spell G.o.ds and the race of mortals love so well, When through thy caves thou hearest music swell?

But an awful pleasure bland Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face, When the sound climbs near his seat, The Olympian council sees; As he lets his lax right hand, Which the lightnings doth embrace, Sink upon his mighty knees.

And the eagle, at the beck Of the appeasing, gracious harmony, Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feather'd neck, Nestling nearer to Jove's feet; While o'er his sovran eye The curtains of the blue films slowly meet And the white Olympus-peaks Rosily brighten, and the soothed G.o.ds smile At one another from their golden chairs, And no one round the charmed circle speaks.

Only the loved Hebe bears The cup about, whose draughts beguile Pain and care, with a dark store Of fresh-pull'd violets wreathed and nodding o'er; And her flush'd feet glow on the marble floor.

_Empedocles_

He fables, yet speaks truth!

The brave, impetuous heart yields everywhere To the subtle, contriving head; Great qualities are trodden down, And littleness united Is become invincible.

These rumblings are not Typho's groans, I know!

These angry smoke-bursts Are not the pa.s.sionate breath Of the mountain-crush'd, tortured, intractable t.i.tan king-- But over all the world What suffering is there not seen Of plainness oppress'd by cunning, As the well-counsell'd Zeus oppress'd That self-helping son of earth!

What anguish of greatness, Rail'd and hunted from the world, Because its simplicity rebukes This envious, miserable age!

I am weary of it.

--Lie there, ye ensigns Of my unloved preeminence In an age like this!

Among a people of children, Who throng'd me in their cities, Who worshipp'd me in their houses, And ask'd, not wisdom, But drugs to charm with, But spells to mutter-- All the fool's-armoury of magic!--Lie there, My golden circlet, My purple robe!

_Callicles_ (_from below_)

As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day, And makes the ma.s.s'd clouds roll, The music of the lyre blows away The clouds which wrap the soul.

Oh! that Fate had let me see That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, That famous, final victory, When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire;

When, from far Parna.s.sus' side, Young Apollo, all the pride Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, To the Phrygian highlands came; Where the long green reed-beds sway In the rippled waters grey Of that solitary lake Where Maeander's springs are born; Whence the ridged pine-wooded roots Of Messogis westward break, Mounting westward, high and higher.

There was held the famous strife; There the Phrygian brought his flutes, And Apollo brought his lyre; And, when now the westering sun Touch'd the hills, the strife was done, And the attentive Muses said: "Marsyas, thou art vanquished!"

Then Apollo's minister Hang'd upon a branching fir Marsyas, that unhappy Faun, And began to whet his knife.

But the Maenads, who were there, Left their friend, and with robes flowing In the wind, and loose dark hair O'er their polish'd bosoms blowing, Each her ribbon'd tambourine Flinging on the mountain-sod, With a lovely frighten'd mien Came about the youthful G.o.d.

But he turn'd his beauteous face Haughtily another way, From the gra.s.sy sun-warm'd place Where in proud repose he lay, With one arm over his head, Watching how the whetting sped.

But aloof, on the lake-strand, Did the young Olympus stand, Weeping at his master's end; For the Faun had been his friend.

For he taught him how to sing, And he taught him flute-playing.

Many a morning had they gone To the glimmering mountain-lakes, And had torn up by the roots The tall crested water-reeds With long plumes and soft brown seeds, And had carved them into flutes, Sitting on a tabled stone Where the sh.o.r.eward ripple breaks.

And he taught him how to please The red-snooded Phrygian girls, Whom the summer evening sees Flashing in the dance's whirls Underneath the starlit trees In the mountain-villages.

Therefore now Olympus stands, At his master's piteous cries Pressing fast with both his hands His white garment to his eyes, Not to see Apollo's scorn;-- Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!

_Empedocles_