Poetry

poisonous streams,
And in the mountain chinks inter the winds.
This he could do of old; but now, since all
Clouds and grows daily worse in Sicily,
Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm
Of sophists has got empire in our schools
Where he was paramount, since he is banish’d,
And lives a lonely man in triple gloom,
He grasps the very reins of life and death.
I ask’d him of Pantheia yesterday,
When we were gather’d with Peisianax,
And he made answer, I should come at night
On Etna here, and be alone with him,
And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend,
Who still was faithful, what might profit me;
That is, the secret of this miracle. Callicles

Bah! Thou a doctor! Thou art superstitious.
Simple Pausanias, ’twas no miracle!
Pantheia, for I know her kinsmen well,
Was subject to these trances from a girl.
Empedocles would say so, did he deign;
But he still lets the people, whom he scorns,
Gape and cry wizard at him, if they list.
But thou, thou art no company for him;
Thou art as cross, as soured as himself.
Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens,
And then thy friend is banish’d, and on that,
Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times,
As if the sky was impious not to fall.
The sophists are no enemies of his;
I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him,
As of his gifted master and once friend.
He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter.
’Tis not the times, ’tis not the sophists vex him;
There is some root of suffering in himself,
Some secret and unfollow’d vein of woe,
Which makes the time look black and sad to him.
Pester him not in this his sombre mood
With questionings about an idle tale,
But lead him through the lovely mountain paths,
And keep his mind from preying on itself,
And talk to him of things at hand and common,
Not miracles; thou art a learned man,
But credulous of fables as a girl.

Pausanias

And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge,
And on whose lightness blame is thrown away.
Enough of this! I see the litter wind
Up by the torrent-side, under the pines.
I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou
Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass’d;
Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night!

Scene II

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 time that stay their hand Were to live free from terror.
Empedocles	Spells? Mistrust them. Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven. Man has a mind with which to plan his safety; Know that, and help thyself.
Pausanias	But thy 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!⁠—Aye, ’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 cowherds 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 trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots 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 outspread 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