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THE MULES, 1 I think, will not be here this hour. | |
| They feel the cool wet turf under their feet | |
| By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes | |
| In which they have toil’d all night from Catana, | |
| And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan! | 5 |
| How gracious is the mountain at this hour! | |
| A thousand times have I been here alone | |
| Or with the revellers from the mountain towns, | |
| But never on so fair a morn;—the sun | |
| Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests, | 10 |
| And on the highest pines: but further down | |
| Here in the valley is in shade; the sward | |
| Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; | |
| One sees one’s foot-prints crush’d in the wet grass, | |
| One’s breath curls in the air; and on these pines | 15 |
| That climb from the stream’s edge, the long grey tufts. | |
| Which the goats love, are jewell’d thick with dew. | |
| Here will I stay till the slow litter comes. | |
| I have my harp too—that is well.—Apollo! | |
| What mortal could be sick or sorry here? | 20 |
| I know not in what mind Empedocles, | |
| Whose mules I follow’d, may be coming up, | |
| But if, as most men say, he is half mad | |
| With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, | |
| Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, | 25 |
| Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. | |
| The mules must be below, far down. I hear | |
| Their tinkling bells, mix’d with the song of birds, | |
| Rise faintly to me—now it stops!—Who’s here? | |
Pausanias! and on foot? alone?
PAUSANIAS And thou, then? | 30 |
| I left thee supping with Peisianax, 2 | |
| With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown’d, | |
| Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee, | |
| And prais’d and spoil’d by master and by guests | |
| Almost as much as the new dancing girl. | 35 |
Why hast thou follow’d us?
CALLICLES The night was hot, | |
| And the least past its prime; so we slipp’d out, | |
| Some of us, to the portico to breathe;— | |
| Peisianax, thou know’st, drinks late;—and then, | |
| As I was lifting my soil’d garland off, | 40 |
| I saw the mules and litter in the court, | |
| And in the litter sate Empedocles; | |
| Thou, too, wert with him. Straightway I sped home; | |
| I saddled my white mule, and all night long | |
| Through the cool lovely country follow’d you, | 45 |
| Pass’d you a little since as morning dawn’d, | |
| And have this hour sate by the torrent here, | |
| Till the slow mules should climb in sight again. | |
And now?
PAUSANIAS And now, back to the town with speed! | |
| Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass’d; | 50 |
| They do but halt, they will be here anon. | |
| Thou must be viewless to Empedocles; | |
| Save mine, he must not meet a human eye. | |
| One of his moods is on him that thou know’st. | |
I think, thou would’st not vex him.
CALLICLES No—and yet | 55 |
| I would fain stay and help thee tend him; once | |
| He knew me well, and would oft notice me. | |
| And still, I know not how, he draws me to him, | |
| And I could watch him with his proud sad face, | |
| His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow | 60 |
| And kingly gait, for ever; such a spell | |
| In his severe looks, such a majesty | |
| As drew of old the people after him, | |
| In Agrigentum and Olympia, | |
| When his star reign’d, before his banishment, | 65 |
| Is potent still on me in his decline. | |
| But oh, Pausanias, he is changed of late! | |
| There is a settled trouble in his air | |
| Admits no momentary brightening now; | |
| And when he comes among his friends at feasts, | 70 |
| ’Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. | |
| Thou know’st of old he loved this harp of mine, | |
| When first he sojourn’d with Peisianax; | |
| He is now always moody, and I fear him. | |
| But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, | 75 |
Dared one but try.
PAUSANIAS Thou wert a kind child ever. | |
| He loves thee, but he must not see thee now. | |
| Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp, | |
| He loves that in thee, too; there was a time | |
| (But that is pass’d) he would have paid thy strain | 80 |
| With music to have drawn the stars from heaven. | |
| He has his harp and laurel with him still, | |
| But he has laid the use of music by, | |
| And all which might relax his settled gloom. | |
| Yet thou may’st try thy playing if thou wilt, | 85 |
| But thou must keep unseen; follow us on, | |
| But at a distance; in these solitudes, | |
| In this clear mountain air, a voice will rise, | |
| Though from afar, distinctly; it may soothe him. | |
| Play when we halt, and, when the evening comes | 90 |
| And I must leave him (for his pleasure is | |
| To be left musing these soft nights alone | |
| In the high unfrequented mountain spots), | |
| Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far, | |
| Sometimes to Etna’s top, and to the cone; | 95 |
| But hide thee in the rocks a great way down, | |
| And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles, | |
| With the sweet night to help thy harmony. | |
| Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his. | |
| |
CALLICLES More than a day and night, Pausanias, | 100 |
| Of this fair summer weather, on these hills, | |
| Would I bestow to help Empedocles. | |
| That needs no thanks; one is far better here | |
| Than in the broiling city in these heats. | |
| But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him | 105 |
| In this his present fierce, man-hating mood, | |
| To bring thee out with him alone on Etna? | |
| |
PAUSANIAS Thou hast heard all men speaking of Pantheia, 3 | |
| The woman who at Agrigentum lay | |
| Thirty long days in a cold trance of death, | 110 |
| And whom Empedocles call’d back to life. | |
| Thou art too young to note it, but his power | |
| Swells with the swelling evil of this time, | |
| And holds men mute to see where it will rise. | |
| He could stay swift diseases in old days, | 115 |
| Chain madmen by the music of his lyre, | |
| Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of 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, | 120 |
| 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. | 125 |
| 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, | 130 |
| 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, | 135 |
| 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; | 140 |
| 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. | 145 |
| 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; | 150 |
| There is some root of suffering in himself, | |
| Some secret and unfollow’d vein of woe, | |
| Which makes the time 4 look black and sad to him. | |
| Pester him not in this his sombre mood | |
| With questionings about an idle tale, | 155 |
| 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. | 160 |
| |
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 | 165 |
| Crouch in the brush-wood till the mules have pass’d; | |
| Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night! | |
