PERSONS
Empedocles.Pausanias,a Physician.Callicles,a young Harp-player.
The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna; at first in the forest region, afterwards on the summit of the mountain.
Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna.
Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna.
Callicles(Alone, resting on a rock by the path.)The mules, I think, will not be here this hour;They feel the cool wet turf under their feetBy the stream-side, after the dusty lanesIn which they have toil'd all night from Catana,And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan,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 sunIs shining on the brilliant mountain-crests,And on the highest pines; but farther down,Here in the valley, is in shade; the swardIs dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs;One sees one's footprints crush'd in the wet grass,One's breath curls in the air; and on these pinesThat 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?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 madWith exile, and with brooding on his wrongs,Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him,Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure.The mules must be below, far down. I hearTheir tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds,Rise faintly to me—now it stops!—Who's here?Pausanias! and on foot? alone?PausaniasAnd thou, then?I left thee supping with Peisianax,With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd,Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee,And praised and spoil'd by master and by guestsAlmost as much as the new dancing-girl.Why hast thou follow'd us?CalliclesThe night was hot,And the feast 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,I saw the mules and litter in the court,And in the litter sate Empedocles;Thou, too, wast with him. Straightway I sped home;I saddled my white mule, and all night longThrough the cool lovely country follow'd you,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?PausaniasAnd now, back to the town with speed!Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass'd;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 wouldst not vex him.CalliclesNo—and yetI would fain stay, and help thee tend him. OnceHe 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 browAnd kingly gait, for ever; such a spellIn his severe looks, such a majestyAs drew of old the people after him,In Agrigentum and Olympia,When his star reign'd, before his banishment,Is potent still on me in his decline.But oh! Pausanias, he is changed of late;There is a settled trouble in his airAdmits no momentary brightening now,And when he comes among his friends at feasts,'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,Dared one but try.PausaniasThou wast 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 strainWith music to have drawn the stars from heaven.He hath 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—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 comesAnd I must leave him (for his pleasure isTo be left musing these soft nights aloneIn the high unfrequented mountain-spots),Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far,Sometimes to Etna's top, and to the cone;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.CalliclesMore than a day and night, Pausanias,Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills,Would I bestow to help Empedocles.That needs no thanks; one is far better hereThan in the broiling city in these heats.But tell me, how hast them persuaded himIn this his present fierce, man-hating mood,To bring thee out with him alone on Etna?PausaniasThou hast heard all men speaking of PantheiaThe woman who at Agrigentum layThirty long days in a cold trance of death,And whom Empedocles call'd back to life.Thou art too young to note it, but his powerSwells 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,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 allClouds and grows daily worse in Sicily,Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarmOf sophists has got empire in our schoolsWhere he was paramount, since he is banish'dAnd 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 nightOn 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.CalliclesBah! 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 crywizardat him, if they list.But thou, thou art no company for him!Thou art as cross, as sour'd 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 moodWith 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.PausaniasAnd thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge,And on whose lightness blame is thrown away.Enough of this! I see the litter windUp by the torrent-side, under the pines.I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thouCrouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass'd;Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night!
Callicles
(Alone, resting on a rock by the path.)
The mules, I think, will not be here this hour;They feel the cool wet turf under their feetBy the stream-side, after the dusty lanesIn which they have toil'd all night from Catana,And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan,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 sunIs shining on the brilliant mountain-crests,And on the highest pines; but farther down,Here in the valley, is in shade; the swardIs dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs;One sees one's footprints crush'd in the wet grass,One's breath curls in the air; and on these pinesThat 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?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 madWith exile, and with brooding on his wrongs,Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him,Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure.The mules must be below, far down. I hearTheir 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?I left thee supping with Peisianax,With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd,Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee,And praised and spoil'd by master and by guestsAlmost as much as the new dancing-girl.Why hast thou follow'd us?
Callicles
The night was hot,And the feast 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,I saw the mules and litter in the court,And in the litter sate Empedocles;Thou, too, wast with him. Straightway I sped home;I saddled my white mule, and all night longThrough the cool lovely country follow'd you,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;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 wouldst not vex him.
Callicles
No—and yetI would fain stay, and help thee tend him. OnceHe 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 browAnd kingly gait, for ever; such a spellIn his severe looks, such a majestyAs drew of old the people after him,In Agrigentum and Olympia,When his star reign'd, before his banishment,Is potent still on me in his decline.But oh! Pausanias, he is changed of late;There is a settled trouble in his airAdmits no momentary brightening now,And when he comes among his friends at feasts,'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,Dared one but try.
Pausanias
Thou wast 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 strainWith music to have drawn the stars from heaven.He hath 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—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 comesAnd I must leave him (for his pleasure isTo be left musing these soft nights aloneIn the high unfrequented mountain-spots),Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far,Sometimes to Etna's top, and to the cone;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,Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills,Would I bestow to help Empedocles.That needs no thanks; one is far better hereThan in the broiling city in these heats.But tell me, how hast them persuaded himIn this his present fierce, man-hating mood,To bring thee out with him alone on Etna?
Pausanias
Thou hast heard all men speaking of PantheiaThe woman who at Agrigentum layThirty long days in a cold trance of death,And whom Empedocles call'd back to life.Thou art too young to note it, but his powerSwells 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,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 allClouds and grows daily worse in Sicily,Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarmOf sophists has got empire in our schoolsWhere he was paramount, since he is banish'dAnd 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 nightOn 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 crywizardat him, if they list.But thou, thou art no company for him!Thou art as cross, as sour'd 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 moodWith 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 windUp by the torrent-side, under the pines.I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thouCrouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass'd;Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night!
Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of Etna.
Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region of Etna.
Empedocles—PausaniasPausaniasThe noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream,We shall have left the woody tract, and comeUpon the open shoulder of the hill.See how the giant spires of yellow bloomOf 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.EmpedoclesHark! what sound was thatRose 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 harpHark! 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 themSometimes, 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.EmpedoclesThat? and to what end?PausaniasIt is enough that all men speak of it.But I will also say, that when the GodsVisit us as they do with sign and plague,To know those spells of thine which stay their handWere to live free from terror.EmpedoclesSpells? 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!PausaniasBut 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.EmpedoclesHist! 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; thereThe cattle love to gather, on their wayTo the high mountain-pastures, and to stay,Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,Knee-deep in the cool ford; for 'tis the lastOf all the woody, high, well-water'd dellsOn Etna; and the beamOf noon is broken there by chestnut-boughsDown its steep verdant sides; the airIs freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throwsEternal showers of spray on the moss'd rootsOf trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shootsOf ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bellsOf 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 glareOf 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 exploreThe mountains; where the glens are dryAnd the tired Centaurs come to rest,And where the soaking springs aboundAnd 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 loreTo 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 leadBefore they reach the Elysian placeAnd rest in the immortal mead;And all the wisdom of his race.The music below ceases, andEmpedoclesspeaks, accompanyinghimself in a solemn manner on his harp.The out-spread world to spanA cord the Gods first slung,And then the soul of manThere, like a mirror, hung,And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toyHither and thither spinsThe 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 sleeveTo watch man doubt and fear,Who knows not what to believeSince 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 most;And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill.Be not, then, fear's blind slave!Thou art my friend; to thee,All knowledge that I have,All skill I wield, are free.Ask not the latest news of the last miracle,Ask not what days and nightsIn trance Pantheia lay,But ask how thou such sightsMay'st see without dismay;Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus!What? hate, and awe, and shameFill thee to see our time;Thou feelest thy soul's frameShaken and out of chime?What? life and chance go hard with thee too, as with us;Thy citizens, 'tis said,Envy thee and oppress,Thy goodness no men aid,All strive to make it less;Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's abodes;Heaven is with earth at strife,Signs make thy soul afraid,The dead return to life,Rivers are dried, winds stay'd;Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the Gods;And we feel, day and night,The burden of ourselves—Well, then, the wiser wightIn his own bosom delves,And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can.The sophist sneers: Fool, takeThy pleasure, right or wrong.The pious wail: ForsakeA world these sophists throng.Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man!These hundred doctors tryTo preach thee to their school.We have the truth! they cry;And yet their oracle,Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine.Once read thy own breast right,And thou hast done with fears;Man gets no other light,Search he a thousand years.Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine!What makes thee struggle and rave?Why are men ill at ease?—'Tis that the lot they haveFails their own will to please;For man would make no murmuring, were his will obey'd.And why is it, that stillMan with his lot thus fights?—'Tis that he makes thiswillThe measure of hisrights,And believes Nature outraged if his will's gainsaid.Couldst thou, Pausanias, learnHow deep a fault is this;Couldst thou but once discernThou hast norightto bliss,No title from the Gods to welfare and repose;Then thou wouldst look less mazedWhene'er of bliss debarr'd,Nor think the Gods were crazedWhen thy own lot went hard.But we are all the same—the fools of our own woes!For, from the first faint mornOf life, the thirst for blissDeep in man's heart is born;And, sceptic as he is,He fails not to judge clear if this be quench'd or no.Nor is the thirst to blame.Man errs not that he deemsHis welfare his true aim,He errs because he dreamsThe world does but exist that welfare to bestow.We mortals are no kingsFor each of whom to swayA new-made world up-springs,Meant merely for his play;No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old.In vain our pent wills fret,And would the world subdue.Limits we did not setCondition all we do;Born into life we are, and life must be our mould.Born into life!—man growsForth from his parents' stem,And blends their bloods, as thoseOf theirs are blent in them;So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time.Born into life!—we bringA bias with us here,And, when here, each new thingAffects us we come near;To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime.Born into life!—in vain,Opinions, those or these,Unalter'd to retainThe obstinate mind decrees;Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in.Born into life!—who listsMay what is false hold dear,And for himself make mistsThrough which to see less clear;The world is what it is, for all our dust and din.Born into life!—'tis we,And not the world, are new;Our cry for bliss, our plea,Others have urged it too—Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before.No eye could be too soundTo observe a world so vast,No patience too profoundTo sort what's here amass'd;How man may here best live no care too great to explore.But we—as some rude guestWould change, where'er he roam,The manners there profess'dTo those he brings from home—We mark not the world's course, but would haveittakeours.The world's course proves the termsOn which man wins content;Reason the proof confirms—We spurn it, and inventA false course for the world, and for ourselves, false powers.Riches we wish to get,Yet remain spendthrifts still;We would have health, and yetStill use our bodies ill;Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last scenes.We would have inward peace,Yet will not look within;We would have misery cease,Yet will not cease from sin;We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means;We do not what we ought,What we ought not, we do,And lean upon the thoughtThat chance will bring us through;But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers.Yet, even when man forsakesAll sin,—is just, is pure,Abandons all which makesHis welfare insecure,—Other existences there are, that clash with ours.Like us, the lightning-firesLove to have scope and play;The stream, like us, desiresAn unimpeded way;Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large.Streams will not curb their prideThe just man not to entomb,Nor lightnings go asideTo give his virtues room;Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man's barge.Nature, with equal mind,Sees all her sons at play;Sees man control the wind,The wind sweep man away;Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark.And, lastly, though of oursNo weakness spoil our lot,Though the non-human powersOf Nature harm us not,The ill deeds of other men make oftenourlife dark.What were the wise man's plan?—Through this sharp, toil-set life,To work as best he can,And win what's won by strife.—But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found.Scratch'd by a fall, with moansAs children of weak ageLend life to the dumb stonesWhereon to vent their rage,And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground;So, loath to suffer mute,We, peopling the void air,Make Gods to whom to imputeThe ills we ought to bear;With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily.Yet grant—as sense long miss'dThings that are now perceived,And much may still existWhich is not yet believed—Grant that the world were full of Gods we cannot see;All things the world which fillOf but one stuff are spun,That we who rail are still,With what we rail at, one;One with the o'erlabour'd Power that through the breadth and lengthOf earth, and air, and sea,In men, and plants, and stones,Hath toil perpetually,And travails, pants, and moans;Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength.And patiently exactThis universal GodAlike to any actProceeds at any nod,And quietly declaims the cursings of himself.This is not what man hates,Yet he can curse but this.Harsh Gods and hostile FatesAre dreams! this onlyis—Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf.Nor only, in the intentTo attach blame elsewhere,Do we at will inventStern Powers who make their careTo embitter human life, malignant Deities;But, next, we would reverseThe scheme ourselves have spun,And what we made to curseWe now would lean upon,And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries.Look, the world tempts our eye,And we would know it all!We map the starry sky,We mine this earthen ball,We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands;We scrutinise the datesOf long-past human things,The bounds of effaced states,The lines of deceased kings;We search out dead men's words, and works of dead men's hands;We shut our eyes, and museHow our own minds are made,What springs of thought they use,How righten'd, how betray'd—And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed.But still, as we proceedThe mass swells more and moreOf volumes yet to read,Of secrets yet to explore.Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm'd, our heat is tamed;We rest our faculties,And thus address the Gods:"True science if there is,It stays in your abodes!Man's measures cannot mete the immeasurable All."You only can take inThe world's immense design.Our desperate search was sin,Which henceforth we resign,Sure only that your mind sees all things which befal."Fools! That in man's brief termHe cannot all things view,Affords no ground to affirmThat there are Gods who do;Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest.Again.—Our youthful bloodClaims rapture as its right;The world, a rolling floodOf newness and delight,Draws in the enamour'd gazer to its shining breast;Pleasure, to our hot grasp,Gives flowers, after flowers;With passionate warmth we claspHand after hand in ours;Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent.At once our eyes grow clear!We see, in blank dismay,Year posting after year,Sense after sense decay;Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent;Yet still, in spite of truth,In spite of hopes entomb'd,That longing of our youthBurns ever unconsumed,Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare.We pause; we hush our heart,And thus address the Gods:"The world hath fail'd to impartThe joy our youth forebodes,Fail'd to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear."Changeful till now, we stillLook'd on to something new;Let us, with changeless will,Henceforth look on to you,To find with you the joy we in vain here require!"Fools! That so often hereHappiness mock'd our prayer,I think, might make us fearA like event elsewhere;Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.And yet, for those who knowThemselves, who wisely takeTheir way through life, and bowTo what they cannot break,Why should I say that life need yield butmoderatebliss?Shall we, with temper spoil'd,Health sapp'd by living ill,And judgment all embroil'dBy sadness and self-will,Shallwejudge what for man is not true bliss or is?Is it so small a thingTo have enjoy'd the sun,To have lived light in the spring,To have loved, to have thought, to have done;To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes—That we must feign a blissOf doubtful future date,And, while we dream on this,Lose all our present state,And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?Not much, I know, you prizeWhat pleasures may be had,Who look on life with eyesEstranged, like mine, and sad;And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you,Who's loath to leave this lifeWhich to him little yields—His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,His often-labour'd fields,The boors with whom he talk'd, the country-spots he knew.But thou, because thou hear'stMen scoff at Heaven and Fate,Because the Gods thou fear'stFail to make blest thy state,Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are!I say: Fear not! Life stillLeaves human effort scope.But, since life teems with ill,Nurse no extravagant hope:Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair!A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a harpbelow are again heard, andCalliclessings:—Far, far from here,The Adriatic breaks in a warm bayAmong the green Illyrian hills; and thereThe sunshine in the happy glens is fair,And by the sea, and in the brakes.The grass is cool, the sea-side airBuoyant and fresh, the mountain flowersMore virginal and sweet than ours.And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,Who once were 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 placeWhere 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 calamityOver 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 oldThe Gods had to their marriage come,And at the banquet all the Muses sang.Therefore they did not end their daysIn sight of blood; but were rapt, far away,To where the west-wind plays,And murmurs of the Adriatic comeTo those untrodden mountain-lawns; and therePlaced safely in changed forms, the pairWholly forget their first sad life, and home,And all that Theban woe, and strayFor ever through the glens, placid and dumb.EmpedoclesThat was my harp-player again!—where is he?Down by the stream?PausaniasYes, Master, in the wood.EmpedoclesHe 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.PausaniasThou wilt return to-morrow to the city?EmpedoclesEither 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 backAnd 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.
Empedocles—Pausanias
Pausanias
The noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream,We shall have left the woody tract, and comeUpon the open shoulder of the hill.See how the giant spires of yellow bloomOf 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 thatRose 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 harpHark! 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 themSometimes, 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 GodsVisit us as they do with sign and plague,To know those spells of thine which stay their handWere 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 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; thereThe cattle love to gather, on their wayTo the high mountain-pastures, and to stay,Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,Knee-deep in the cool ford; for 'tis the lastOf all the woody, high, well-water'd dellsOn Etna; and the beamOf noon is broken there by chestnut-boughsDown its steep verdant sides; the airIs freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throwsEternal showers of spray on the moss'd rootsOf trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shootsOf ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bellsOf 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 glareOf 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 exploreThe mountains; where the glens are dryAnd the tired Centaurs come to rest,And where the soaking springs aboundAnd 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 loreTo 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 leadBefore they reach the Elysian placeAnd rest in the immortal mead;And all the wisdom of his race.
The music below ceases, andEmpedoclesspeaks, accompanyinghimself in a solemn manner on his harp.
The out-spread world to spanA cord the Gods first slung,And then the soul of manThere, like a mirror, hung,And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy
Hither and thither spinsThe 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 sleeveTo watch man doubt and fear,Who knows not what to believeSince 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 most;And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill.
Be not, then, fear's blind slave!Thou art my friend; to thee,All knowledge that I have,All skill I wield, are free.Ask not the latest news of the last miracle,Ask not what days and nightsIn trance Pantheia lay,But ask how thou such sightsMay'st see without dismay;Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus!
What? hate, and awe, and shameFill thee to see our time;Thou feelest thy soul's frameShaken and out of chime?What? life and chance go hard with thee too, as with us;
Thy citizens, 'tis said,Envy thee and oppress,Thy goodness no men aid,All strive to make it less;Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's abodes;
Heaven is with earth at strife,Signs make thy soul afraid,The dead return to life,Rivers are dried, winds stay'd;Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the Gods;
And we feel, day and night,The burden of ourselves—Well, then, the wiser wightIn his own bosom delves,And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can.
The sophist sneers: Fool, takeThy pleasure, right or wrong.The pious wail: ForsakeA world these sophists throng.Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man!
These hundred doctors tryTo preach thee to their school.We have the truth! they cry;And yet their oracle,Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine.
Once read thy own breast right,And thou hast done with fears;Man gets no other light,Search he a thousand years.Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine!
What makes thee struggle and rave?Why are men ill at ease?—'Tis that the lot they haveFails their own will to please;For man would make no murmuring, were his will obey'd.
And why is it, that stillMan with his lot thus fights?—'Tis that he makes thiswillThe measure of hisrights,And believes Nature outraged if his will's gainsaid.
Couldst thou, Pausanias, learnHow deep a fault is this;Couldst thou but once discernThou hast norightto bliss,No title from the Gods to welfare and repose;
Then thou wouldst look less mazedWhene'er of bliss debarr'd,Nor think the Gods were crazedWhen thy own lot went hard.But we are all the same—the fools of our own woes!
For, from the first faint mornOf life, the thirst for blissDeep in man's heart is born;And, sceptic as he is,He fails not to judge clear if this be quench'd or no.
Nor is the thirst to blame.Man errs not that he deemsHis welfare his true aim,He errs because he dreamsThe world does but exist that welfare to bestow.
We mortals are no kingsFor each of whom to swayA new-made world up-springs,Meant merely for his play;No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old.
In vain our pent wills fret,And would the world subdue.Limits we did not setCondition all we do;Born into life we are, and life must be our mould.
Born into life!—man growsForth from his parents' stem,And blends their bloods, as thoseOf theirs are blent in them;So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time.
Born into life!—we bringA bias with us here,And, when here, each new thingAffects us we come near;To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime.
Born into life!—in vain,Opinions, those or these,Unalter'd to retainThe obstinate mind decrees;Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in.
Born into life!—who listsMay what is false hold dear,And for himself make mistsThrough which to see less clear;The world is what it is, for all our dust and din.
Born into life!—'tis we,And not the world, are new;Our cry for bliss, our plea,Others have urged it too—Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before.
No eye could be too soundTo observe a world so vast,No patience too profoundTo sort what's here amass'd;How man may here best live no care too great to explore.
But we—as some rude guestWould change, where'er he roam,The manners there profess'dTo those he brings from home—We mark not the world's course, but would haveittakeours.
The world's course proves the termsOn which man wins content;Reason the proof confirms—We spurn it, and inventA false course for the world, and for ourselves, false powers.
Riches we wish to get,Yet remain spendthrifts still;We would have health, and yetStill use our bodies ill;Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last scenes.
We would have inward peace,Yet will not look within;We would have misery cease,Yet will not cease from sin;We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means;
We do not what we ought,What we ought not, we do,And lean upon the thoughtThat chance will bring us through;But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers.
Yet, even when man forsakesAll sin,—is just, is pure,Abandons all which makesHis welfare insecure,—Other existences there are, that clash with ours.
Like us, the lightning-firesLove to have scope and play;The stream, like us, desiresAn unimpeded way;Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large.
Streams will not curb their prideThe just man not to entomb,Nor lightnings go asideTo give his virtues room;Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man's barge.
Nature, with equal mind,Sees all her sons at play;Sees man control the wind,The wind sweep man away;Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark.
And, lastly, though of oursNo weakness spoil our lot,Though the non-human powersOf Nature harm us not,The ill deeds of other men make oftenourlife dark.
What were the wise man's plan?—Through this sharp, toil-set life,To work as best he can,And win what's won by strife.—But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found.
Scratch'd by a fall, with moansAs children of weak ageLend life to the dumb stonesWhereon to vent their rage,And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground;
So, loath to suffer mute,We, peopling the void air,Make Gods to whom to imputeThe ills we ought to bear;With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily.
Yet grant—as sense long miss'dThings that are now perceived,And much may still existWhich is not yet believed—Grant that the world were full of Gods we cannot see;All things the world which fillOf but one stuff are spun,That we who rail are still,With what we rail at, one;One with the o'erlabour'd Power that through the breadth and length
Of earth, and air, and sea,In men, and plants, and stones,Hath toil perpetually,And travails, pants, and moans;Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength.
And patiently exactThis universal GodAlike to any actProceeds at any nod,And quietly declaims the cursings of himself.
This is not what man hates,Yet he can curse but this.Harsh Gods and hostile FatesAre dreams! this onlyis—Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf.
Nor only, in the intentTo attach blame elsewhere,Do we at will inventStern Powers who make their careTo embitter human life, malignant Deities;
But, next, we would reverseThe scheme ourselves have spun,And what we made to curseWe now would lean upon,And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries.
Look, the world tempts our eye,And we would know it all!We map the starry sky,We mine this earthen ball,We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands;
We scrutinise the datesOf long-past human things,The bounds of effaced states,The lines of deceased kings;We search out dead men's words, and works of dead men's hands;
We shut our eyes, and museHow our own minds are made,What springs of thought they use,How righten'd, how betray'd—And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed.
But still, as we proceedThe mass swells more and moreOf volumes yet to read,Of secrets yet to explore.Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm'd, our heat is tamed;
We rest our faculties,And thus address the Gods:"True science if there is,It stays in your abodes!Man's measures cannot mete the immeasurable All.
"You only can take inThe world's immense design.Our desperate search was sin,Which henceforth we resign,Sure only that your mind sees all things which befal."
Fools! That in man's brief termHe cannot all things view,Affords no ground to affirmThat there are Gods who do;Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest.
Again.—Our youthful bloodClaims rapture as its right;The world, a rolling floodOf newness and delight,Draws in the enamour'd gazer to its shining breast;
Pleasure, to our hot grasp,Gives flowers, after flowers;With passionate warmth we claspHand after hand in ours;Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent.
At once our eyes grow clear!We see, in blank dismay,Year posting after year,Sense after sense decay;Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent;
Yet still, in spite of truth,In spite of hopes entomb'd,That longing of our youthBurns ever unconsumed,Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare.
We pause; we hush our heart,And thus address the Gods:"The world hath fail'd to impartThe joy our youth forebodes,Fail'd to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.
"Changeful till now, we stillLook'd on to something new;Let us, with changeless will,Henceforth look on to you,To find with you the joy we in vain here require!"
Fools! That so often hereHappiness mock'd our prayer,I think, might make us fearA like event elsewhere;Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.
And yet, for those who knowThemselves, who wisely takeTheir way through life, and bowTo what they cannot break,Why should I say that life need yield butmoderatebliss?
Shall we, with temper spoil'd,Health sapp'd by living ill,And judgment all embroil'dBy sadness and self-will,Shallwejudge what for man is not true bliss or is?
Is it so small a thingTo have enjoy'd the sun,To have lived light in the spring,To have loved, to have thought, to have done;To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes—
That we must feign a blissOf doubtful future date,And, while we dream on this,Lose all our present state,And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?
Not much, I know, you prizeWhat pleasures may be had,Who look on life with eyesEstranged, like mine, and sad;And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you,
Who's loath to leave this lifeWhich to him little yields—His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,His often-labour'd fields,The boors with whom he talk'd, the country-spots he knew.
But thou, because thou hear'stMen scoff at Heaven and Fate,Because the Gods thou fear'stFail to make blest thy state,Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are!
I say: Fear not! Life stillLeaves human effort scope.But, since life teems with ill,Nurse no extravagant hope:Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair!
A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a harpbelow are again heard, andCalliclessings:—
Far, far from here,The Adriatic breaks in a warm bayAmong the green Illyrian hills; and thereThe sunshine in the happy glens is fair,And by the sea, and in the brakes.The grass is cool, the sea-side airBuoyant and fresh, the mountain flowersMore virginal and sweet than ours.And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,Who once were 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 placeWhere 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 calamityOver 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 oldThe Gods had to their marriage come,And at the banquet all the Muses sang.
Therefore they did not end their daysIn sight of blood; but were rapt, far away,To where the west-wind plays,And murmurs of the Adriatic comeTo those untrodden mountain-lawns; and therePlaced safely in changed forms, the pairWholly forget their first sad life, and home,And all that Theban woe, and strayFor 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 backAnd 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.