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 crossed 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,[15] 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 touched a harp. Hark! there again!

PAUSANIAS.

’Tis the boy Callicles, The sweetest harp-player in Catana. He is forever 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 prayed 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! 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 those 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-watered dells On Etna; and the beam Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs Down its steep verdant sides; the air Is freshened by the leaping stream, which throws Eternal showers of spray on the mossed roots Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells Of hyacinths, and on late anemones, 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 showed 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 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 nights In trance Pantheia lay, But ask how thou such sights May’st see without dismay; Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus!

What! hate, and awe, and shame Fill thee to see our time; Thou feelest thy soul’s frame Shaken 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 stayed; 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 wight In his own bosom delves, And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can.

The sophist sneers, “Fool, take Thy pleasure, right or wrong.” The pious wail, “Forsake A world these sophists throng.” Be neither saint-nor sophist-led, but be a man!

These hundred doctors try To 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 have Fails their own will to please; For man would make no murmuring, were his will obeyed.

And why is it, that still Man with his lot thus fights? ’Tis that he makes this _will_ The measure of his _rights_, And believes nature outraged if his will’s gainsaid.

Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn How deep a fault is this; Couldst thou but once discern Thou hast no _right_ to bliss, No title from the gods to welfare and repose,--

Then thou wouldst look less mazed Whene’er of bliss debarred, Nor think the gods were crazed When thy own lot went hard. But we are all the same,--the fools of our own woes!

For, from the first faint morn Of life, the thirst for bliss Deep in man’s heart is born; And, sceptic as he is, He fails not to judge clear if this be quenched or no.

Nor is that thirst to blame. Man errs not that he deems His welfare his true aim: He errs because he dreams The world does but exist that welfare to bestow.

We mortals are no kings For each of whom to sway A new-made world upsprings, 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 set Condition all we do; Born into life we are, and life must be our mould.

Born into life! man grows Forth from his parents’ stem, And blends their bloods, as those Of theirs are blent in them; So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time.

Born into life! we bring A bias with us here, And, when here, each new thing Affects us we come near; To tunes we did not call, our being must keep chime.

Born into life! in vain, Opinions, those or these, Unaltered to retain, The obstinate mind decrees: Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in.

Born into life! who lists May what is false hold dear, And for himself make mists Through 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 sound To observe a world so vast, No patience too profound To sort what’s here amassed; How man may here best live, no care too great to explore.

But we,--as some rude guest Would change, where’er he roam, The manners there professed To those he brings from home,-- We mark not the world’s course, but would have _it_ take _ours_.

The world’s course proves the terms On which man wins content; Reason the proof confirms: We spurn it, and invent A false course for the world, and for ourselves false powers.

Riches we wish to get, Yet remain spendthrifts still; We would have health, and yet Still 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 thought That chance will bring us through: But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers.

Yet even when man forsakes All sin,--is just, is pure, Abandons all which makes His welfare insecure,-- Other existences there are, that clash with ours.

Like us, the lightning-fires Love to have scope and play; The stream, like us, desires An unimpeded way; Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large.

Streams will not curb their pride The just man not to entomb, Nor lightnings go aside To 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 ours No weakness spoil our lot, Though the non-human powers Of nature harm us not, The ill deeds of other men make often _our_ life dark.

What were the wise man’s plan? Through this sharp, toil-set life, To fight as best he can, And win what’s won by strife. But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found.

Scratched by a fall, with moans As children of weak age Lend life to the dumb stones Whereon 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 impute The ills we ought to bear; With God and fate to rail at, suffering easily.

Yet grant,--as sense long missed Things that are now perceived, And much may still exist Which is not yet believed,-- Grant that the world were full of gods we cannot see;

All things the world which fill Of but one stuff are spun, That we who rail are still, With what we rail at, one; One with the o’er-labored 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 exact This universal God Alike to any act Proceeds 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 fates Are dreams! this only _is_,-- Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf.

Nor only, in the intent To attach blame elsewhere, Do we at will invent Stern powers who make their care To imbitter human life, malignant deities;

But, next, we would reverse The scheme ourselves have spun, And what we made to curse We 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 scrutinize the dates Of 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 muse How our own minds are made, What springs of thought they use, How rightened, how betrayed,-- And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed.

But still, as we proceed, The mass swells more and more Of volumes yet to read, Of secrets yet to explore. Our hair grows gray, our eyes are dimmed, 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 in The world’s immense design; Our desperate search was sin, Which henceforth we resign, Sure only that your mind sees all things which befall.”

Fools! That in man’s brief term He cannot all things view, Affords no ground to affirm That there are gods who do; Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest.

Again: Our youthful blood Claims rapture as its right; The world, a rolling flood Of newness and delight, Draws in the enamoured gazer to its shining breast;

Pleasure, to our hot grasp, Gives flowers after flowers; With passionate warmth we clasp Hand 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 entombed, That longing of our youth Burns 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 failed to impart The joy our youth forebodes, Failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.

“Changeful till now, we still Looked 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 here Happiness mocked our prayer, I think, might make us fear A like event elsewhere; Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.

And yet, for those who know Themselves, who wisely take Their way through life, and bow To what they cannot break, Why should I say that life need yield but _moderate_ bliss?

Shall we, with temper spoiled, Health sapped by living ill, And judgment all embroiled By sadness and self-will,-- Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is?

Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed 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 bliss Of 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 prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad; And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you;

Who’s loath to leave this life Which to him little yields,-- His hard-tasked sunburnt wife, His often-labored fields, The boors with whom he talked, the country-spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear’st Men scoff at heaven and fate, Because the gods thou fear’st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are!

I say: Fear not! Life still Leaves 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 harp below are again heard, and_ CALLICLES _sings_:--

Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills; and there The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, And by the sea, and in the brakes. The grass is cool, the sea-side air Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers More 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 seashore, 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 stayed long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children rolled, Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A gray 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 Forever 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 failed 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 lightened 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._