Empedocles on Etna

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 toiled 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 crushed in the wet grass,One’s breath curls in the air; and on these pinesThat climb from the stream’s edge, the long gray tufts,Which the goats love, are jewelled 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 followed, 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, mixed with the song of birds,Rise faintly to me: now it stops!--Who’s here?Pausanias! and on foot? alone?

And thou, then?I left thee supping with Peisianax,With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crowned,Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee,And praised and spoiled by master and by guestsAlmost as much as the new dancing-girl.Why hast thou followed us?

The night was hot,And the feast past its prime: so we slipped out,Some of us, to the portico to breathe,--Peisianax, thou know’st, drinks late,--and then,As I was lifting my soiled 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 followed you,Passed you a little since as morning dawned,And have this hour sate by the torrent here,Till the slow mules should climb in sight again.And now?

And now, back to the town with speed!Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have passed;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.

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, forever; such a spellIn his severe looks, such a majestyAs drew of old the people after him,In Agrigentum and Olympia,When his star reigned, before his banishment,Is potent still on me in his decline.But, O 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 sojourned 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.

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 past), he would have paid thy strainWith 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,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,And 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.

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 thou persuaded himIn this his present fierce, man-hating mood,To bring thee out with him alone on Etna?

Thou hast heard all men speaking of Pantheia,The woman who at Agrigentum layThirty long days in a cold trance of death,And whom Empedocles called 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 banished,And lives a lonely man in triple gloom,--He grasps the very reins of life and death.I asked him of Pantheia yesterday,When we were gathered 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.

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 banished; 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 unfollowed 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.

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 passed;Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night!

SCENE II.--Noon. A Glen on the highest skirts of the woody region ofEtna.

The noon is hot. When we have crossed 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!

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 touched a harp.Hark! there again!

’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 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 prayed thee.

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.

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!

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.

Hist! once more!Listen, Pausanias!--Ay, ’tis Callicles;I know those notes among a thousand. Hark!

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-watered dellsOn Etna; and the beamOf noon is broken there by chestnut-boughsDown its steep verdant sides; the airIs freshened by the leaping stream, which throwsEternal showers of spray on the mossed rootsOf trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shootsOf ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bellsOf 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 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 groundChiron, the aged Centaur, lay,The young Achilles standing by.The Centaur taught him to exploreThe 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 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 place,And rest in the immortal mead;And all the wisdom of his race.

The out-spread world to span,A 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 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 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 obeyed.

And why is it, that stillMan with his lot thus fights?’Tis that he makes this willThe measure of his rights,And believes nature outraged if his will’s gainsaid.

Couldst thou, Pausanias, learnHow deep a fault is this;Couldst thou but once discernThou hast no right to bliss,No title from the gods to welfare and repose,--

Then thou wouldst look less mazedWhene’er of bliss debarred,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 quenched or no.

Nor is that 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 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 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,Unaltered to retain,The 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 amassed;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 professedTo those he brings from home,--We mark not the world’s course, but would have it take ours.

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 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 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 missedThings 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’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 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 only is,--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 imbitter 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 scrutinize 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 rightened, how betrayed,--And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed.

But still, as we proceed,The mass swells more and moreOf 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 inThe 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 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 enamoured 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 entombed,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 failed to impartThe joy our youth forebodes,Failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear.

“Changeful till now, we stillLooked 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 mocked 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 but moderate bliss?

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

Is it so small a thingTo have enjoyed the sun,To have lived light in the spring,To have loved, to have thought, to have doneTo 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-tasked sunburnt wife,His often-labored fields,The boors with whom he talked, 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!

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 seashore,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 stayed long enough to see,In Thebes, the billow of calamityOver 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 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 strayForever through the glens, placid and dumb.

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.

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.

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.

Alone!On this charred, blackened, melancholy waste,Crowned by the awful peak, Etna’s great mouth,Round which the sullen vapor rolls,--alone!Pausanias is far hence, and that is well,For I must henceforth speak no more with man.He has his lesson too, and that debt’s paid;And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man,May bravelier front his life, and in himselfFind henceforth energy and heart. But I,--The weary man, the banished 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 impaired 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 servants, hear Empedocles,Who asks this final service at your hands!Before the sophist-brood hath overlaidThe last spark of man’s consciousness with words;Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world,Be disarrayed 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!

The lyre’s voice is lovely everywhere;In the court of gods, 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 embed 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-crushed frame?Doth thy fierce soul still deploreThine ancient rout by the Cilician hills,And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore?Do thy bloodshot eyes still weepThe fight which crowned thine ills,Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep?Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair,Where erst the strong sea-currents sucked 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 drownThe sweet notes whose lulling spellGods and the race of mortals love so well,When through thy caves thou hearest music swell?

But an awful pleasure blandSpreading 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 beckOf the appeasing, gracious harmony,Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feathered neck,Nestling nearer to Jove’s feet;While o’er his sovran eyeThe curtains of the blue films slowly meet.And the white Olympus-peaksRosily brighten, and the soothed gods smileAt one another from their golden chairs,And no one round the charmed circle speaks.Only the loved Hebe bearsThe cup about, whose draughts beguilePain and care, with a dark storeOf fresh-pulled violets wreathed and nodding o’er;And her flushed feet glow on the marble floor.

He fables, yet speaks truth!The brave impetuous heart yields everywhereTo the subtle, contriving head;Great qualities are trodden down,And littleness unitedIs become invincible.

These rumblings are not Typho’s groans, I know!These angry smoke-burstsAre not the passionate breathOf the mountain-crushed, tortured, intractable Titan king;But over all the worldWhat suffering is there not seenOf plainness oppressed by cunning,As the well-counselled Zeus oppressedThat self-helping son of earth!What anguish of greatness,Railed and hunted from the world,Because its simplicity rebukesThis envious, miserable age!

I am weary of it.--Lie there, ye ensignsOf my unloved pre-eminenceIn an age like this!Among a people of children,Who thronged me in their cities,Who worshipped me in their houses,And asked, not wisdom,But drugs to charm with,But spells to mutterAll the fool’s-armory of magic! Lie there,My golden circlet,My purple robe!

As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day,And makes the massed clouds roll,The music of the lyre blows awayThe clouds which wrap the soul.

Oh that fate had let me seeThat triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,That famous, final victoryWhen jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire!

When, from far Parnassus’ side,Young Apollo, all the prideOf the Phrygian flutes to tame,To the Phrygian highlands came;Where the long green reed-beds swayIn the rippled waters grayOf that solitary lakeWhere Mæander’s springs are born;Where the ridged pine-wooded rootsOf 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 sunTouched the hills, the strife was done,And the attentive muses said,--“Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!”Then Apollo’s ministerHanged upon a branching firMarsyas, that unhappy Faun,And began to whet his knife.But the Mænads, who were there,Left their friend, and with robes flowingIn the wind, and loose dark hairO’er their polished bosoms blowing,Each her ribboned tambourineFlinging on the mountain-sod,With a lovely frightened mienCame about the youthful god.But he turned his beauteous faceHaughtily another way,From the grassy sun-warmed placeWhere 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 goneTo the glimmering mountain lakes,And had torn up by the rootsThe tall crested water-reedsWith long plumes and soft brown seeds,And had carved them into flutes,Sitting on a tabled stoneWhere the shoreward ripple breaks.And he taught him how to pleaseThe red-snooded Phrygian girls,Whom the summer evening seesFlashing in the dance’s whirlsUnderneath the starlit treesIn the mountain villages.Therefore now Olympus stands,At his master’s piteous criesPressing fast with both his handsHis white garment to his eyes,Not to see Apollo’s scorn.--Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!

And lie thou there,My laurel bough!Scornful Apollo’s ensign, lie thou there!Though thou hast been my shade in the world’s heat,Though I have loved thee, lived in honoring thee,Yet lie thou there,My laurel bough!

I am weary of thee.I am weary of the solitudeWhere he who bears thee must abide,--Of the rocks of Parnassus,Of the gorge of Delphi,Of the moonlight peaks, and the caves.Thou guardest them, Apollo!Over the grave of the slain Pytho,Though young, intolerably severe!Thou keepest aloof the profane,But the solitude oppresses thy votary.The jars of men reach him not in thy valley,But can life reach him?Thou fencest him from the multitude:Who will fence him from himself?He hears nothing but the cry of the torrents,And the beating of his own heart;The air is thin, the veins swell,The temples tighten and throb there--Air! air!

Take thy bough, set me free from my solitude;I have been enough alone!

Where shall thy votary fly, then? back to men?But they will gladly welcome him once more,And help him to unbend his too tense thought,And rid him of the presence of himself,And keep their friendly chatter at his ear,And haunt him, till the absence from himself,That other torment, grow unbearable;And he will fly to solitude again,And he will find its air too keen for him,And so change back; and many thousand timesBe miserably bandied to and froLike a sea-wave, betwixt the world and thee,Thou young, implacable god! and only deathShall cut his oscillations short, and soBring him to poise. There is no other way.

And yet what days were those, Parmenides!When we were young, when we could number friendsIn all the Italian cities like ourselves;When with elated hearts we joined your train,Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.Then we could still enjoy, then neither thoughtNor outward things were closed and dead to us;But we received the shock of mighty thoughtsOn simple minds with a pure natural joy;And if the sacred load oppressed our brain,We had the power to feel the pressure eased,The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again,In the delightful commerce of the world.We had not lost our balance then, nor grownThought’s slaves, and dead to every natural joy.The smallest thing could give us pleasure then,--The sports of the country-people,A flute-note from the woods,Sunset over the sea;Seed-time and harvest,The reapers in the corn,The vinedresser in his vineyard,The village-girl at her wheel.

Fulness of life and power of feeling, yeAre for the happy, for the souls at ease,Who dwell on a firm basis of content!But he who has outlived his prosperous days;But he whose youth fell on a different worldFrom that on which his exiled age is thrown,--Whose mind was fed on other food, was trainedBy other rules than are in vogue to-day;Whose habit of thought is fixed, who will not change,But, in a world he loves not, must subsistIn ceaseless opposition, be the guardOf his own breast, fettered to what he guards,That the world win no mastery over him;Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one;Who has no minute’s breathing-space allowedTo nurse his dwindling faculty of joy,--Joy and the outward world must die to him,As they are dead to me.

A long pause, during which EMPEDOCLES remains motionless,plunged in thought. The night deepens.He moves forward, and gazes around him, and proceeds:--

And yon, ye stars,Who slowly begin to marshal,As of old, in the fields of heaven,Your distant, melancholy lines!Have you, too, survived yourselves?Are you, too, what I fear to become?You too once lived;You too moved joyfully,Among august companions,In an older world, peopled by gods,In a mightier order,The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent sons of heaven.But now ye kindleYour lonely, cold-shining lights,Unwilling lingerersIn the heavenly wilderness,For a younger, ignoble world;And renew, by necessity,Night after night your courses,In echoing, unneared silence,Above a race you know not,Uncaring and undelighted,Without friend and without home;Weary like us, though notWeary with our weariness.

No, no, ye stars! there is no death with you,No languor, no decay! languor and death,They are with me, not you! ye are alive,--Ye, and the pure dark ether where ye rideBrilliant above me! And thou, fiery world,That sapp’st the vitals of this terrible mountUpon whose charred and quaking crust I stand,--Thou, too, brimmest with life! the sea of cloud,That heaves its white and billowy vapors upTo moat this isle of ashes from the world,Lives; and that other fainter sea, far down,O’er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams leadsTo Etna’s Lipareän sister-firesAnd the long dusky line of Italy,--That mild and luminous floor of waters lives,With held-in joy swelling its heart: I only,Whose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit has failed,I, who have not, like these, in solitudeMaintained courage and force, and in myselfNursed an immortal vigor,--I aloneAm dead to life and joy, therefore I readIn all things my own deadness.

Oh that I could glow like this mountain!Oh that my heart bounded with the swell of the sea!Oh that my soul were full of light as the stars!Oh that it brooded over the world like the air!

But no, this heart will glow no more; thou artA living man no more, Empedocles!Nothing but a devouring flame of thought,--But a naked, eternally restless mind!

To the elements it came from,Every thing will return,--Our bodies to earth,Our blood to water,Heat to fire,Breath to air:They were well born, they will be well entombed.But mind?...

And we might gladly share the fruitful stirDown in our mother earth’s miraculous womb;Well would it beWith what rolled of us in the stormy main;We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air,Or with the nimble, radiant life of fire.

But mind, but thought,If these have been the master part of us,--Where will they find their parent element?What will receive them, who will call them home?But we shall still be in them, and they in us;And we shall be the strangers of the world;And they will be our lords, as they are now,And keep us prisoners of our consciousness,And never let us clasp and feel the AllBut through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils.And we shall be unsatisfied as now;And we shall feel the agony of thirst,The ineffable longing for the life of lifeBaffled forever; and still thought and mindWill hurry us with them on their homeless marchOver the unallied unopening earth,Over the unrecognizing sea; while airWill blow us fiercely back to sea and earth,And fire repel us from its living waves.And then we shall unwillingly returnBack to this meadow of calamity,This uncongenial place, this human life:And in our individual human stateGo through the sad probation all again,To see if we will poise our life at last,To see if we will now at last be trueTo our own only true, deep-buried selves,Being one with which, we are one with the whole world;Or whether we will once more fall awayInto the bondage of the flesh or mind,Some slough of sense, or some fantastic mazeForged by the imperious lonely thinking-power.And each succeeding age in which we are bornWill have more peril for us than the last;Will goad our senses with a sharper spur,Will fret our minds to an intenser play,Will make ourselves harder to be discerned.And we shall struggle a while, gasp and rebel;And we shall fly for refuge to past times,Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness;And the reality will pluck us back,Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature.And we shall feel our powers of effort flag,And rally them for one last fight--and fail;And we shall sink in the impossible strife,And be astray forever.Slave of senseI have in no wise been; but slave of thought?And who can say: I have been always free,Lived ever in the light of my own soul?I cannot; I have lived in wrath and gloom,Fierce, disputatious, ever at war with man,Far from my own soul, far from warmth and light;But I have not grown easy in these bonds,But I have not denied what bonds these were.Yea, I take myself to witness,That I have loved no darkness,Sophisticated no truth,Nursed no dlusion,Allowed no fear!

And therefore, O ye elements! I know know--Ye know it too--it hath been granted meNot to die wholly, not to be all enslaved.I feel it in this hour. The numbing cloudMounts off my soul; I feel it, I breathe free.

Is it but for a moment?--Ah, boil up, ye vapors!Leap and roar, thou sea of fire!My soul glows to meet you.Ere it flag, ere the mistsOf despondency and gloomRush over it again,Receive me, save me!

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,Thick breaks the red flame;All Etna heaves fiercelyHer forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo!Are haunts meet for thee;But where Helicon breaks downIn cliff to the sea,--

Where the moon-silvered inletsSend far their light voiceUp the still vale of Thisbe,--Oh, speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-topLie strewn the white flocks:On the cliff-side the pigeonsRoost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,Soft lulled by the rills,Lie wrapped in their blanketsAsleep on the hills.

--What forms are these comingSo white through the gloom?What garments out-glisteningThe gold-flowered broom?

What sweet-breathing presenceOut-perfumes the thyme?What voices enraptureThe night’s balmy prime?

’Tis Apollo comes leadingHis choir, the Nine.The leader is fairest,But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows!They stream up again!What seeks on this mountainThe glorified train?

They bathe on this mountain,In the spring by their road;Then on to Olympus,Their endless abode.

--Whose praise do they mention?Of what is it told?What will be forever,What was from of old.

First hymn they the FatherOf all things; and then,The rest of immortals,The action of men.

The day in his hotness,The strife with the palm;The night in her silence,The stars in their calm.