Act I

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?