Mount Etna, a scene of the title work
Empedocles on Etna
Greek.
A DRAMATIC POEM
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.
ACT I: SCENE I
A Pass in the forest region of Etna. Morning
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 feet
By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes
In which they have toil’d all night from Catana,
And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan! 5
How gracious is the mountain at this hour!
A thousand times have I been here alone
Or with the revellers from the mountain towns,
But never on so fair a morn; — the sun
Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests, 10
And on the highest pines: but further down
Here in the valley is in shade; the sward
Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs;
One sees one’s foot-prints crush’d in the wet grass,
One’s breath curls in the air; and on these pines 15
That climb from the stream’s edge, the long grey tufts.
Which the goats love, are jewell’d thick with dew.
Here will I stay till the slow litter comes.
I have my harp too — that is well. — Apollo!
What mortal could be sick or sorry here? 20
I know not in what mind Empedocles,
Whose mules I follow’d, may be coming up,
But if, as most men say, he is half mad
With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs,
Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, 25
Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure.
The mules must be below, far down. I hear
Their tinkling bells, mix’d with the song of birds,
Rise faintly to me — now it stops! — Who’s here?
Pausanias! and on foot? alone?
PAUSANIAS
And thou, then? 30
I left thee supping with Peisianax,
With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown’d,
Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee,
And prais’d and spoil’d by master and by guests
Almost as much as the new dancing girl. 35
Why hast thou follow’d us?
CALLICLES
The night was hot,
And the least past its prime; so we slipp’d out,
Some of us, to the portico to breathe; —
Peisianax, thou know’st, drinks late; — and then,
As I was lifting my soil’d garland off, 40
I saw the mules and litter in the court,
And in the litter sate Empedocles;
Thou, too, wert with him. Straightway I sped home;
I saddled my white mule, and all night long
Through the cool lovely country follow’d you, 45
Pass’d you a little since as morning dawn’d,
And have this hour sate by the torrent here,
Till the slow mules should climb in sight again.
And now?
PAUSANIAS
And now, back to the town with speed!
Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass’d; 50
They do but halt, they will be here anon.
Thou must be viewless to Empedocles;
Save mine, he must not meet a human eye.
One of his moods is on him that thou know’st.
I think, thou would’st not vex him.
CALLICLES
No — and yet 55
I would fain stay and help thee tend him; once
He knew me well, and would oft notice me.
And still, I know not how, he draws me to him,
And I could watch him with his proud sad face,
His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow 60
And kingly gait, for ever; such a spell
In his severe looks, such a majesty
As drew of old the people after him,
In Agrigentum and Olympia,
When his star reign’d, before his banishment, 65
Is potent still on me in his decline.
But oh, Pausanias, he is changed of late!
There is a settled trouble in his air
Admits no momentary brightening now;
And when he comes among his friends at feasts, 70
‘Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys.
Thou know’st of old he loved this harp of mine,
When first he sojourn’d with Peisianax;
He is now always moody, and I fear him.
But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, 75
Dared one but try.
PAUSANIAS
Thou wert a kind child ever.
He loves thee, but he must not see thee now.
Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp,
He loves that in thee, too; there was a time
(But that is pass’d) he would have paid thy strain 80
With music to have drawn the stars from heaven.
He has his harp and laurel with him still,
But he has laid the use of music by,
And all which might relax his settled gloom.
Yet thou may’st try thy playing if thou wilt, 85
But thou must keep unseen; follow us on,
But at a distance; in these solitudes,
In this clear mountain air, a voice will rise,
Though from afar, distinctly; it may soothe him.
Play when we halt, and, when the evening comes 90
And I must leave him (for his pleasure is
To be left musing these soft nights alone
In the high unfrequented mountain spots),
Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far,
Sometimes to Etna’s top, and to the cone; 95
But hide thee in the rocks a great way down,
And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles,
With the sweet night to help thy harmony.
Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his.
CALLICLES
More than a day and night, Pausanias, 100
Of this fair summer weather, on these hills,
Would I bestow to help Empedocles.
That needs no thanks; one is far better here
Than in the broiling city in these heats.
But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him 105
In this his present fierce, man-hating mood,
To bring thee out with him alone on Etna?
PAUSANIAS
Thou hast heard all men speaking of Pantheia,
The woman who at Agrigentum lay
Thirty long days in a cold trance of death, 110
And whom Empedocles call’d back to life.
Thou art too young to note it, but his power
Swells with the swelling evil of this time,
And holds men mute to see where it will rise.
He could stay swift diseases in old days, 115
Chain madmen by the music of his lyre,
Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of poisonous streams,
And in the mountain chinks inter the winds.
This he could do of old; but now, since all
Clouds and grows daily worse in Sicily, 120
Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm
Of sophists has got empire in our schools
Where he was paramount, since he is banish’d,
And lives a lonely man in triple gloom,
He grasps the very reins of life and death. 125
I ask’d him of Pantheia yeste
rday,
When we were gather’d with Peisianax,
And he made answer, I should come at night
On Etna here, and be alone with him,
And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend, 130
Who still was faithful, what might profit me;
That is, the secret of this miracle.
CALLICLES
Bah! Thou a doctor? Thou art superstitious.
Simple Pausanias, ‘twas no miracle!
Pantheia, for I know her kinsmen well, 135
Was subject to these trances from a girl.
Empedocles would say so, did he deign;
But he still lets the people, whom he scorns,
Gape and cry wizard at him, if they list.
But thou, thou art no company for him; 140
Thou art as cross, as soured as himself.
Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens,
And then thy friend is banish’d, and on that,
Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times,
As if the sky was impious not to fall. 145
The sophists are no enemies of his;
I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him,
As of his gifted master and once friend.
He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter.
‘Tis not the times, ‘tis not the sophists vex him; 150
There is some root of suffering in himself,
Some secret and unfollow’d vein of woe,
Which makes the time look black and sad to him.
Pester him not in this his sombre mood
With questionings about an idle tale, 155
But lead him through the lovely mountain paths,
And keep his mind from preying on itself,
And talk to him of things at hand and common,
Not miracles; thou art a learned man,
But credulous of fables as a girl. 160
PAUSANIAS
And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge,
And on whose lightness blame is thrown away.
Enough of this! I see the litter wind
Up by the torrent-side, under the pines.
I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou 165
Crouch in the brush-wood till the mules have pass’d;
Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night!
Act I. 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 cross’d 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, 5
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, 10
And we were not so far from human haunt,
I should have said that some one touch’d a harp.
Hark! there again!
PAUSANIAS
‘Tis the boy Callicles,
The sweetest harp-player in Catana,
He is for ever coming on these hills, 15
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, 20
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 Gods
Visit us as they do with sign and plague, 25
To know those spells of time that 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 thy own words? 30
‘The wit and counsel of man was never clear,
Troubles confuse 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! — Aye, ‘tis Callicles! 35
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, 40
Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,
Knee-deep in the cool ford; for ‘tis the last
Of all the woody, high, well-water’d dells
On Etna; and the beam
Of noon is broken there by chestnut boughs 45
Down its steep verdant sides; the air
Is freshen’d by the leaping stream, which throws
Eternal showers of spray on the moss’d roots
Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots
Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells 50
Of 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 glare
Of the hot noon, without a shade, 55
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, 60
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, 65
And 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 lore 70
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 75
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 80
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, 85
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 90
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, 95
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 100
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, 105
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 110
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 world;
Thou feelest thy soul’s frame 115
Shaken and rudely hurl’d.
What? life and time go hard with thee too, as with us;
Thy citizens, ‘tis said,
Envy thee and oppress,
Thy goodness no men aid, 120
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, 125
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 wight 130
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 135
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, 140
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, 145
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? —
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Page 7