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 my 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.

ACT II.

Evening. The Summit of Etna.

EMPEDOCLES.

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 himself
Find 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 overlaid

The 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!

He advances to the edge of the crater. Smoke and fire break forth

with a loud noise, and CALLICLES is heard below singing :

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 imbed 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 deplore

The ancient rout by the Cilician hills,

And that cursed treachery on the Mount of Gore?

Do thy bloodshot eyes still see

The fight that crowned thy ills,

Thy last defeat in this Sicilian sea?

Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair,

Where erst the strong sea-currents sucked thee

down,

Never to cease to writhe, and try to sleep,

Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair?

That thy groans, like thunder deep,

Begin to roll, and almost drown

The sweet notes, whose lulling spell

Gods and the race of mortals love so well,

When through thy caves thou hearest music swell?

But an awful pleasure bland

Spreading 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 beck

Of the appeasing gracious harmony,

Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feathered neck,

Nestling nearer to Jove's feet;

While o'er his sovereign eye

The curtains of the blue films slowly meet.

And the white Olympus peaks

Rosily brighten, and the soothed Gods smile

At one another from their golden chairs,