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

Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass'd;

Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night!

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,1

Are shining on those naked slopes like flame!
Let us rest here; and now, Empedocles,

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,

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 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,

To know those spells of thine 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?

'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!-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-water'd dells
On Etna; and the beam

Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs

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
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,

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