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
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
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

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,

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

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,

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.

[DRAM. & LYR.]

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 nights

In trance Pantheia lay,

But ask how thou such sights

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

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,

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 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

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

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;

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 have

Fails their own will to please;

For man would make no murmuring, were his will

obey'd.

And why is it, that still

Man with his lot thus fights?

'Tis that he makes this will

The measure of his rights,

And believes Nature outraged if his will's gainsaid.

Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn

How deep a fault is this!

Couldst thou but once discern

Thou hast no right to bliss,

No title from the Gods to welfare and repose;