Poetry · Empedocles on Etna (2/3) (2/2) (2/2)

| | Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills; and there The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, And by the sea, and in the brakes. The grass is cool, the sea-side air Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers As virginal and sweet as ours. And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, Bask in the glens or on the warm seashore, In breathless quiet, after all their ills. Nor do they see their country, nor the place Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, Nor the unhappy palace of their race, Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes. They had stay’d long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children roll’d, Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A grey old man and woman; yet of old The Gods had to their marriage come, And at the banquet all the Muses sang. Therefore they did not end their days In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away, To where the west wind plays, And murmurs of the Adriatic come To those untrodden mountain lawns; and there Placed safely in changed forms, the Pair Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, And all that Theban woe, and stray For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. | | Empedocles | That was my harp-player again!⁠—where is he? Down by the stream? | | Pausanias | Yes, Master, in the wood. | | Empedocles | He ever loved the Theban story well! But the day wears. Go now, Pausanias, For I must be alone. Leave me one mule; Take down with thee the rest to Catana. And for young Callicles, thank him from me; Tell him, I never fail’d to love his lyre: But he must follow me no more to-night. | | Pausanias | Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city? | | 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 mine 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 lighten’d 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. |