The night was hot, And the feast past its prime: so we slipped out, Some of us, to the portico to breathe,-- Peisianax, thou know’st, drinks late,--and then, As I was lifting my soiled garland off, I saw the mules and litter in the court, And in the litter sate Empedocles; Thou too wast with him. Straightway I sped home; I saddled my white mule, and all night long Through the cool lovely country followed you, Passed you a little since as morning dawned, 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 passed; 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 wouldst not vex him. CALLICLES. No; and yet 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 And kingly gait, forever; 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 reigned, before his banishment, Is potent still on me in his decline. But, O 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, ’Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. Thou know’st of old he loved this harp of mine, When first he sojourned with Peisianax; He is now always moody, and I fear him; But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, Dared one but try. PAUSANIAS.