I am weary of it. --Lie there, ye ensigns Of my unloved pre-eminence In an age like this! Among a people of children, Who thronged me in their cities, Who worshipped me in their houses, And asked, not wisdom, But drugs to charm with, But spells to mutter All the fool’s-armory of magic! Lie there, My golden circlet, My purple robe! CALLICLES (_from below_). As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day, And makes the massed clouds roll, The music of the lyre blows away The clouds which wrap the soul. Oh that fate had let me see That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, That famous, final victory When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire! When, from far Parnassus’ side, Young Apollo, all the pride Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, To the Phrygian highlands came; Where the long green reed-beds sway In the rippled waters gray Of that solitary lake Where Mæander’s springs are born; Where the ridged pine-wooded roots Of Messogis westward break, Mounting westward, high and higher. There was held the famous strife; There the Phrygian brought his flutes, And Apollo brought his lyre; And, when now the westering sun Touched the hills, the strife was done, And the attentive muses said,-- “Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!” Then Apollo’s minister Hanged upon a branching fir Marsyas, that unhappy Faun, And began to whet his knife. But the Mænads, who were there, Left their friend, and with robes flowing In the wind, and loose dark hair O’er their polished bosoms blowing, Each her ribboned tambourine Flinging on the mountain-sod, With a lovely frightened mien Came about the youthful god. But he turned his beauteous face Haughtily another way, From the grassy sun-warmed place Where in proud repose he lay, With one arm over his head, Watching how the whetting sped. But aloof, on the lake-strand, Did the young Olympus stand, Weeping at his master’s end; For the Faun had been his friend. For he taught him how to sing, And he taught him flute-playing. Many a morning had they gone To the glimmering mountain lakes, And had torn up by the roots The tall crested water-reeds With long plumes and soft brown seeds, And had carved them into flutes, Sitting on a tabled stone Where the shoreward ripple breaks. And he taught him how to please The red-snooded Phrygian girls, Whom the summer evening sees Flashing in the dance’s whirls Underneath the starlit trees In the mountain villages. Therefore now Olympus stands, At his master’s piteous cries Pressing fast with both his hands His white garment to his eyes, Not to see Apollo’s scorn.-- Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun! EMPEDOCLES.