O mother, my best diligence shall be In all by thy experience to be ruled Where my own youth falls short! But, Laias, now, First work after such victory, let us go To render to my true Messenians thanks, To the Gods grateful sacrifice; and then, Assume the ensigns of my father's power. _The Chorus_ Son of Cresphontes, past what perils Com'st thou, guided safe, to thy home! What things daring! what enduring! And all this by the will of the Gods. EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA A DRAMATIC POEM PERSONS EMPEDOCLES. PAUSANIAS, _a Physician_. CALLICLES, _a young Harp-player_. _The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna; at first in the forest region, afterwards on the summit of the mountain_. ACT I. SCENE I. _Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna._ CALLICLES (_Alone, resting on a rock by the path._) The mules, I think, will not be here this hour; They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, How gracious is the mountain at this hour! A thousand times have I been here alone, Or with the revellers from the mountain-towns, But never on so fair a morn;--the sun Is shining on the brilliant mountain-crests, And on the highest pines; but farther down, Here in the valley, is in shade; the sward Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; One sees one's footprints crush'd in the wet grass, One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts, Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew. Here will I stay till the slow litter comes. I have my harp too--that is well.--Apollo! What mortal could be sick or sorry here? I know not in what mind Empedocles, Whose mules I follow'd, may be coming up, But if, as most men say, he is half mad With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. The mules must be below, far down. I hear Their tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds, Rise faintly to me--now it stops!--Who's here? Pausanias! and on foot? alone? _Pausanias_ And thou, then? I left thee supping with Peisianax, With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd, Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee, And praised and spoil'd by master and by guests Almost as much as the new dancing-girl. Why hast thou follow'd us? _Callicles_