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._ ACT II _Evening. The Summit of Etna._ EMPEDOCLES Alone!-- On this charr'd, blacken'd, melancholy waste, Crown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth. Round which the sullen vapour rolls--alone! Pausanias is far hence, and that is well, For I must henceforth speak no more with man He hath his lesson too, and that debt's paid; And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man, May bravelier front his life, and in himself Find henceforth energy and heart. But I-- The weary man, the banish'd citizen, Whose banishment is not his greatest ill, Whose weariness no energy can reach, And for whose hurt courage is not the cure-- What should I do with life and living more?