And thou, then?
I left thee supping with Peisianax,
With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crowned,
Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee,
And praised and spoiled by master and by guests
Almost as much as the new dancing-girl.
Why hast thou followed us?
CALLICLES.
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.
Thou wast a kind child ever.
He loves thee, but he must not see thee now.
Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp;
He loves that in thee, too; there was a time
(But that is past), he would have paid thy strain
With music to have drawn the stars from heaven.
He has his harp and laurel with him still;
But he has laid the use of music by,
And all which might relax his settled gloom.
Yet thou may’st try thy playing, if thou wilt,
But thou must keep unseen: follow us on,
But at a distance! in these solitudes,
In this clear mountain air, a voice will rise,
Though from afar, distinctly; it may soothe him.
Play when we halt; and when the evening comes,
And I must leave him (for his pleasure is
To be left musing these soft nights alone
In the high unfrequented mountain spots),
Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far,
Sometimes to Etna’s top, and to the cone;
But hide thee in the rocks a great way down,
And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles,
With the sweet night to help thy harmony!
Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his.
CALLICLES.