One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines
That climb from the stream's edge, the long gray tufts,
Which the goats love, are jewelled 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 followed, 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, mixed 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 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;
