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.
More than a day and night, Pausanias,
Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills,
Would I bestow to help Empedocles.
That needs no thanks: one is far better here
