And of the life which heroes lead
Before they reach the Elysian place,
And rest in the immortal mead;
And all the wisdom of his race.
The music below ceases, and Empedocles speaks, accompanying himself in a solemn manner on his harp.
The out-spread world to span,
A cord the gods first slung,
And then the soul of man
There, like a mirror, hung,
And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy.
Hither and thither spins
The wind-borne, mirroring soul;
A thousand glimpses wins,
And never sees a whole;
Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ.
The gods laugh in their sleeve
To watch man doubt and fear,
Who knows not what to believe
Since he sees nothing clear,
And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing sure.
Is this, Pausanias, so?
And can our souls not strive,
But with the winds must go,
And hurry where they drive?
Is Fate indeed so strong, man's strength indeed so poor?
