Ideas Latmus.

In i-onia whence sprang old Poets fame,
From whom that Sea did first derive her name,
The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,
Beauty of Greece , the pride of Asia ,
Whence Archelaus whom times historifie,
First unto Athens brought Phylosophie.
In this faire Region on a goodly Plaine,
Stretching her bounds unto the bordring Maine,
The Mountaine Latmus over-lookes the Sea,
Smiling to see the Ocean billowes play:
Latmus , where young Endimion usd to keepe
His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheepe.

And lie thou there,
My laurel bough!
Scornful Apollo's ensign, lie thou there!
Though thou hast been my shade in the world's heat ÔÇô
Though I have loved thee, lived in honouring thee ÔÇô
Yet lie there,
My laurel bough!
I am weary of thee.
I am weary of the solitude
Where he who bears thee must abide ÔÇô
Of the rocks of Parnassus,
Of the gorge of Delphi,
Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves.
Thou guardest them, Apollo!
Over the grave of the slain Pytho,
Though young, intolerably severe!
Thou keepest aloof the profane,

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,
Thick breaks the red flame;
All Etna heaves fiercely
Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo!
Are haunts meet for thee.
But, where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea,

Where the moon-silver'd inlets
Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,
O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top
Lie strewn the white flocks,
On the cliff-side the pigeons
Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lull'd by the rills,

But mind, but thought--
If these have been the master part of us--
Where will they find their parent element?
What will receive them, who will call them home?
But we shall still be in them, and they in us,
And we shall be the strangers of the world,
And they will be our lords, as they are now,
And keep us prisoners of our consciousness,
And never let us clasp and feel the All
But through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils.
And we shall be unsatisfied as now,
And we shall feel the agony of thirst,

Is it so small a thing
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

That we must feign a bliss
Of doubtful future date,
And while we dream on this
Lose all our present state,
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

Not much, I know, you prize
What pleasures may be had,
Who look on life with eyes
Estranged, like mine, and sad:
And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes.
The grass is cool, the sea-side air
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers
More virginal and sweet than ours.
And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,
Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia,
Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore,
In breathless quiet, after all their ills;
Nor do they see their country, nor the place

PERSONS

EMPEDOCLES

PAUSANIAS, a Physician

CALLICLES, a young Harp-player

The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna; at first in the forest region, afterwards on the summit of the mountain

ACT I: SCENE I

Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna

CALLICLES
(Alone, resting on a rock by the path)
The mules, I think, will not be here this hour;
They feel the cool wet turf under their feet
By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes

D ONALD B AN

I

'Twas here, upon this very spot,
Where weeds so wildly grow,
Old Donald's log-built cabin stood
Full thirty years ago.
Erect he was, and tall and fair,
The perfect type of man,
And Highland bards had sung of him
As stalwart Donald Ban.

He was a hunter in his youth,
Had travel'd far and wide,
And knew each hill and vale and stream

THE I NDIAN B ATTLE

I

This happen'd (I forget the year)
Shortly after we came here.
All upon a summer day
Was I busy with the hay.
While I paus'd to wipe my face,
I could see, with hurried pace,
Someone coming down the hill —
What! can that be Lazy Bill?
Sure there's something in the blast
When poor Billy runs so fast!
Up he came, and down he sat,
Puffed, and laid aside his hat;
Wiped the sweat from off his face:
" Oh, my vitals, what a race!

THE Log C ABIN

The little log cabin is far in the woods,
And the foot of the wayfarer seldom comes there.
Around it are stretching the great solitudes,
Where the deer loves to roam, and the wolf makes his lair,
And the Red Man crawls on the surly bear,
And the dead tree falls with a heavy crash;
And the jagged hemlock and pine are there,
And the dismal swamp and the dreary ash,