CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
^■■^' ^ 
 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY AND POETS 
 
 BY HENRY ALFORD, M.A. 
 
 TICA.K OP WTMESWOLD, LEICESTEESHIRE, AND LATE FELLOW OF 
 TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 VOL I. . 
 THE POETS OF ANCIENT GREECE. 
 

 ^ 
 
 C H A P r M R S 
 
 
 ON THE 
 
 
 POETS OF ANCIENT GREECE. 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 HENRY ALFORD, M.A. 
 
 
 VICAR OF VVYMESWOLD, LEICESTERSHIRE, AND LATE FELLOW OF 
 
 
 TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 , 
 
 
 i 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 i 
 
 WHITTAKER & Co.j SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & Co. 
 
 1 
 
 DEARDEN, NOTTINGHAM. 
 
 
 1841. 
 
 1 
 
W. DEARDEN, PRINTER, NOTTINGHAM. 
 
 % 
 
 g RMC ^ 
 
REV. JOHN ALLEN, M.A. 
 
 HEAD MASTER OF KING EDWARD SIXTH 's SCHOOL, 
 
 AT ILMINSTER, 
 
 AND PERPETUAL CURATE OP KNOWLE ST. GILES's, SOMERSET, 
 
 STJiese ©j^s^tWB art tfttiitnU^, 
 
 IN AFFECTIONATE AND GKATEITUL RECOLLECTION OF THE HAPPY TIME 
 
 SPENT IN ACQUIRING, UNDER HIM, THE FIRST KNOWLEDGE 
 
 OF THE POETS OF ANCIENT GREECE, 
 
 BY HIS 
 
 EVER ATTACHED FRIEND AND PUPIL. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The greater part of the following Chapters have already- 
 appeared in Dearden's Miscellany. My design in writ- 
 ing them was this: that persons unacquainted with the 
 originals, but lovers of poesy, might be put in possession 
 of some of the principal beauties of these ancient poets of 
 Greece. I have therefore endeavoured to avoid, as much 
 as possible, ground on which none but scholars can tread, 
 and have attempted to invest with general poetic interest 
 those points of classical lore on which I have been com- 
 pelled to touch. 
 
 This series is not, nor was it intended to be, complete : 
 a projected chapter on Pindar has been unavoidably de- 
 layed, and [ would willingly have taken in more of the 
 perfect dramas of Sophocles, and the touching scenes of 
 Euripides. But this may be done hereafter. 
 
 Meanwhile the publication of the present series may 
 serve as a feeler for the probable success of any future 
 renewal of the plan. 
 
 I have to offer my thanks to Mr. Lewis, the publisher of 
 the print which forms my frontispiece, for his kind per- 
 mission to copy the same. 
 
 Wymeswold, Nov. 23, 1840, 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 This print of the sacrifice of Iphigeneia is copied from an ancient pic- 
 ture found at Pompeii. The attendants are in the act of carrying the 
 virgin to the altar; her body is bared for the slaughter ; Agamemnon, her 
 father, stands on the left, with his face concealed in his robe: Calchas, 
 the minister of death, holds the fatal knife ready for the sacrifice. Above 
 in the clouds, appears the goddess Artemis, with the hind which, accord- 
 ing to the legend, was substituted for the royal virgin. 
 
 The reader will observe a remarkable omission in the picture; the feet 
 of Iphigeneia not being represented. But the ancients frequently omitted 
 parts of their objects which were not needful to the immediate subject: 
 and the main effect being produced by the figure of the body of Iphige- 
 neia, they would not be solicitous about completing it. 
 
ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS- 
 
 CHAPTER L— OF POETRY IN GENERAL. 
 
 Subject proposed — Objections to Poetry — Answered — Poetry de- 
 fined — Poetry as an Art — Art Exemplified — Poetry distinct from 
 Sculpture and Painting — Truth in Art, what — Poetry the highest 
 of Arts — Versification proper and essential to Poetry — Rhyme — 
 pp. I— 10. 
 
 Kinds of Poetry — 1. Heroic or Epic — Quasi Epic — 2. Dramatic 
 — Tragedy — Comedy — Melodrame. Pastoral Poetry. 3. Lyrical. 
 Announcement of the particular subject of the present volume, 
 pp. 10—16. 
 
 CHAPTER IL— HOMER. THE ILIAD. 
 
 Origin of Homer — Opinions concerning him — Date of his poems. 
 The Iliad — Supposed Subject. The Odyssey. Not to be con- 
 sidered as wholes. The Tale of Troy, pp. 17 — 20. 
 
 Analysis of, and translation of passages from, the Iliad ; — excellence 
 of the Iliad — sonnet, pp. 20 — 32. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL— HOMER. THE ODYSSEY. 
 
 Points of difference from the Iliad — Opening of the action. Analysis 
 of, and translation of passages from, the Odyssey, Book I — IX, 
 pp. 33—49. 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— THE ODYSSEY— CONTINUED. 
 
 Analysis of, and translation of passages from, the Odyssey, Books 
 X— XXIV, pp. .50—69. 
 
 CHAPTER v.— ON THE FRAGMENTS OF THE LOST 
 POETS OF GREECE. 
 
 Traditionary story of Gregory Nazianzen and the Greek Poets. 
 Notices of, and translations from, Sappho — AhCMVs — Simonides 
 — Alcman— Bacchylides — Archilochus — Anacreon, pp. 70 — 
 
X. CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VL-THE GRECIAN DRAMA— iESCHYLUS. 
 
 The Grecian character. The Grecian Drama — its origin and arrange- 
 ments — Distinction from the modern drama — ^schylus — the 
 Pkometheus Bound — Argument — Analysis of, and translation 
 of parts — Mysteriousness of the subject, pp. 85 — 105. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL— THE ORESTEA OF .ESCHYLUS. 
 
 Sequel of the tale of Troy. Subject of the Orestea. Names of the 
 three plays. 1. The Agamemnon. Prefatory Notice. Opening 
 of the play. Analysis with translations, pp. 106 — 119. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII.— THE ORESTEA OF ^SCHYLUS, 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 2. The Choephori — the arrival of Orestes — the recognition — the 
 concerting of the plot — the vengeance — analysis, with translations 
 of the latter part of the play. 3, The Eumenides, or Fdries- 
 Trial and acquittal of Orestes— Political bearing of this play, 
 pp. 120—133. 
 
 CHAPTER IX.- THE (EDTPUS OF SOPHOCLES. 
 
 ^schylus and Sophocles compared. Plays of Sophocles. Section I. 
 (Edipos the King. The tale of (Edipus. Ojjening of the play. 
 The pestilence — the oracle — the denunciation — the prophetic 
 disclosures — Disclosure the first — rays of hope — Disclosure the 
 second— blindness, mental — Disclosure the third and last — blind- 
 ness, corporeal, pp. 134 — 147. 
 
 Section II. CEdipds at Colonos. Opening of the play — Analysis, 
 with translations — Death of CEdipus — Sonnet, pp. 147 — 158. 
 
 CHAPTER X.-EURIPIDES, THE ALCESTIS. 
 
 Comparison of Euripides with jEschylus and Sophocles. Transla- 
 tion of the Alcestis, with the omission of one scene — Sonnet, by 
 Milton — the Death Song of Alcestis, by Mrs. Hemans, pp. 
 159—188. 
 
 CHAPTER XL— THE BIRDS OF ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 Ancient Greek Comedy — Aristophanes — the Birds. Argument — 
 Analysis with translations, pp. 189 — 204. 
 
CONTENTS. XI. 
 
 CHAPTER XII.— THEOCRITUS AND THE 
 PASTORAL POETS. 
 
 Pastoral Poetry and Poets, ancient and modern— Theocritus— pas- 
 sages translated from Idyls I, VII,— the Adoniazusae— the Little 
 Hercules. Bion—Moschus— Epitaph of Bion, by the latter, 
 translated, pp. 205—222. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII.- THE ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 Origin of name — Translations of Epigrams and suaall pieces from 
 Plato — Speusippus, Mnasalcns — Nossis — Asclepiades — Leonidas 
 of Tarentum — Nicias — Diotimus — Aratus — Hegesippus — Calli- 
 machus — Menecrates of Smyrna — Demodocus — Archelaus — un- 
 certain Authors^ pp. 223 — 236. 
 
 APPENDIX L 
 
 General Description of Greece for the purposes of this Work — the 
 principal Cities of European Greece— the most celebrated Moun- 
 tains of Greece — the most celebrated Rivers — the most celebrated. 
 Poets — a List of the Grecian Deities, pp. 237 — 243. 
 
 APPENDIX n. 
 
 Poems from various Authors connected with the Subjects of the 
 foregoing Chapters, pp. 244 — 263. 
 
POETRY AND POETS 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 What is Poetry ? Why is it that Homer, Virgil, Dante, subject pro- 
 
 Shakspeare, Milton, Goethe, Wordsworth, and the rest of -^ 
 
 those whom we call Poets, have names which outlive and 
 
 outshine those of the warriors, statesmen, and philosophers of 
 
 the world ? By what charm has it been that the chmates of 
 
 the globe, the varying fashions of diverse ages, the distinct 
 
 national minds of races otherwise unconnected, have been 
 
 bound together and made one ? 
 
 These are the questions to which we wish to return full 
 
 and satisfactory answers. Let not our readers be alarmed at 
 
 the announcement. The Philosophy of Poetry may have a 
 
 somewhat startling sound ; but we shall endeavour to make 
 
 its explanation verify the assertion of own poet, where he 
 
 says, 
 
 How charming is Divine Philosophy ! 
 
 Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute. 
 
 Aristotle, in the outset of a far drier treatise than our 
 chapters on Poetry,* took some pains to state what sort of 
 a hearer befitted his subject ; to frame, we suppose, the minds 
 of his readers aright, that they might be, without the labour 
 of tedious dissuasion and instruction, apt recipients of what 
 he was about to deliver. By us also something of the sort 
 must be set down. For there are many prejudices, and more 
 errors, current respecting our subject. 
 
 * Ethics, bookl. chap. 3. 
 B 
 
•i CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Attend then, gentle readers, and let us exercise for a few 
 moments a mild influence over your thoughts. 
 Objections to If you would Understand these chapters, the first prejudice 
 
 Pcetry. 
 
 which we call upon you to lay aside, is the widely spread 
 notion, that Poetry is a trifle. ' The dreams of poets' are 
 spoken of with contempt, as little better than the ravings of 
 madmen. ' A poetical license' is used as denoting a mis-state- 
 ment or exaggeration. Poetry in general is classed with what 
 is called light reading, and supposed not to be worthy of the 
 attention of sober and serious minds. ' Poems and works of 
 fiction' are opprobriously coupled together. The work of the 
 poet is supposed to be a mere castle in the air, serving the 
 purpose of exciting temporary wonder, but leaving no basis of 
 reahty, and not tangible by the searcher for truth. 
 Answered. To confute all this would be to anticipate our future reason- 
 ings. We would only remind you, that if Poetry be a trifle, 
 it is the greatest of trifles. It is the vehicle in which know- 
 ledge was first conveyed to the human race : the chosen 
 instrument of the providence of God, by which scattered and 
 savage nations were brought into one place and under one 
 law ; the language of the Holy Spirit himself, wherein things 
 beyond man's knowledge are shadowed forth, and the deepest 
 mysteries clothed in melody and light. It has been in all ages 
 the delight of the great, the wise, and the good ; from the 
 SAveet singer of Israel, whose strains are with us, whether he 
 meditated them on the desert-pastures, or in the state-chambers 
 of Zion : from the sage and gentle Plato, who has hallowed 
 the clear Ilissus and its plane tree in ' thoughts that move 
 harmonious numbers;' to Dante, the morning star of the 
 Reformation : to our own statesmen, Spenser, Sidney, and 
 Raleigh ; our divines, Donne and Young, Herbert and 
 Crashaw. It has ever been the teacher, hallower, and amelio- 
 rator of mankind : the poems of Homer and Hesiod contained 
 the history, mythology, (which was the religion), laws, military 
 and civil, husbandry, and domestic usages, of Ancient Greece : 
 from those of their dramatic writers are brought stately 
 sentences of moral import, which are quoted even in the 
 
 I 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 3 
 
 Scriptures of Truth ; in descriptive poets of all ages are con- 
 tained lovely and melodious passages, which form the text- 
 book of a nation's feehng, and unknit the brow of worldly 
 care ; the night scenes in Homer and Milton ; the ' medita- 
 tions, fancy free,' of our beloved Shakspeare ; the deep 
 droppings of music from the lips of our venerated Words- 
 worth. More especially has poetry been the teacher of men, 
 when a teacher is most necessary ; in the age when the mind 
 is emerging from subjection, when the feehngs are strong and 
 ill-subdued, and the reason unstable and weak. Who does 
 not remember, (for no man has always been unfeeling) when 
 this wonderful world first opened its stores to his mind and 
 heart ? when the master key was at length furnished, by which 
 all the treasures of beauty were unlocked to him ? Who 
 cannot trace the influence on his thoughts and feelings, then 
 enjoyed and profited by, now, alas, too little regarded, which 
 followed his first perusal of the great ' kings of song V 
 
 If Poetry then be a trifle (as in one sense, what is not ?) it 
 is one which yet deserves examination, as having exercised, 
 and still continuing to exercise, very important influences on 
 the minds and destinies of men. 
 
 Next must be discussed the fallacy on Avhich is grounded 
 the complaint of men of the world, from Thucydides down- 
 wards, that Poetry is falsehood — that poets are misrepresenters 
 of facts and men — that their descriptions are exaggerated, 
 their narratives unlikely, their sentiments unfit for practice. 
 
 But the refutation of this error will at once lead us to the 
 actual discussion and answering of the question which we 
 placed at the head of our chapter — What is poetry ?— for 
 we cannot satisfy you that it is not all the things above 
 mentioned, except by exhibiting it to you as it is — that 
 seeing its real character and uses, you may turn with the more 
 loathing from the unsightly caricature of it which is often 
 placed before you. 
 
 First then (for such as know it not) we must premise that Poetry 
 in the Greek language, from which all terms of art and philo- 
 sophy are derived, the Avord Poetry signifies ^creation:' a 
 
4 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Poem, '« thing created :' and a Poet, '• a creator' And we 
 must also assure them that there are few words which hare 
 swerved less from their original meaning, than these three ; so 
 that even at the present day, when aU traces of the first 
 derivation of words have in so many instances been lost in 
 their conventional signification, there are no better definitions 
 of Poetry, a Poem, and a Poet, than these simple construings 
 of their Greek originals. The only difference is, that in early 
 times, the words were extended more widely than they now 
 are ; the Poietes was the artist in general, the Poiesis the art 
 on which he was engaged, and the Poiema the work of art 
 produced in each case. And very properly so, for in this 
 respect Poetry may be considered in common with all art — all 
 works of art being the creation of the artist. Let us then 
 for a time thus consider it ; as it is an Art. 
 Poetry as an -j^^^ -^^ order to discover how it is the office of Art to 
 create, we must ascertain why it creates ; for the purpose of 
 its work, when known, will guide us through the consideration 
 of the work itself. 
 
 The object of all art is to (jive, pleasure —not using the 
 word in its low and vulgar sense, but in that refined sense 
 which impHes that nothing corporeal or animal is meant by it, 
 nor any thing peculiar to individual characters, nor attached 
 to local circumstances, nor folio wdng upon selfish gratification; 
 but that it belongs to the higher and nobler part of man ; that 
 it is general in its operations, the same in all times and places, 
 and free from the bad elements which deprave and embitter 
 human life. All instances of descending and pandering to the 
 lower and more confined sorts of pleasure, are so many faults 
 in art. 
 
 The method by which art excites this high and pure 
 pleasure, is by the presentation of Beauty. And here it is 
 universal in its range. The ends of art are equally accom- 
 plished, whether the subject be beauty of an intellectual or 
 moral kind, or the symmetry of the human or animal frame, 
 or collections, with or without coloiir, of the objects of inani- 
 mate nature. The instruments by which this beauty is 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 5 
 
 presented are various; and by their variety, the arts are 
 distinguished. While their subject matter is the same, the 
 vehicles by which it enters the mind are peculiar to the 
 separate arts. Let us take an instance in one department. 
 Agamemnon, leader of the forces of Greece, assembled for the 
 Trojan war, is detained by contrary winds at Aulis, a port of 
 Greece. He consults the prophet Calchas, how he may obtain 
 favourable winds for the fleet. He is informed that it can 
 only be done by the sacrifice of a virgin of his own royal line 
 on the altar of the goddess Artemis. Iphigeneia, his lovely 
 daughter, is led out as the victim. The ministers of death 
 stand round the altar. She trembles ; the knife glitters ; her 
 garments fall round her ; the royal parent hides his face in 
 agony. Now either the painter might bring this scene before 
 us, clothed in colours, on the canvass; — the pale cheek of the 
 poor victim might contrast with the gorgeous robes of the 
 priests, and earth, sky, and sea, might blend their hues to 
 centre our admiration on the main objects of the picture ; — or 
 the sculptor might, in pure unaided marble, chisel the languid 
 and falling form of the fragile maiden, and the solemn drapery 
 of the vestured minister ; and might raise over all, the kingly 
 figure, stately in grief, of the averted father; — or the poet 
 might, spuming the aid of imitative matter, clothe in words 
 of music the solemn scene, and touch the universal heart of 
 mankind with the collected feelings of the sad assemblage. 
 The picture was actually done by Timanthes, and was the 
 wonder and delight of the age ; the description in poetry has 
 been done, in Greek by the wild choric strains of iEschylus, 
 and in Latin by the musical hexameters of Lucretius. 
 
 But it must not be forgotten, that, in their presentation of i^i*''"'''froi» 
 beauty to the mind, the arts of Sculpture and Painting ^'^ Painting 
 are necessarily limited by the materials which they employ. 
 Scxilpture, using stone as its material, — in its most perfect 
 form, insulated groups, is precluded from embodying any ideas 
 except those capable of being thus conveyed. It is fitted for 
 exciting pleasure by the graceful disposition of figures and 
 drapery, and still more, by the unclothed symmetry of the 
 
6 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 wonderful frame with which the Creator has endowed us : 
 striking situations of individual passion, or groups pervaded 
 by or conveying one feeling, or subordinate to some master- 
 figure, — these form strictly the province of this art. In alto 
 and basso-relievos, where it encroaches somewhat on the 
 sister art of Painting, it possesses more powers, extending even 
 to the partial representation of distant figures and objects. 
 But beyond this (and even this wiU hardly be pronounced 
 legitimate by the lover of the higher sort of Sculpture) it 
 cannot extend. It cannot deal with the inanimate forms of 
 individual and combined beauty which are scattered around 
 us. The face of the earth, with its variety of level plain, and 
 hill, and rock, the trees and waters, the sky and its great 
 lights, aU these are incapable of being conveyed to the mind 
 by Sculpture. Again, Painting, which can bring these last 
 before the eye, and whose range extends over all beauty of 
 simple and compound form, not abstracted from colour as in 
 Sculpture, but clothed in aU hues with effects most exquisitely 
 blended, is inadequate, in her turn, to embrace more than a 
 single point of action or scenery : the complicated course of 
 human designs and feelings, the origin and progress of passion, 
 are beyond its power, unless, as in the former case, it departs 
 from its lawful object, or claims to present in a series, detached 
 points of a progress, whose intervals must be filled up by the 
 mind of the beholder. 
 
 Poetry, on the other hand, is unlimited in its range over 
 space and time. The material which the Poet employs, is 
 available to all purposes, and unfailing in its adequacy to any 
 ideas which he may wish to invest with it. It is not a 
 material made to his hands, and to which he must be in 
 bondage ; but one subtle as thought itself, admitting continual 
 change and closer adaptation to his end, and containing in 
 itself the representative symbols of aU that can be the object 
 of the senses, or the subject of mental contemplation, 
 '^h't^"*'*^''' Now, in each of these three arts, the object of the artist is 
 to give pleasure, by the presentation of beauty — and our 
 present question is. Is that beauty true ox false P Let us not 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 7 
 
 say, actual or imaginary ; for this would be begging the 
 question ; as it is on the meaning of this word, imaginary^ 
 that the whole enquiry turns. Let us recur to the instance 
 which we just now gave — that of the representation, by either 
 of these arts, of the sacrifice of Agamemnon's daughter. No 
 one can doubt that the scene furnishes legitimate employment 
 for art of the very highest order. Now, let us ask any candid 
 reader, whether, before enjoying a group, a picture, or a 
 description of that scene, he would require to be satisfied that 
 it did actually take place ? Whether upon reading Bryant's 
 Mythology, and finding that it is there represented as by no 
 means probable that the Trojan war ever happened, he would 
 feel his admiration one whit diminished, or the pleasure which 
 the group, the picture, or the poem might have given him, 
 changed into indifference ? On the other hand, if any effect 
 be produced by such a persuasion, it is one of regret that the 
 actuahty (so to speak) of the scene has been removed, thereby 
 shewing the superiority of the work of art, inasmuch as we are 
 displeased that actual occurrences have nev.er come up to it. 
 
 Truth then, in art, has a somewhat different meaning from 
 that in which we ordinarily use the word as apphed to repre- 
 sentations of things by language. It is not essential to truth 
 in art, that the combination of things represented shoidd ever 
 have had an exact prototype in actual life on this earth ; in 
 Sculpture the group, in Painting the arrangement of form and 
 colour, in Poetry the exquisite adaptation of words, are none 
 the less true in art, although the occurrence or situation 
 represented may have owed its origin to the imagination of 
 the artist. 
 
 In what then, does artistical truth consist ? By what rules 
 is the creative power of the artist bounded ? 
 
 In order to answer this question, let us reflect what it is in 
 works of art which gives us the most exquisite pleasure. 
 Though we frequently speak in ignorance, referring to our 
 feelings as others name them, without due inquisition into 
 their real nature, yet current expressions may often serve to 
 
8 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 the philosopher as confirmations to his hearers of the doctrine 
 which he is laying doAvn. Who has not heard admiration 
 expressed by the words, ' How natural ?' Who, on the other 
 hand, has not heard disapprobation uttered in the assertion, 
 ' This is unnatural ? ' These expressions may serve to shew 
 our readers that there is a generally acknowledged reference to 
 what is called ' Nature,' in judging of works of art. In other 
 words, there is a requirement made, that works of art shall 
 not be at variance with the rules, physical and moral, of the 
 great and first Creator. Every such variance is a falsehood in 
 art, and as such cannot please : except perhaps it be some few 
 minds, or for a time, or owing to some adventitious circum- 
 stances. 
 
 But is truth, or perfection in art, measured by adherence to 
 these rules on the part of the artist ? In the purest or most 
 general sense, it is. Perfect adaptation of individual physical 
 and moral character to circumstance and situation ; — the 
 presentation of human bodies, and of scenes, where all the 
 particular beauties of complexion and contour in the one case, 
 and of hill and dale, trees and sky, and animated nature in 
 the other, are gathered in one ; may be viewed as only the 
 carrying forward the general rules by which the universe is 
 created and arranged, to the exclusion of all hindrances. This 
 is the true province of all art : to present to us Avhat we never 
 can have in our actual experience, (or can only have them 
 obstructed by many unwelcome things) combinations of things 
 beautiful, in beautiful wholes ; and ' to subject,' as Lord Bacon 
 justly says, 'the shows of things to the desires of the mind.' 
 
 Poetry the Now, of all arts, Poetry holds by far the highest place. 
 
 Ks.^'* ° For, besides the range of its creative power being unlimited as 
 to subject, it possesses, Avhat neither Sculpture nor Painting 
 does, the faculty of presenting a succession of description and 
 action. So that time and space are alike open to the mind of 
 the poet; the complications, wheel within wheel, of human 
 motives, the gradual unfolding of great purposes, even to their 
 final and distant accomplishment : the vicissitudes of Ufe, fxdl 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 9 
 
 of deep interest, exciting pity or joy, or a sense of the divine 
 justice ; all these are the legitimate subjects of Poetry, in their 
 highest sense, and fullest developement. 
 
 Poetry can also descend into and excel in the provinces of 
 the two sister sciences, Painting and Sculpture. All the eifect 
 of a fine painting can be wrought in the mind without the 
 ministration of the eye, by the magic power of poetical de- 
 scription. The repose and fitness of a fine statue, or group of 
 statues, does not more bless the mind of the beholder with the 
 sense of stiU beauty, than the same scene conveyed to his 
 thoughts by the medium of Poetry. 
 
 In the further answer of our proposed question, somethiag versification 
 
 . . proper and 
 
 remams to be said respecting the' medium of verse, m which essential to 
 
 ^ ° " Poetry. 
 
 poetry has always been pleased to clothe its creations. To 
 explain the fitness and necessity of the employment of this 
 medium, let us recur for illustration to the sister arts. The 
 object of the Sculptor being to carry pleasure as simple and 
 unhindered as possible into the mind of his beholder, he 
 employs as his material, not coarse and vulgar stone, but the 
 purest marble ; whose texture is free from flaw and irregulari- 
 ty, and whose colour is uniform and unvaried. The Painter 
 again, being actuated by the same desire, chooses his canvas 
 and his colours of the best and purest, and sets his paintings 
 in firames elaborately devised, that they may appear to the best 
 advantage. And after this choice of material and accompani- 
 ments, both are careful not to hinder the effect of their 
 productions by situations inadequate to set off their beauty : 
 the painter chooses his light, the sculptor his points of view : 
 and every possible assistance, (within the rules of art) towards 
 the general effect, is eagerly embraced. 
 
 Just so is it with the Poet. Language being the medium 
 by which his creations are conveyed to the mind, he does not 
 choose for that purpose words in their chance combinations, as 
 common discourse presents theHi ; but he so adapts his words 
 to his thoughts as to make their very form and rhythm of 
 itself a vehicle of pleasure. Verse is the marble in which his 
 groups are worked : the fi-ame and varnish by which his 
 c 
 
10 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 pictures are embellished. So that Poetry, although not depen- 
 dent on the aid of verse, (any more than marble is absolutely 
 necessary to Sculpture, or the aids above mentioned to Paint- 
 ing) yet can never be sure of its effects, or clothed in its foil 
 power to please, unless it be conveyed in words possessing 
 some sort of metrical cadence. The experiment of writing a 
 poem in prose has often been tried by men who have been 
 unaware of the foregoing |maxims of art : and as often utterly 
 failed. All the greatest poems by which the world has 
 been delighted, are celebrated for their power and beauty of 
 versification. 
 Ehyme. -jij^g additional ornament of rhyme, which modem Poetry 
 
 of some sorts has assumed, may be similarly justified ; and 
 derives also a claim to approval from the structure and 
 tendency of the languages in which it is used. 
 Kinds op The subjects of Poctry being various, and according to their 
 variety conveyed in various sorts of metre, we shall proceed 
 briefly to sketch the principal kinds of Poetry ; not as suppos- 
 ing our readers ignorant of them, but as conveying our own 
 definitions of them, and our ideas respecting their rules and 
 objects. 
 
 The highest species of Poetry, beyond all question, is the 
 Heroic or Epic. Its nature is narrative, its subject one of 
 high interest, its style elevated and sustained throughout, its 
 metre regular and solemn. It is necessary that there should 
 be in it one leading person or one leading object, to which all 
 the rest are subordinate, and to the fortunes of whom, or the 
 developement of which, every part of the poem in some 
 measure contributes. In it the poet speaks in his own 
 person, and is himself throughout the poem apparent ; iutro- 
 ducing his own thoughts, and interweaving with the course of 
 the narrative reflections, as of the master mind which sees the 
 whole course of action complete. The most illustrious exam- 
 ples of the strict epic, are the well known poems of Homer 
 and Virgil, the Gierusalemme Liberata of Tasso, and the 
 Paradise Lost of Milton. There wUl perhaps never again be 
 a great epic poem. Coleridge used to say, that he imagined 
 
 Hkbotc or 
 Enc. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 11 
 
 the only subject of sufficient general interest, which had not 
 been attempted, was, the capture of Jerusalem by Titus. But 
 oi such poems, writers, as well as subjects, will ever be 
 exceedingly rare. To write an epic requires a combination of 
 faculties which we seldom find in one individual, especially 
 now that the great patterns of this sort of poetry are well 
 known and appreciated. 
 
 Next to this, and under the same great head, must be duasi Epic. 
 ranged that Poetry, narrative, allegorical, or meditative, which 
 yet does not conform itself to the rules of the epic. Like that, 
 however, it requires majesty of style and diction ; like that, it 
 is the voice of the poet himself, and in it he is seen and 
 known. But unlike the epic, it is not bound to be subordinate 
 to any acknowledged developement of circumstances, or the 
 exhibition of any individual character. The examples of this 
 kind which will best explain it to the reader, are the Divina 
 Commedia of Dante, the Faerie Queene of Spenser, and in 
 our own time, the Excursion of Wordsworth. Under this 
 head might also be classed the numerous poetical narratives of 
 which Scott set the example, and the poems' of travel ^and 
 personal incident, of which Lord Byron's Childe Harold may 
 serve as an instance. These however are far inferior in rank 
 as poems to those just now mentioned. It is in this depart- 
 ment of Poetry, the Quasi-epic, if we may be allowed the 
 word, that there seems in our own age the greatest promise of 
 excellence. Poems of a meditative form, in which the 
 thoughts and descriptions are conveyed by simple and subordi- 
 nate narrative, seem to be the peculiar growth of the present 
 school of poets. 
 
 The second great division of Poetry is the Dramatic. In 2 
 
 „,.,.,, .. . ^ 1,1 . , Dramatic. 
 
 poems of this kmd the action is carried on and the sentiments 
 delivered, not by narrative from the poet, but by the persons 
 themselves. The poet is not seen in the work. The diction 
 and metre of dramatic poems are varied according to the 
 nature of the subject. In tragedy, the higher species of 
 Drama, (taking that term in its strict and ancient sense) the 
 
12 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 events are weighty and solemn, the motives somewhat beyond 
 those of common life, ; the characters not calculated so much 
 with a view to please by their attractiveness, as to awe by 
 their majesty, and power for good or evil ; the diction elabo- 
 rate and elevated, the metre steady and unomamented ; the 
 actors raised above ordinary persons, either by the distinction 
 of birth and office, or by the nature of the events with which 
 they are associated. In this sense of tragedy, it is not 
 necessary that the issue of the plot be unfortunate ; indeed 
 some of the most perfect dramas of this kind end (to use a 
 common expression) happily. This strict tragedy was singu- 
 larly suited to the religion and taste of Ancient Greece. The 
 veil of mystery which hung over the destinies of men and 
 nations, the unexplained and dreaded workings of Fate in 
 individuals and families, the belief in oracles, — all these were 
 points of advantage to the Dramatic Poet, which in their 
 degree and extent, have never elsewhere been presented. Add 
 to this, that the Athenian audience was composed of the most 
 susceptible of mankind ; of men who could apprehend and 
 feel to the utmost, situations, which the levity, or the phlegm 
 of the modems cannot appreciate. In consequence, the most 
 illustrious, if not the only examples of strict tragedy, are to be 
 found in the writings of the three great poets of European 
 Greece, vEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. 
 
 Comedy. jjj ^]^q other department of Dramatic Poetry, viz., Comedy, 
 
 the object of the poet is to excite pleasure, by the exhibition 
 of the common events of life in an agreeable or ludicrous 
 light. Comedy is not unfrequently mixed with satire. In 
 its most ancient form, conspicuous persons were introduced 
 on the stage by their real names ; when this Kcense was 
 curbed by law, the actions and lives of pubUc men still 
 continued to be stigmatized under fictitious characters. But 
 satire is not essential to comedy. The metre of comedy is 
 bound by no rules ; and it may often degenerate into prose ; 
 conspicuous however by its antithetical aiTangement and 
 epigrammatic point, which distinguish it from mere every day 
 
 I 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 13 
 
 conversation, with which no audience could be interested. 
 The endless varieties of plot, machinery, and diction, of which 
 comedy admits, cannot be treated of in a general essay hke 
 the present ; they will occur to the reader who is acquainted 
 with the best productions of the ancients and modems ; and 
 will be laid before him in individual instances in the succeed- 
 ing chapters.* The most perfect examples of the ancient 
 comedy have been lost to us in the writings of Menander, if 
 we may judge from the version of some of his plays by the 
 incomparable Terence. The wit and satire of Aristophanes 
 have descended to us in several comedies, of which, in our 
 opinion, 'the Birds" is by far the best. We shall give a 
 sketch of it hereafter. 
 
 But there must not be omitted a mixed kind of Drama, of Meiodrame. 
 complicated action, containing in itself frequently both tragedy 
 and comedy, and affecting us with pleasure, blended in various 
 degrees with other feelings, as the scenes are solemn or gay, 
 pathetic or ludicrous, or compounded of all these, setting oif 
 one another. This mixed drama has been carried to the 
 utmost perfection by our own immortal Shakspeare, in plays 
 which are the most consummate monuments of human genius. 
 
 There is also another kind of poetry, nearly akin to the Pastoral 
 
 Poeta'y. 
 
 Drama, and forming the link between it and lyrical poems ; 
 viz., that which is comprehended under the name of Pastoral 
 Poetry. The idyl or eclogue is sometimes a simple ode, from 
 whence its name {elSvX\i.ov) is derived ; sometimes a dialogue 
 of persons contending in verse, or describing some favourite 
 subject, sometimes a piece of dramatic action, as in many 
 cases in Theocritus. The metre of this last is usually recom- 
 mended by more than common sweetness and ease, being the 
 setting of a poem altogether artificial, and derived from a state 
 of life entirely imaginary ; and therefore being so contrived as 
 
 * This promise will be fulfilled in after volumes, if the experiment tried in the puhli- 
 cation of the present one shall be found to have succeeded. 
 
14 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 of itself to delight the taste of the reader, and bespeak his 
 approval beforehand. 
 
 Lyrical. '^^ third general division of poetry is the Lyrical : under 
 
 which aie included all odes, h3Tnns, and songs, whether 
 intended for music or not. In its ancient and strict form, the 
 ode was composed for performance, often in the course of the 
 drama, but freq^uently as the celebration of victory or other 
 jojrful occasion. The words, the music, and the dresses and 
 positions of the singers, all contributed to the efifect of the 
 ancient choral odes. In them, weighty sentences of divine 
 and moral import were delivered ; impassioned flights of 
 poetic ardour were sanctioned by the situations of the drama, 
 and sustained by the character of the melody. In the East, 
 at the same time, ' the sweet singers of Israel' were raising to 
 the harps of the temple, strains of worthier praise to Jehovah ; 
 ' the prayer of Moses the man of God' (Psalm xc), the 
 solemn confession of the royal and penitent Psalmist (Ps. li.) 
 and most of the other hymns in that sublime collection, were 
 in their txirn used in the regular service of the temple. The 
 metre of this species of poetry has ever been exceedingly free 
 and varied. It seems however to be required that at the 
 recurrence of similar strains in the music, and similar cadences, 
 corresponding changes in the metre should be observed : and 
 that according to the subjects treated, the march of the verse 
 should be stately and solemn, or light and tripping. 
 
 But in modern lyric poetry we have far more examples of 
 odes and hymns not intended for music, but trusting to their 
 lyrical form for full effect; or from novelty of metre and 
 cadence, (as in CoUins's Hymn to Evening) delighting the 
 ear, and bearing with them, so to speak, their own music. 
 
 The ode is a poem highly wrought and elaborately finished, 
 and always dependent for its effects more upon beauty of 
 words and measure, than upon the actual thoughts and images 
 conveyed : though, of course, these last must be in accordance 
 with the diction and metre, or the effect will be impaired. 
 The most perfect examples extant of the choral ode, are 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. I. 15 
 
 perhaps the following : in g&cred writ, Psalm xxiv., and cvii. ; 
 in the ancient drama, the first chorus in the Agamemnon of 
 ^schylus, the first chorus in the Antigone of Sophocles, and 
 (for I am uncertain which to choose) almost all the choruses 
 of Euripides. Of the other kinds of odes and hymns, we 
 should select the lyrical part of our elder dramatists (of which 
 we shall treat in their turn) as the most exquisite specimens : 
 and in modern lyrical poetry some of the odes of Campbell 
 (Hohenlinden, and the Battle of the Baltic, are our favourites) 
 and many of the longer pieces (we would name especially the 
 Lotos-eaters) of Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Thus we have presented our readers with a brief and 
 cursory sketch of the dififerent kinds of poetry. In aU these 
 the artist mind employs its power, gathering together things 
 seemly and beautiful, and in the language of a modem poet,* 
 
 * • hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. 
 
 In this our first chapter we have been dealing (of necessity) 
 with general subjects. We propose leading our readers (with 
 their consent and good will) through the treasures of ancient 
 and modem Poetry, in the following chapters of this series. 
 We shall be taking them pleasant excursions, first over the 
 rocky forks of Parnassus, by the seas of Europe and Asia, the 
 star-lit Euripus, and the ' broad Hellespont,' and the ' windy 
 towers of Ilion ;' then by many an ancient grotto, damp and 
 cool, with trailing eglantine and canopy of vine-leaves, and 
 many a palace of stately marble, and fountained courts where 
 Dorian damsels led up the dance in the moonlight, looking on 
 the bright iEgean; — we shall tell them of the cradle-songs and 
 dirges of heroes and empires, the downfal and revival of 
 learning, the contests of mighty men for mightier principles ; 
 even to these our own days of Poets many and sweet, deep- 
 
 * Shelley. 
 
16 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 thoughted and solemn; when our England has become a 
 hallowed land, when her hills and plains, her rivers and cities, 
 her proud lines of ancestry, and her sons of toil and obscurity, 
 have all been the theme of Poets ; when every step we tread 
 brings us into the immortal presence of some gifted soul. 
 
 i 
 
CHAPTER ir. 
 
 HOMER. 
 
 ' He Cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with 
 or prepared for the well-enchanting skill of music, and with a tale forsooth he cometh 
 to you, with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney 
 corner." 
 
 These, reader, are the words of Sir PhiUp Sidney, in his Origin of 
 Defence of Poesie ; and well do they fit the greatest of all 
 poets, who is the subject of our present chapter. 
 
 HOMER, be this the name of an individual or a family, 
 one in many, or many in one, arose in the Asiatic provinces 
 of Greece. Of those countries Herodotus has said, that no 
 part of the earth which he knew was so blessed in soil and 
 climate. So that the fairest land nursed the first Poet. 
 
 Many are the venerable traditions and associations which Opinions 
 crowd up around this name — HOMER. Some have repre- them 
 sented him as an ancient bard, blind and poor, wandering 
 from city to city, and earning subsistence by his power of 
 song. Others have supposed that this description merely 
 characterises a whole band of Homeric minstrels, by whose 
 joint labour the poems were produced, sung, and delivered 
 down to the memory of their itinerant successors. Others 
 again have thought and laboured to prove that Homer was 
 identical with, or close in descent from, one of his own heroes. 
 It is enough for us, in an essay like the present, to observe, 
 that the origin of the Homeric poems may be regarded by our 
 readers as wrapped in obscurity, to be penetrated only by the 
 strength of internal evidence, and that evidence not yet fully 
 
18 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Date of his 
 poemi. 
 
 History of 
 them. 
 
 understood. Their Asiatic origin and extreme antiquity is 
 perhaps all that can be unquestionably decided. 
 
 Now these poems are said by Herodotus, the father of 
 Grecian history, to hare been composed four hundred years 
 before his time ; i.e. somewhere about the year before Christ 
 850 ; while Ahab and the later kings were reigning over 
 Israel. So that with the exception of the five books of Moses, 
 and one or two more books of the Old Testament, these are 
 the oldest writings extant. 
 
 And as such are they to be treated : not to be judged of by 
 the notions and conclusions of the more mature lifetime of the 
 world, but to be approved as venerable relics, indicative of the 
 strong fancy and practical wisdom of an unlettered age — an 
 age when human passion was the actuating principle of life, 
 and the face of nature the only book open to the eyes of men. 
 A few words respecting the history of the poems may not 
 tinaptlyjntroduce our notice of their plan and merits. 
 
 It is said that they existed at first in separate ballads, all 
 written in one metre, and one dialect or brogue, and having 
 reference to one great subject, viz., the tale of Troy. In the 
 tables of contents of the various books, the titles of many 
 of these ballads are still retained. It was believed in Ancient 
 Greece that Pisistratus, the first minister of Athens, in the 
 sixth century before Christ, collected these ballads together 
 and arranged them, so as to make of them one consistent 
 story, under the names of the Iliad, or ' Lay of the "War of 
 Troy,' and the Odyssey, or ' Adventures of Odysseus,' in his 
 return from that war. 
 
 So that we are not to look in either of these poems for a 
 complete whole, as a work of art. They are both fragments, 
 if regarded according even to the professed rules of Epic 
 poetry which have been built out of them. But in this 
 respect they widely differ. The IKad seems to be composed 
 of more antique materials than the Odyssey. "We may com- 
 pare the former to a piece of mosaic Avork entirely wrought 
 out of small fragments of antiquity ; while the latter resembles 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. II. 19 
 
 rather a damaged picture, attempted to be supplied by other 
 pieces of the same date. 
 
 The subject of the Iliad is generally supposed to be the the iliad. 
 wrath of Achilles against his fellow chieftains of the Greeks 
 
 ^ Supposed 
 
 encamped against Troy, and the mischievous consequences ^uiiject. 
 thereupon ensuing. Certainly if any one thing be more pro- 
 minent than another throughout the poem, it is this : but it is 
 by no means consistently kept in view ; and many parts of 
 the Iliad are plainly composed in ignorance of it altogether. 
 Achilles is called the hero of the Iliad ; but here again, it is 
 very doubtfiil whether the poet ever had him in view as such. 
 The hero is various in various parts, according as the original 
 ballads contained the song of the prowess of such or such a 
 chieftain. 
 
 The plan of the Odyssey is more consistent ; the ultimate The Odyssey 
 return of Odysseus to his home is kept in view throughout, 
 and accompUshed ; but not before, as in a diseased dream, we 
 have long become weary of the object in view, and careless 
 about its acquisition ; not until long delay has blighted all 
 prospect of delight ; and, as also do our dreams, the story goes 
 beyond its object, and fades off in preternatural mystery and 
 melancholy obscurity. 
 
 Let so much sufiice for the plan and merits, as wholes, of 
 these wonderful compositions — and we have only said thus 
 much in accordance with the critical consent of mankind, 
 being ourselves Kttle inchned to praise where praise cannot 
 be due, or to find fault with the most sublime productions of 
 human genius for not having that which they were never 
 intended to have. 
 
 We had much rather regard them (and would have our Not to be con- 
 readers of the same mind) as repositories pf the beautiful and wholes. 
 majestic thoughts of men long since gone by, and of the 
 simple and prominent passions of the infancy of society. As 
 such, we proceed to lay their treasures before our readers. 
 And as we wish to be intelligible to all, we will give them in 
 our native tongue, merely referring [to the original Greek. 
 
20 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 The translations are our own : for many and good as have 
 
 been the versions of Homer, there is none which will suit our 
 
 , purpose, that of a popular transmission of his poetical beauties 
 
 to the Enghsh mind. 
 
 The Tale The Trov of Homer is a city at the foot of Mount Ida, the 
 
 OF Tboy. '' •' ^ ^ 
 
 shrubby, rocky, cavernous Ida. It is in a sandy plain, 
 through which flow the rivulets Scamander and Simois to the 
 iEgean sea. Its citadel is high and exposed, commanding a 
 view of the plain. It is walled by no common walls ; the god 
 of the sea, and the bright-haired sim-god, had with their own 
 hands built them for one of the old kings. Within these 
 divine ramparts was contained the most beautiftd of human- 
 kind, the far-famed Helen. Herself half divine, she struck 
 and ravished the hearts of the Trojans with her beauty ; and 
 even the old and sage were moved to say, that it was no 
 wonder that nations contended for such a woman. She had 
 been the wife of Menelaus, king of Lacedeemon, on the Gre- 
 cian side of the ^gean. Thence Paris, the young and 
 beautiful son of the king of Troy, had carried her off in one 
 of the piratical expeditions of the time. Vengeance for this 
 outrage had fiUed the coast of Troy with hostile Grecian 
 squadrons. Ten successive winters and summers did this host 
 beleaguer the fated city. Far otherwise than in modem 
 sieges, no taking by storm, no blockade was attempted. The 
 warfare only seemed to be the theatre for national and indi- 
 vidual prowess. Half the besieging force was always absent 
 tilHng fields for the subsistence of the rest. AUies and sup- 
 plies flowed into the gates of Troy uninterrupted. Truces 
 were frequently established, during which the adverse parties 
 mingled unrestrainedly. The mysterious deities of Heathen- 
 dom influenced and mixed in the action. Sometimes one 
 chieftain, sometimes another is in the ascendant. The king 
 of gods and men, himself bound by the decrees of destiny, 
 balances the fortunes of the combatants, and allows them each 
 his day of glory. In the midst of this lingering and compli- 
 Ko'ok'i. cated strife, the action of the Iliad opens. There is division 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. H. 21. 
 
 in the Grecian camp. Achilles, the chief of the fiery temper 
 and uncon<iuered strength, is insulted by the commander of 
 the Greeks. His beautiful prize — Briseis, is taken from him. 
 In sorrow and rage he complains to his goddess-mother, a 
 nymph of the ocean. He looks oyer the salt-sea foam and 
 prays. His mother rises from the grey breakers like a mist, 
 and promises to intercede for him with the King of gods. 
 From him she obtains a promise that he would avenge her son 
 upon the Greeks, and give victory to them of Troy till the 
 besieging chieftains should regret his absence from the fight. 
 This having gained, 
 
 She plunges from the glittering heaven beneath the salt-sea deeps. 
 
 Achilles then shuns the fight, and with his soldiers and his 
 lyre spends the time as he best may. But the war is not 
 reHnquished ; — the Greeks are collected to council : 
 
 From ships and tents to council thronged the warrior companies ^ 
 Sounding as when the plunging surf of many voiced seas 
 Along a broad beach thunders, and the deep is in a roar. 
 
 The battle is prepared ; they are exhorted by Agamemnon the 
 king of men to be ready ; and again 
 
 The Grecian armies shouted loud, as when the ocean waves 
 Are dashing on some forward rock, round which incessant raves 
 The fury of all winds. 
 
 They are all armed ; and the warlike goddess is among them ; 
 and they forget their homes and their wives in the ardour of 
 their march. Then follows a chain of magnificent images ; 
 
 As fire upon the mountain tops the boundless forest burns, 
 And all the country far and wide the spreading blaze discerns; 
 So glorious from the marching host the gleam of armour bright 
 Rose upwards to the firmament, and reached the heavenly height. 
 And as the myriad flocks of birds in Asian meadows throng, 
 Wild geese, or swans, or long-necked cranes, Cayster's streams along. 
 Hither and thither flying round, and clapping with their wings, 
 They clang with screams discordant, and loud the meadow rings; 
 So poured their many multitudes from tents and ships, to meet 
 In the Scamandrian plain : sharp rung tlic earth beneath the feet 
 
22 
 
 CHAPTERS ON PpETRY 
 
 Of men and horses : till along the flowery mead they stood 
 Unnumbered as the leaves and flowers when spring bedecks the wood. 
 
 We pass onward fast, for we can only afford like a butterfly 
 to sip beauties here and there, and must send our reader to 
 Homer himself for a full revel of delight. 
 Book III, AU this is in the second book. The third is a noble book. 
 
 The armies are ranged under their leaders, and proceeding to 
 action ; here is a taste of it : not a translation, but a trans- 
 ferring of some parts : 
 
 The sound of war was heard that morn in Ilion's windy towers, 
 For from the coast avenging Greece advanced with all her powers ; 
 Thick as the summer bees that swarm around their rocky hive, 
 The level fields with arms and steeds were glittering and alive. 
 Rise up my men, bold Hector cried, our foes are trampling near ; 
 The dust their herald ye may see, their leaders' voices hear: 
 Full many a fight hath Hector waged, full oft a leader been ; 
 But a band so many thousand strong, he never yet hath seen. 
 With pealing shout and clang of shield the eager Dardans rose, 
 And rushed upon the level field to meet the stranger foes: 
 Silent and wrathful to their front the Argive hosts advance. 
 Firm grasped was every faithful sword, and couched each trusty lance. 
 
 But now to a picture widely different — 
 
 In Ilion's inner halls the while, the fairest of her kind 
 
 On the deep-woven tapestry colour to colour joined .- 
 
 She formed anew in mimic war the myriad troubles sprung 
 
 From her bright eyes, and form divine, and honey-dropping tongue. 
 
 She sate between two goodly rows of columns white and tall. 
 
 Seeming a goddess in her shrine within that palace-hall ; 
 
 Light of excessive beauty shone unveiled from every limb, 
 
 She was the daylight of that place, and all besides was dim. 
 
 White glanced her arms, as o'er the work in pleasant toil they moved ■ 
 
 She traced her Phrygian shepherd boy, or him she once had loved ; 
 
 She traced each shape of godlike chiefs with whom she played in youth , 
 
 Or led the naked Spartan dance in innocence and truth. 
 
 Then comes a scene which we are quite reluctant our readers 
 should lose, but beauties he so thick in our path that we must 
 dismiss it with brief notice. While thus working, sweet and 
 sad desire of her former husband and abode, and her young 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. II. 23 
 
 child (for she had left one, her first, in Europe) came over 
 her ; she rises and goes forth ; the elders wonder at her 
 beauty; the aged king Priam salutes her, and places her 
 beside him 'on the wall, whence she can see and describe to 
 him the Grecian chiefs, the acquaintance of her childhood. 
 One by one she points them out ; the majesty of Agamemnon, 
 the wisdom contained in the ordinary form and gait of 
 Odysseus, the burly bulk of Ajax, excite by turns the old 
 man's wonder ; and the scene ends with an exquisitely 
 pathetic touch, such as none but Homer could give : Helen 
 is speaking: 
 
 And now I see the rest full well, each comely-visaged Greek, 
 Whose countenance I know of old, whose fortune I could sjjeak ; 
 But two I cannot recognize as leaders, far or near, 
 Whom the same mother bore with me, my own twin brothers dear : 
 Perchance they have not crost the seas from Lacedsemon's land, 
 Perchance e'en now they keep yon ships that line the ocean strand, 
 Unwilling to come down and join the battle, lest their name 
 Should be obscured in men's report, and share their sister's shame. 
 She spoke J but them long since the earth had wrapped in cold embrace 
 At home in Lacedsemon, in their dear native place. 
 
 But we pass on. The battle is put off, the rival husbands Book iv. 
 join in siagle combat, to no avail ; and after various vicissi- 
 tudes, at length the hosts are mingled in deadly conflict. The 
 poet rolls on his majestic numbers, dispensing life and death ; 
 the very hsts of the slain are fall of melancholy majesty ; and 
 in the midst of blood and terrors, beauty and tenderness 
 constantly break forth. Here is the grandest of battle scenes: 
 
 And now into one spot at once the mailed squadrons roll, 
 
 With shield to shield, and spear to spear, and valiant soul to soul ; . 
 
 There is the shout, and there the shriek, the slaying and the slain ; 
 
 Beneath the blood of heroes flows : the meadow reeks again. 
 
 As when two tempest-swollen streams,, that down the mountains fret, 
 
 In some deep rocky bottom with their angry floods are met, 
 
 Both from their height tumultuous, the headlong waters pour 
 
 In one ravine, and from afar the shepherd hears their roar. 
 
 A beautiful youth, Simoeisius, so named of the river Simois, 
 
24 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 by whose bank he was bom, is slain by a Grecian chief; he is 
 said to fall hke some comely poplar by the river side : and the 
 thought is enlarged into a beautiful simile, which want of 
 space, not of wiU, compels us to omit. ' 
 
 Book V. rpj^g ^^1^ ^^^^ contains the ballad or lay of the prowess of 
 
 Diomedes the Greek. And a formidable feUow he is; for not 
 even the semi-material deities of the time escape the stroke of 
 his spear. The goddess of love, who had dared to mingle in 
 the fight, and even the god of war himself, have their celestial 
 blood drawn by a mortal hand. All this strength is given 
 him by PaUas Athena, the goddess of wisdom. Here is his 
 description : 
 
 And in his day of glory, from his helmet and his shield 
 There gleamed a restless fire abroad across the battle field ; 
 Most like the autumn star whose beams their brightest glory shed, 
 When first he rises newly-decked fronj out his ocean-bed. 
 
 He bears down before him the ranks of the Trojans ; and 
 again we have the storm-swoUen torrent brought into com- 
 parison, carrying away bridges and fences before it. This 
 would naturally be a favourite similitude in a rocky and 
 pastoral country. So would Hkewise the frequent combats 
 with vdld beasts in defence of the flocks. In one place we 
 have the boar surrounded by hunters and dogs, making his 
 final stand, and terrible in death : in another the lion has 
 entered the fold, and has been slightly wounded by the shep- 
 herd, and having his anger roused, is raging round, while the 
 sheep crowd frightened in a corner ; again we have two yonng 
 Kons who have been brought up under their mother in the 
 thickets of a deep wood, and live by plundering the farms of 
 oxen and sheep, till at length they fall by the spear of men. 
 Here is a pastoral simile : Hera and Athena, the goddesses, 
 are coming down from heaven in their chariot drawn by 
 ' coursers of immortal breed ;' 
 
 So far their high resounding steeds at one leap overbound, 
 As that man's vision ranges thro' the ether far and free, 
 Who sitting on a headland, looks along the foam-specked sea. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. II. 25 
 
 In the sixth book, the battle rests a while. The Trojan Boot vi. 
 matrons offer a rich garment on the shrine of Pallas, for the 
 safety of their city. Hector, who of aU the characters in the 
 Eiad leaves the most favourable impression on the reader, 
 having left the field and entered the town to suggest this 
 measure, takes the well-knowm farewell of his wife — Androm- 
 ache, and his little son. 
 
 Hector s re-appearance in the Trojan ranks is thus described : Book vii. 
 
 And as when God to sailors' prayers has sent a fav'ring breeze, 
 Whose weary limbs have failed with toil of rowing on the seas, 
 So felt the Trojan armies when their leader brave they saw. 
 
 But the crowning passage of Homer, and perhaps of all poetry, 
 is at the end of the eighth book ; the Trojans are encamped Book viii. 
 in the plain, and all night they keep up numerous fires round 
 their camp : 
 
 As when the starry hosts of heaven around the full bright moon 
 In all their glory shine, and winds are sleeping every one ; 
 When every rook is plainly seen, and every headland height, 
 And boundless sether from above pours down his opening light. 
 And all the signs in heaven appear, and the shepherd's heart is glad ; 
 So many shone, between the ships and Xanthus' winding bed 
 The Trojan fires in front of Troy ; a thousand piles were lit ; 
 And round each fire, distinct in light, did fifty soldiers sit.* 
 
 In the ninth book, the Greeks being distressed, a message is Book ix. 
 sent, but in vain, to the haughty Achilles, requesting him to 
 pity his countrymen and join the fight. He declares that 
 nothing shall induce him to do so except the presence of 
 Hector at his own ships coming to burn and destroy. Then 
 
 * We have elsewhere translated this description as follows : — 
 As when the stars in heaven around the moon 
 Shew brightly, and the under air is calm, 
 And headland tops, and beacon towers, and steeps, 
 Are clothed with visible light, and from above 
 The glory of the boundless firmament 
 Bursts downward, and the heavenly host is seen. 
 The heart of him that watches by the fold 
 Swells in his breast for joy. 
 
 School of the Heart, 
 Lesson VI. 
 
 E ' 
 
26 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Book XI. 
 
 Book XIT. 
 
 comes a night of fear and terror to the Greeks ; and nobly is 
 it described. There is no poet who throws around erery line 
 and expression, as Homer does, the spirit of the whole passage: 
 we read with trembling, while Agamemnon wakes Nestor, 
 and Nestor the other chiefs, and a night expedition is planned. 
 
 As dogs around the nightly fold their anxious watches keep, 
 Hearing some mighty beast from far come roaring for the sheep, 
 Down through the mountain wood; all night aloud the barkings rise, 
 And sleep departs away from them : so slumber from the eyes 
 Of all the Grecian chieftains fled; and each one's ear intent 
 To hear the foes advancing, toward the Trojan plain was bent. 
 
 Then follows the sally of Odysseus and Diomedes into the 
 camp of the Trojan ally. Rhesus. The night seems especially 
 congenial to Homer. But it is the night of Western Asia ; 
 either dark and still as death, or bright with its unclouded 
 moon ; not as in Ossian and our Northern bards, a night of 
 mists and storms, and driving sleet or rain. The night-winds 
 seem hardly known to Homer. The moon obscured and clear 
 by fits, driving through the fleecy vapours ; the dark masses of 
 storm-cloud which roll suddenly away, ' turning forth their 
 silver lining on the night,' and opening to the view of him 
 who journeys, the crystalline firmament, with its ' patines of 
 bright gold,' and its unfathomable depths of nebulous light; 
 all these and many other glories of our climate, we do not find 
 in Homer : but in return, the stiU and mysterious spirit' of 
 night, uniform in terror and beauty, penetrates his descriptions 
 perhaps the more deeply, for its being without these varia- 
 tions. 
 
 In the eleventh book again the battle rages ; and again the 
 Poet revels in images of terror and grandeur. 
 
 And as some lion tears the fawns of a swift-footed hind, 
 
 And she, though she be near, no help can for her young ones find ; 
 
 But terror seizes on her limbs, and swift she darts away 
 
 Through thickets and through forests, from the hounding beast of prey; 
 
 So none could help the Trojan hosts in that disastrous day, 
 
 But even their chieftains trembling from the Argives fled away. 
 
 But the tables soon are turned— Hector and his Trojans in 
 the next book assault and carry the walls which the Greeks 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. II. 27 
 
 have built to defend their ships. The ships are on the point 
 
 of being burnt, when the sea god, the enemy of the Trojans, 
 
 comes from his mountain throne in Samothrace to help the 
 
 Greeks. Splendid is the description of his coming. He yokes 
 
 to his chariot horses brazen hoofed, with flowing manes of 
 
 gold. He puts on golden raiment, and takes his golden lash. 
 
 He drives over the ocean waves. The finny monsters frisk ^°°''^^^'"' 
 
 round him from their caverns, and recognize their king. The 
 
 sea cleaves asunder with joy, and his brazen axle is not wetted. 
 
 The Greeks are rallied ; Hector is driven back. War, tumult, 
 
 and death rage through this book and the next. Zeus, the 
 
 king of gods and men, has as yet held the balance even, and 
 
 forbidden the other deities to intermingle in the fray. But 
 
 Hera, his queen, is a partisan of the Greeks, and she exercises ^^°^ ^^^' 
 
 her powers of charming, till Zeus sleeps, and the deities each 
 
 betake themselves to the field. The whole description — the 
 
 cave of sleep — the power of love over the mighty Zeus — the 
 
 grateful offerings of the earth to his genial bed, are fall of the 
 
 richest and freshest beauty. 
 
 He spoke, and round his spouse divine his eager arms he threw ; 
 
 Beneath them earth her herbage fresh, and choicest flowrets grew ; 
 
 The Lotus-blossom full of dew, the crocus bright with gold, 
 
 The many-flowered hyacinth with stem erect and bold ; 
 
 And thus they lay together, and the sacred place was filled 
 
 With a bright and veiling cloud from which ambrosial dews distilled.* 
 
 * The reader will be reminded of the glorious description of our first parents in 
 Paradise, in which allusion is made to this passage of Homer: 
 
 So spake our general mother, and with eyes 
 
 Of conjugal attraction unreproved. 
 
 And meek surrender, half embracing leaned 
 
 On our first father; half her swelling breast 
 
 Naked met his, under the flowing gold 
 
 Of her loose tresses hid ; he in delight 
 
 Both of her beauty and submissive charms, 
 
 Smiled with superior love, as Jupiter 
 
 On Juno smUes, when he impregns the clouds 
 
 That shed Mayflowers ;— and prest her matron lip 
 
 With kisses pure. 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book IV, 
 
28 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Book XVI. But let US hasten on to a part thick with gems of poetry. At 
 length Achilles, moved by the entreaties of his friend Patroclus, 
 rather than with the distress of the Greeks, consents to give 
 him his own invincible armour, and to send him forth to the 
 fight. He arms his soldiers, the Myrmidons, who, for strength 
 and eagerness, are compared to mountain wolves insatiate in 
 blood, and wasps defending their nests. The Trojans fly from 
 the ships, as a cloud rolls dowoi from the mountain on the 
 coming of a storm. They are routed and slain, and among 
 them Sarpedon, the son of Zeus himself, is killed by the hand 
 of Patroclus, but the avenger is overtaken by vengeance, and 
 the slayer slain. He had been warned before setting out, by 
 Achilles, not to approach the walls of Troy. This warning he 
 neglects, and at last becomes embroiled with the mighty 
 Hector himself. Patroclus had slain Cebriones, the half 
 brother and charioteer of Hector. The two heroes were 
 fighting over the body, like lions over the body of a hart. 
 
 As when the East wind and the South with meeting fury strive 
 Amidst some mountain's fastnesses, the forest trunks to rive, 
 The beech and ash, and cornel-tree their lofty branches bow, 
 And crash their limbs together; so the Greeks and Trojans now 
 Rushed one upon another, and forgot the thought of fear. 
 Around the body of the chief full many a barbed spear 
 Stuck fast, and winged arrows that had leapt from many a string; 
 And many a weighty stone was heard upon the shield to ring; 
 But he amidst the whirl of dust, a mighty form, was laid, 
 Forgetful of his warlike skill, in calm of death arrayed. 
 
 Patroclus falls, but by the hand of Hector, and with the help 
 Book XVII. of Apollo. The whole of the next book (Book XVII) is 
 taken up by the fight over his body, and the carrying it out of 
 the field, and the conveying the mournftd message to Achilles. 
 His passion of grief and rage is nobly described : his goddess 
 mother comes to comfort him, persuades him to avenge his 
 friend ; and promises him another and a better suit of armour, 
 made by the divine hands of Hephaestus, the heavenly work- 
 man. Meantime, the furious Hector and his Trojans have 
 pursued the band bearing the body of Patroclus, and it is in 
 
AND POETS CHAP. II. 29 
 
 danger again of falling into the hands of the enemy. Iris, the 
 messenger of heaven, is sent to Achilles, and persuades him to 
 come forth in his strength, and scatter the Trojans. Athena, 
 or Pallas, throws round him her immortal shield ; 
 
 And like a crown the goddess threw a vapour round his head 
 Distinct with golden rays, from which a flame of glory spread. 
 As when the smoke goes up to heaven from some far inland town, 
 When deadly battle in the streets is raging up and down, 
 And as the light of day declines, from many beacon fires 
 Up to the darkening heaven the flames shoot up in forky spires, 
 A signal to the dwellers near to bring their timely aid : — 
 So rose the heavenly flame in air around Achilles' head. 
 
 At the sight of him the Trojans fly in dismay, and the mourn- 
 ful corse of his friend is brought in and laid on a bier, and 
 washed, and wept over by himself and his companions. 
 
 But now the heavenly arms are being fabricated, and the Book xviii 
 shield, on which divine art was lavished, is described in verses 
 of exquisite beauty : 
 
 And first he wrought a mio^hty shield of solid work entire, 
 With care inlaid on every side ; and round, a shining tyre, 
 Triple, and glorious ; and besides a belt of silver bright j 
 Five-fold he made the inner shield, with cunning skill bedight. 
 In it he wrought the earth and heaven, and ocean's brimming tide, 
 The sun's unwearied strength, the moon with monthly light supplied : 
 And all the constellations bright wherewith the heaven is set, 
 Orion, and the northern wain, in ocean never wet. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 la it he wrought two cities; in the one were marriage songs, 
 And feastings ; from the chambers came the brides in joyful throngs. 
 By light of festal torches ; and the youths were dancing round 
 To music of the flute and pipe, and harps tumultuous sound ; 
 While at the doors admiring stood their women and their sires. 
 
 ******* 
 In it he wrought a fallow field where plowers many a one 
 Were plowing, and whene'er their yokes came back where they begun, 
 A brimming cup was reached to them of honey-tasted wine. 
 Which having drunk they turned again along the furrowed line. 
 
 ^ ***** * 
 
 In it he wrought the harvest-time; and in the yellow land 
 
30 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Book XXI, 
 
 The youths were reaping, holding sharp bright sickles in their hand ; 
 Some handfuls fall along the rows, and some the shearers bind ; 
 And boys were gathering up the gleanings following on behind, 
 A sceptred king among them stood surveying their employ ; 
 And some prepared beneath an oak the feast of harvest joy. 
 
 Book XIX. These and many others are the wonders of the shield ; and 
 Book XX. -yyjtii t}jig^ and the rest of the arms, Achilles goes forth, know- 
 ing that his course wUl be short, but glorious. The gods now 
 mingle unrestrainedly in the fight ; and the combat assumes a 
 higher and more awful cast. Hector flies, and is only saved 
 by Apollo from the wrath of his foe. Not content with 
 mortal foes, the hero engages with the river Scamander, the 
 offspring of the gods, who rises in defence of his Trojans to 
 overwhelm their destroyer. He flies before the rushing waters ; 
 the river pursues where he flies ; till at last Hera, fearing for 
 her Greeks and their chief, beseeches the fire god, who burns 
 up the river. This scene, wild and supernatural as it is, is 
 told grandly and appropriately; the personality and power 
 given to inanimate things is mysteriously shadowed out, and 
 an impression of awe and terror left on the mind of the 
 reader. 
 
 The next book completes the glory of AchiUes. His 
 great foe, the slayer of his friend, is slain by him, and 
 dragged round the walls of Troy at the wheels of his 
 chariot. This being accomplished, he performs the funeral 
 rites to his yet unburied friend, and institutes solemn games 
 over his tomb. 
 
 But strikingly beautiful is the close of this wonderful poem. 
 The aged Priam, the disconsolate sire of Hector, comes to the 
 fiery Achilles to beg his body. The sacred corse has been 
 preserved many days miraculously — the wounds have been 
 healed — the blood is washed by unseen hands. Tlie meeting 
 of age and youth, helplessness and strength, sorrow and fury, 
 is powerftiUy related by this great master of human feelings. 
 The savage warrior is melted ; the sad father bears back his 
 son, the last defence of Troy — the pile is lit ; the sacred rites 
 performed ; and the action ceases, with 
 
 Book XXII. 
 
 Book XXIII 
 
 Book XXIV, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. II. 31 
 
 'Twas thus they wrought the burial rites of Hector good and true. 
 
 Thus ends a poem, whicli in very many respects, most Excellence of 
 deserves the admiration of mankind of all that have ever been ^^° ^^^^^' 
 composed. It raises a trifling piratical war into a subject of 
 deep and lasting interest. It invests men of no historical 
 importance with undying names. It arrests the grandeur and 
 beauty of nature, and in a few short words or lines raises up a 
 thousand images in the soul. It deals alike with the majestic 
 and the minute, the terrible and the pathetic; and in its 
 dealings with aU these, stands imrivaUed. From scenes of 
 promiscuous bloodshed, and superhuman fury, to pictures of 
 domestic tenderness, the master's hand is alike seen in all 
 which he touches or describes. 
 
 It has one faculty, which belongs to none but the greatest 
 productions of human genius, and the inspired writings, that 
 of appearing more beautiful, the oftener it is read. 
 
 From this book the sages of Ancient Greece took their 
 maxims and morals ; her warriors their tactics, and her states- 
 men their poHtics. There is no poet who has not drawn from 
 this source ; the incidents of the Iliad, and the legends which 
 have been built on them, have formed an inexhaustible fund 
 for dramatic plots, lyric allusions, and superstructure of new 
 epic poems ; the similes have furnished many very beautifiil 
 descriptive sketches, which have been worked up, and are 
 even now worked up, by modem artists in verse. 
 
 In our next chapter we shall give a similar sketch of the 
 Odyssey ; a poem not holding so high a place as the Iliad, 
 but likely, from reasons which we shall then explain, always 
 to be a greater favourite. Meantime we wiU take leave of our 
 readers with the following sonnet, which occurred to us while 
 ruminating on the subject of this chapter : 
 
 Ilion, along whose streets in olden days 
 Shone that divinest form, for whose sweet face 
 A monarch sire, with all his kingly race, 
 Were too content to let their temples blaze — 
 Where art thou now? — no massive columns raise 
 
32 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Their serried shafts to heaven j we may not trace 
 Xanthus and Simois, nor each storied place 
 Round which poetic memory fondly plays. 
 But in the verse of the old man divine 
 Thy windy towers are built eternally ; 
 Nor shall the ages, as they ruin by, 
 Print on thy bulwarks one decaying sign ; 
 So true is beauty clothed in endless rime ; 
 So false the sensual monuments of time. 
 
w 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOMER— THE ODYSSEY. 
 
 "We observed in the last chapter, that the Odyssey has many Poi"'" of '''f- 
 
 ■^ •' •' •' ference from 
 
 points of difference from the Iliad. These must now be more ^^^ ^i'^'^- 
 specially detailed. In the first place, the subject and style are 
 widely different. The Iliad is full of fields of battle, deeds of 
 heroes, and the struggles of human passion. The Odyssey, on 
 the other hand, relates the endeavours of la weary traveller to 
 reach his beloved home, through perils by the adverse powers 
 of nature. The Iliad abounds with images of dread and 
 majesty : the Odyssey with exquisite pastoral descriptions of 
 sea and land and sky, and the works of men, gardens and 
 palaces, farms and cities. The Iliad seems to partake more of 
 the severe truth of patriarchal days, when the first fathers of 
 men, mighty in stature and heart, were still in fulness of 
 power and strength of will. The Odyssey belongs rather to 
 the middle age of imaginative legend; its creations are all 
 mingled with the fanciful and grotesque ; it remembers, not 
 relates, mighty deeds and passions ; it takes its rise from an 
 age when men and actions stand prominently forth, and in 
 which we can imagine ourselves to be living and doing, and 
 getting in its course more unreal and mysterious, it at last 
 fades off into a region dim and unknown. In the Iliad, the 
 mightier emotions bear rule, and the softer parts of humanity 
 serve them, and are crushed beneath them : in the Odyssey 
 the love of home, of parent, wife and child, is ever before us, 
 and weaves through adventure and fable its golden thread. 
 
34 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 The Iliad is a poem to be admired : the Odyssey to be enjoyed. 
 The Iliad requires study, and repays it : the Odyssey pleases 
 at sight, and leaves an impression which never needs to be 
 renewed. The Iliad is the treasury of subjects for the sons of 
 art: the Odyssey delights and soothes the simple-minded 
 children of nature. In youth and adventure, in the intervals 
 of study, by summer seas and on mountain forests, the Odys- 
 sey is our companion : many a golden thought, many a sweet 
 verse, many a pleasant selection of retreats where our soul has 
 breathed and grown, do we owe to its influence ; but we keep 
 the Iliad for the food of maturer years and book-peopled 
 seclusion ; for maxims of practical wisdom, which we reve- 
 rence ourselves, and recite to our children. The pulpit, the 
 bar, the highest minds in every department, have all been 
 beholden to the Iliad : from the Odyssey Ave have poets such 
 as Theocritus and Virgil, Spenser and Ariosto, Keats and 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Such is the poem, Avhose treasures we are about to lay before 
 our readers. 
 
 At the opening of the action the various parties in it are 
 situated as follows : — 
 
 ODYSSEUS, (our readers wiU pardon our adherence to 
 
 Openinft of 
 
 the action, the genuine name, and rejection of our schoolboy adoption of 
 the Latin form Ulysses,) the wisest of the Grecian chiefs who 
 had fought at Troy, having suffered many misfortunes on his 
 return home, is detained in an island of the sea by the nymph 
 Calypso, who wishes him to live ever with her, and offers him 
 the gift of immortality to compensate for his loss of home. 
 This he refuses, and sits on the enchanted rocks looking over 
 the broad sea, 
 
 Longing to see the smolie curl up from his own house at home. 
 
 Meantime, in that house at home, his faithful wife Penelope 
 is beset mth a multitude of unraly suitors for her hand in 
 marriage. Nearly twenty years had elapsed since her husband 
 had left his home. Yet she maintains her conjugal faith j 
 
1 
 
 AND POETS. CHAP. III. 35 
 
 and answering the suitors that she would choose one of them 
 as soon as she should have finished a shroud of her old father- 
 in-law Laertes, unweaves each night what she had woven by- 
 day. 
 
 In this aspect of affairs, Athena, the goddess of wisdom, 
 descends in a borrowed shape to urge Telemachus, the son of 
 Odysseus and Penelope, to go and seek his father. Hermes 
 also, the heavenly messenger, is despatched to the island of 
 Calypso, to command her no longer to detain Odysseus, for 
 that it was fated that he should return to his home. 
 
 The first message and its res^llts are related in the first four Books i— iv 
 books. 
 
 The goddess arrives at Ithaca, and finds the following state 
 of things : — 
 
 Before the gates she found the suitors thronging, 
 
 Busy at dice; reclined on hides of oxen 
 
 Which their own waste had slain. Heralds and servants 
 
 Mingled their wine-drink in the ample goblets, 
 
 Or with soft sponges washed the marble tables, 
 
 And served the meats, and laid on lavish dainties. 
 
 Telemachus first saw the entering goddess : 
 
 Heart-sad he sat among the crowded suitors, 
 
 Looking with Fancy's eye on his dear father, 
 
 Thinking if ever he would come and scatter 
 
 These insolents, and get his household honour. 
 
 And rule his own again. The prince, thus thinking, 
 
 Beheld Athena : up he rose and straightway 
 
 Made for the porch ; for his high spirit smote him. 
 
 To see the stranger stand so long unnoticed. 
 
 The stranger is introduced ; the advice is given ; the guest 
 departs, and in departing does wondrously, and is known to be 
 divine. Meantime the suitors are sitting over their wine, 
 listening to the voice of a bard, who is singing to them the 
 mournful tale of Troy. The sound comes to Penelope in her 
 retirement : 
 
 In chamber far above, the tuneful story 
 
 Reached the sad queen ; she moving forth descended 
 
 The ample palace-stair; on each side girded 
 
 By a fair slave. She reached the polished doorway 
 
36 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Of the great hall, and stood before the suitors, 
 With glistening veil her modest cheeks concealing. 
 Then shedding tears she called the heavenly minstrel : 
 Phemius, thou knowest many a soothing measure 
 Of deeds of gods and men, which bards delight in : 
 From them sing any, and let these in silence 
 Sit by and drink ; but cease me that sad story, 
 Which harrows my poor heart : such mindful son*ow 
 Keep I for my dear lord, whose name and glory 
 Is wide in Hellas, and the midst of Argos. 
 
 Next day a stormy discussion is held. Telemachus proposes 
 his journey to the suitors : they rage against him : but he is 
 defended by heavenly assistance ; and shows no fear of them. 
 
 Listen, ye suitors, overbearing varlets, 
 
 Is his exordium to them. 
 
 The journey is now prepared : the suitors consent, hoping 
 that the youth may perish. It is necessary to the reader's 
 acquaintance with the manners of this charming poem, that 
 we give entire the scene in which Telemachus breaks the 
 matter to his old nurse before his going : 
 
 Meanwhile the prince sought out his father's chamber, 
 
 High-roofed and vast, wherein lay hoarded treasure 
 
 Of gold and silver, and of costly garments 
 
 Put by in chests : and scented oil of olive. 
 
 Here ample casks of old sweet wine were standing 
 
 Ranged by the wall, each full of godlike liquor. 
 
 If ever their lost lord, at length returning 
 
 After his toils, his mighty soul should comfort. 
 
 Each was twice locked ; and in the chamber dwelling 
 
 An ancient woman kept them in her wisdom, 
 
 The prince's nurse, the faithful Eurycleia. 
 
 Her called Telemachus, and thus addrest her: 
 
 * Mother, come pour me out some wine in goblets, 
 
 * The best and sweetest, next to that which always 
 ' Thou keepest sealed for my poor father's coming. 
 ' Fill goblets twelve, and fit them all with covers; 
 
 * And pack me meal in skins, full twenty measures. 
 
 * Do it thyself alone, and all together ; 
 
 ' For I shall come to fetch it forth this even, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. 37 
 
 * Soon as my mother goes into her chamber. 
 ' For I am bound to Sparta and to Pylos, 
 
 ' To hear some tidings of my absent father.' 
 She shriek'd, and weeping, with swift words addrest him : 
 ' Wherefore, dear child, has this design come on thee ? 
 ' Why shouldst thou wish to go so long a journey, 
 
 * And all alone, my darling ? Thy poor father 
 ' Hath perished long ago, far from his country 
 
 ' In some strange land : and now, while thou art going, 
 
 ' These suitors will be plotting mischief for thee, 
 
 ' That thou may'st die, and they divide thy substance. 
 
 ' Stay here and keep thine own ; 'tis not for thee, child, 
 
 ' On the fierce sea to suiFer, and to wander.' 
 
 The modest youth his nurse with mildness answered : 
 
 ' Take courage, mother; not without high counsel 
 
 ' Given by a god, has this resolve been taken. 
 
 ' Now swear, of all this nought to tell my mother, 
 
 * Till the eleventh or twelfth day be accomplished, 
 ' Or till she pine, or hear of me by rumour; 
 
 ' Swear, that thou may'st not bring my wrath upon thee.' 
 He spoke, and swore the matron to be secret. 
 Then she drew off the wine into the goblets. 
 And poured the meal into the well-sewn bottles. 
 The prince departing, mingled with the suitors. 
 
 But the Odyssey, of all poems, is the poem of the sea. All 
 the fine modems who hare sung of ' the sea, the sea,' have 
 never, in one point, equalled the grandeur and freshness of 
 this old hard. Vandevelde and Claude have approached the 
 nearest. Reader, did you ever see Claude's picture of the 
 embarkation of the eleven thousand virgins, or of the debarka- 
 tion of the Queen of Sheba ? If not, you cannot do it too 
 soon : * if you have, remember, or treasure for next time, the 
 wonders of the sea in those pictures. Look into the water in 
 them; it is not, it cannot be painting: the waves have depths ! 
 Look longer; do you not see the treasures of the deep ? You 
 may fancy so. Look at the glorious sun reflected in the 
 twinkling waves ; in fragments thickening and lessening as 
 
 * They ai'e among the treasures of the National Gallery. If any one has an hour 
 to spare in London, let him spend it there. He will never regret it. 
 
38 CHAPTEBS ON POETRY 
 
 you follow them farther off, till they blend, and become a 
 pillar of golden light. But what is all this to Homer? Listen, 
 and you shall hear. 
 
 Telemachus embarked, but first Athena 
 
 Led him the way ; together in the steerage 
 
 They sat : the crew let loose the vessel's moorings, 
 
 And stepped on board, and sat upon her benches. 
 
 Athena raised a gentle breeze behind them, 
 
 Murmuring soft music o'er the ruffled waters. 
 
 The prince bespoke the crew to raise their tackling ; 
 
 They heard, and straightway in th' appointed hollow 
 
 Set up the fir-tree mast, and bound it safely ; 
 
 Then stretched the white sails by the twisted sheet-ropes. 
 
 Tight swelled the mainsail, with the fresh breeze straining ; 
 
 Around the prow the troubled waves fell crashing j 
 
 The ship ran onward, ploughing through the ocean. 
 
 The crew laid by their oars along the vessel, 
 
 And with sweet wine-draughts crowned their foaming beakers, 
 
 Pouring libations to the powers immortal. 
 
 But most of all to the grey-eyed Athena. 
 
 All night and dawn the gallant ship went onward; 
 
 Till from the circle of the mighty waters 
 
 Up sprung the Sun-god on the sky's bright pathway, 
 
 O'er heaven and earth his full effulgence shedding. 
 
 Thus they come to the sandy Pylos, the city of the aged 
 Nestor, who, after his toils at Troy, had been permitted to 
 reach home in safety; and now, with his sons and people, was 
 doing a great sacrifice to the god of the sea. They were 
 assembled by hundreds on the shore ; and the royagers, after 
 joining them in the sacrifice, are hospitably entertained, and 
 treated with much gossip, but very Httle information, from the 
 good old story-telling Nestor. The goddess having again 
 departed miraculously, and thus infused confidence into the 
 old man respecting the fortunes of Telemachus, he is lodged 
 there that night ; and in the morning, after a great sacrifice 
 which Nestor had vowed to Athena, and when (such was the 
 primitive chastity of patriarchal manners,) Nestor's youngest 
 daughter, the lovely princess Polycasta, had attended Telema- 
 chus in the bath, and anointed and adorned him, he is sent on 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. 
 
 39 
 
 his way, accompanied by Peisistratus, one of the young princes, 
 for LacedEemon, to enquire further of Menelaus, who had also 
 gained his home, after much wandering and danger. 
 
 They reach Lacedsemon on the second evening. It seems 
 to be their fate to arrive in hohday-time, Menelaus is giving 
 a marriage feast on the double occasion of his daughter Her- 
 mione (by Helen) being given to Neoptolemus, the son of 
 Achilles, and his son Megapenthes taking a Spartan wife. 
 The guests are seen arriving by the servants, and as usual, 
 hospitably received. 
 
 Some loosed the foaming horses from their chariot, 
 And bound them to the mangers ; placing by them 
 Heaps of white corn ; some took the car and leant it 
 Against the shining walls. Others the strangers 
 Ushered within the palace ; they beholding 
 Looked with amazement on the kingly mansion. 
 For as the sun or moon in all their glory, 
 So shone the lofty walls of Menelaus, 
 With gold and silver, ivory and amber. 
 
 It was the ancient custom to feed one's guests first, and ask 
 them questions afterwards. During the feast, and before 
 Telemachus is known, upon his dropping an admiring expres- 
 sion to his friend of the splendour around him, and being 
 overheard, Menelaus begins recounting to him the toils and 
 dangers by which this wealth was gotten, and the expense of 
 precious lives which had attended the Trojan expedition. 
 Here occurs again one of those sweet touches of nature, which 
 are never so pure and fresh as in these ancient bards. Mene- 
 laus is speaking : 
 
 X reign not gladly o'er these bright possessions ; 
 How could I wish the greater part denied me, 
 If those men could be safe again, who perished 
 Under the walls of Troy, far from their country. 
 But though I wail for all my brave companions, 
 None do I mourn so much as one, whose memory 
 Poisons my sleep and food ; none like Odysseus 
 Wrought for the Greeks at Troy; but fate had treasured 
 Sorrows for him, and for me sad remembrance. 
 
40 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Long years hath he been missing, and we know not 
 
 If he be dead, or live ; — the old Laertes 
 
 His sire, and wise Penelope, deserted 
 
 Mourn for him, and his son, left young behind him. 
 
 At this, a rush of grief for his poor father 
 Came on the youth ; the warm tears trickled from him ; 
 With both his hands his purple robe he lifted. 
 And hid his face. 
 
 This leads to his discovery, and much talk and lamentation 
 takes place over the long-lost Odysseus. 
 
 But here more is learnt respecting him. Menelaus during 
 his wanderings has fallen ia with Proteus, the prophetic old 
 man of the sea. Of him he has enquired many things, and 
 learned the fate of most of the Grecian chieftains who had left 
 Troy. Among other information, he has been told that 
 Odysseus was detained in the island of Calypso.* Having 
 gained this intelligence, Telemachus departs, laden with gifl:s 
 by the bounty of his host. But the search is not followed up • 
 nor do we hear any more of Telemachus, till long after in the 
 poem, when we find Athena going to fetch him from Lacedse- 
 mon on the arrival of his father in Ithaca. She, however, 
 does not tell him this, but alarms him by a report that his 
 mother is on the poiat of marrying Eurymachus, the most 
 powerful of the suitors, and that his return is instantly 
 necessary. He departs with good wishes and omens ; hastens 
 to his ship at Pylos, escapes the ambush laid for him in 
 an intervening island by the suitors, and arrives safe on the 
 shore of Ithaca. 
 
 Meanwhile the greater part of the action of the Poem has 
 been passing. Between the arrival of Telemachus at Lacedse- 
 
 • Some lines of exquisite beauty occur respecting the fate of Menelaus himself: 
 
 It is not fated, godlike Menelaus, 
 
 That thou shouldst die and suffer change in Argos ; 
 
 But to th' Elysian plain, earth's furthest limits, 
 
 The gods shall send thee, where men's life is sweetest : 
 
 There never snow nor winter comes, nor tempest ; 
 
 But from mild ocean ever breathes the zephyr 
 
 Life and refreshment;— and this, for that Helen 
 
 Thou hast to wife, and art by Zeus beloved. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. 41 
 
 mon and his return, ten books have intervened, full of strange 
 adventures, hair-breadth escapes, and " moving accidents by 
 flood and field," of the hero, Odysseus. 
 
 The fifth book opens with the message of Hermes, the Book v. 
 heavenly messenger, which was to command Calypso to set 
 Odysseus free. The poet has reached the full subject of his 
 work. Hitherto all has been foreground and sky. Now he 
 comes to his central figures, and lavishes design and colouring. 
 The King of Gods and men has been commanding Hermes 
 to go: 
 
 He spoke : nor paused the swift immortal herald, 
 
 But bound beneath his feet his winged sandals, 
 
 Golden, eternal ; which o'er ocean bear him, 
 
 And o'er the fields of earth, swift as the tempest. 
 
 He took his staff, with which he charms men's eyelids 
 
 Whene'er he will, or wakes them from their slumbers. 
 
 With this in hand, the god began his journey, 
 
 And reached Pieria; then from air betook him 
 
 To flight athwart the waters; in the likeness 
 
 Of a sea-bird he skimmed along the surface, 
 
 A gull, which in the trenches of the billows 
 
 Fishing, its thick wings wets with the salt water; 
 
 Thus flew the god across the myriad breakers. 
 
 Then when the island, seen from far, drew nearer. 
 
 He left the sea, and on the firm land journeyed, 
 
 Till a vast cave he reached, in which the goddess 
 
 Dwelt in her beauty; there within he found her; 
 
 Upon the hearth a mighty fire was kindled; 
 
 And from afar there spread across the island 
 
 The smell of cedar and of sandal burning; 
 
 She sat within, with her clear voice loud singing. 
 
 With golden threads a web of wool inweaving. 
 
 Around the cave a lofty wood was growing, 
 
 Alder, and poplar, and the scented cypress. 
 
 There roosted long-winged birds, or plumed their feathers, 
 
 Night-hawks and falcons, cormorants, whose business 
 
 Is in the waters. Round the smooth-worn entrance. 
 
 Climbed a lush grape-vine, black with pendant clusters: 
 
 Hard by, four fountains poured their limpid waters. 
 
 Each near another, but four courses taking. 
 
 And from the cave's mouth stretched away fair meadows, 
 
42 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Rank with sweet violet, and the crisped parsley. 
 
 There might a god stand still and gaze with rapture, 
 
 As did the Herald of the heavenly council. 
 
 The cave he entered; the divine Calypso 
 
 Saw him, and knew; for hy the powers immortal 
 
 Each is to other known by swift perception. 
 
 He found not there within great-souled Odysseus ; 
 
 For he sat weeping on the shore ; where always 
 
 Wearing his heart with tears, and groans, and sorrows, 
 
 Homeward he looked across the foaming waters. 
 
 The message is delivered, to the dismay of the love-sick 
 nymph, who is however unable to disobey the will of Zeus 
 and of Fate. By her suggestions, Odysseus turns Robinson 
 Crusoe, and builds him a raft, wherewith to pass homeward : 
 and (for she is a faithful, though a dissappointed lover) she 
 loads him with good things, and raises a fair breeze behind 
 him. Thus far (as we have it in the fairy legends) her power 
 extended ; but a mightier than she, even the god of the sea 
 himself, was Odysseus' foe. 
 
 The gods had a habit of going to dine with the vEthiopians, 
 a sort of Elysian people, who dwelt in the mysterious birth- 
 places of the Nile. The sea god, Poseidon, (so call him) was 
 a frequent guest at their banquets : and when Odysseus, now 
 saiUng on the eighteenth day, was coming in sight of a moTin- 
 tain shore, the land of the Phaeacians, Poseidon was returning 
 from his Coptic debauch, and spied the unfortimate wanderer, 
 as his horses were walking up a steep hill, from whence he 
 looked over the ocean. Having vented his wrath in a speech 
 which amounts to 
 
 Fe, fi, fo, fum, 
 I smell the blood of a Grecian man, 
 
 he proceeds to concoct mischief for Odysseus. 
 
 He spoke, and from his stores the clouds he gathered ; 
 And stirred the ocean with his mighty trident. 
 At once the breaths of all the winds he wakened ; 
 Clouds covered earth and sea. and night came downward 
 Over the louring heaven. Great waves rolled onward ; 
 Fear seized Odysseus, and a fainting terror. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. 43 
 
 And well it might ; for he has no sooner disburdened himself 
 of his apprehensions in a dialogue with his own 'magnanimous 
 heart,' when slap comes a great wave, and unships him into 
 the deep. He however manages to regain hold of his raft, 
 and sits in the middle as safest, (so have we seen, in our 
 school-boy days, cat on tub-head in pond come to the same 
 conclusion,) whizzing along the waves like thistle-down before 
 an equinoctial gale (the simile is Homer's own). So the 
 winds (Homer's also) were plapng at ball with him, when 
 again a lady interposes and saves him from destruction. 
 
 Him saw Leucothea, nymph of the ocean : 
 
 Once a fair mortal, now by gods adopted. 
 
 She saw, and pitied ; like a sea-bird diving, 
 
 She rose from out the curling spray, and sitting 
 
 On the tossed raft, kindly bespoke Odysseus; 
 
 ' Thou wretched one, why doth the fierce Poseidon 
 
 ' Rage thus against thee, and devise thee mischief? 
 
 ' He shall not crush thee, be he ne'er so willing. 
 
 ' Do thus ; (I know thee for a man of wisdom) 
 
 ' Put off those clothes, and leave thy raft to perish ; 
 
 ' Swim with thine hands, and make for yonder mountains, 
 
 ' For there it is thy fate to reach in safety. 
 
 ' This girdle take, and bind beneath thy bosom ; 
 
 ' It is of heavenly virtue, and shall guard thee 
 
 ' From danger and from death : and when thou reachest 
 
 * The welcome land, behind thee far in ocean 
 
 ' Cast it, and look not back.' She said, and gave him 
 
 The magic girdle; back into the ocean 
 
 The sea-bird dived, by a black billow covered. 
 
 Odysseus is afraid of being gulled, and hesitates to comply. 
 But he is soon reduced to ' Hobson's choice :' for a mountain 
 of a wave comes and breaks his raft as the wind scatters a 
 heap of dry chaff. Away it goes in all directions, and Odys- 
 seus astride upon a piece of it. Xow he obeys his fair adviser, 
 and stripping off the garments, which had been the gift ot 
 Calypso, puts on his magic girdle and ^ims for it. 
 
 Leander, Lord Byron, and Mr. Ekinhead swam the Helles- 
 pont ; we ourselves should have been born web-footed, for to 
 us swimming is Paradise ; but such a swim as this we never 
 
44 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 read or heard of but here. Hear it, ye bathers in our eddying 
 Trent — ye vaunters of your half mile or mile — two days and 
 two nights did Odysseus swim ; then, to be sure, he had a 
 patent life-preseryer, and we are told his patroness Athena 
 boxed up all the winds except the right one ; but any how it 
 is a ' strong bathe ;' why, his flesh must have been sodden 
 like boiled mutton, or a washerwoman's fingers. 
 
 In this state he arrives at the land of the Phseacians, a far- 
 famed naval people. Having been much beaten about by the 
 waves in landing, and his life being in danger, he is rescued 
 by the favour of Athena, but still he lies fainting on the beach. 
 Having recovered, he throws back to the sea his magic girdle, 
 and Leucothea receives it beneath the waters. He then retreats 
 into a wood from the river, at whose mouth he had landed, and 
 having made him a bed of leaves, sleeps sweetly after his 
 labours. 
 
 Meantime an adventure was being prepared for him. The 
 King of the country, Alcinous, has a fair daughter named 
 Nausicaa. Athena comes to her in disguise, and reminds her 
 of her many splendid dresses, which were lying neglected. 
 She tells her that in the course of things her marriage cannot 
 be far off, and then she will have to array herself and maids 
 in the best and purest. 
 
 In those days princely maidens neither put out their wash- 
 ing, nor did they wash at home. The fashion was for the 
 mistress and her train to go to some fair place by a river, and 
 make a day of it. Such a washing day did Athena advise 
 Nausicaa to take. The mules were to be put to, and the 
 whole company to set ofi* in the morning for the river.* This 
 is accordingly done. The whole wardrobe is held in the 
 
 * There is a far-famed comparison respecting Nausicaa and her attendants : 
 
 And as the Huntress-queen among the mountains, 
 
 Taygetus' long ijidge, or Erimanthus» 
 
 Disports herself, hoai's and swift stags pursuing; 
 
 And the Nymphs with her in the field, Jove's daughtern, 
 
 Are playing, and her mother's heart rejoiceth, 
 
 For far above the rest her clear brow shineth 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. 45 
 
 running water, beaten, and rinsed, and spread to dry on the 
 sea beach. All this of course happens at the same place 
 where Odysseus had laid him down ; and when it is oyer, and 
 the fair company had also bathed in the fresh stream, and 
 were playing at ball, he wakes, and creeps forth from his 
 hiding place. The maid-servants shriek, and fly in dismay ; 
 the princess alone, from a higher chastity, remains, being 
 besides strengthened in her resolves by Athena. The traveller 
 tells his tale — is accommodated with clothes and food, and 
 directed to the city. 
 
 There his patroness Athena meets him under the form of a 
 girl bearing a pitcher, and informs him of all he can want to Book vii. 
 know. He passes the arsenals and stores, and at length 
 arrives at the palace of Alcinous. That our readers may know 
 what sort of a thing a Homeric palace is, we shall translate 
 the description complete. 
 
 Straight to the palace gate advanced Odysseus; 
 
 Much wondering, before he reached the threshold; 
 
 For as the sun or moon in all their glory 
 
 So shone the lofty roofs. The walls were brazen, 
 
 Reaching on either side the inner chambers ; 
 
 Bright steel the coping. Golden doors defended 
 
 The inner mansion, cased in silver doorways 
 
 On thresholds of bright brass, with golden latches. 
 
 On either side sat gold and silver mastiffs, 
 
 Whom the sage fire-god by his skill created, 
 
 Of living metal, scathless and immortal, 
 
 To guard the palace of Phaeacia's monarch. 
 
 In the great hall along the walls were benches, 
 
 Spread with bright patterns, broidered by the needle. 
 
 And ye may know her well, thougli all are lovely ; 
 So 'midst her fair attendants shone the princess. 
 
 Another exquisite passage describes the departure of Athena to Olympus, the heaven 
 of the Homeric deities : 
 
 Thus having said, the grey-eyed goddess vanished 
 
 For high Olympus, where the gods dwell ever 
 
 In bliss and safety ; never is it shaken 
 
 By winds, nor wet with rain ; nor float the snow-flakes 
 
 Near to its top ; but ether pure and cloudless 
 
 Is spread above, and lambent light plays round it, 
 
 There day by day the gods in bliss are dwelling. 
 
46 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 There sat the rulers of the people, feasting 
 
 From day to day ; for they have all in plenty. 
 
 On pedestals ranged round stood golden statues 
 
 With torch in hand, to light the mighty banquet. 
 
 Inside the house were fifty female sei-vants. 
 
 Some ground the mealy corn upon the millstones, 
 
 Some, sitting, wove the web and turned the spindle ; 
 
 For as of all mankind Phaeacian rowers 
 
 Are skilled in swiftness ; so in cunning patterns 
 
 Excel the women; for divine Athena 
 
 Gave them the gift, and filled their hearts with wisdom. 
 
 Without the palace gates a spacious orchard 
 
 Stretched, on both sides by a straight fence surrounded. 
 
 Here lofty fruit trees grew, pear, and pomegranate, 
 
 And golden-fruited apple ; fig, and olive. 
 
 Of these the fruit decayeth not, nor faileth 
 
 Winter nor summer, but the year round lasteth ; 
 
 For the bland zephyr breatheth ever on them, 
 
 Opending the bloom, or setting them, or mellowing. 
 
 In lavish heaps each luscious fruit was ripening. 
 
 Thence passing on, a thick well ordered vineyard 
 
 Was planted : one warm side sloped to the southward 
 
 Catching the sun's full rays; the busy labourers 
 
 Cropped the dark grapes, or trod them in the winepress. 
 
 Yet were the vines clad with unready bunches. 
 
 Shedding the flower, or dark'ning into purple. 
 
 Beyond the utmost row, trim beds were planted 
 
 With herbs and flowers, throughout the seasons blooming : 
 
 And in the midst two fountains ; one, which parted 
 
 In many channels, trickles through the garden ; 
 
 Another, which is led beneath the palace 
 
 To a fair conduit, whence the townsmen draw it. 
 
 Such was the wealth of the Phaeacian monarch; 
 
 Here gazed, admiring, the divine Odysseus. 
 
 He enters : supplicates the queen : is receive J, fed, ques- 
 tioned ; promised a convoy to his country, be it never so far 
 off; and all this before knowing who, or w^hence he is. This 
 was the ancient way of treating guests. At length the queen, 
 seeing him clad in garments of her own working, eUcits from 
 him an account of his arrival in the country. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. 47 
 
 On the morrow his convoy is to be ready. In the morning '^°°^ ^^^^■ 
 the king makes a feast for his nobles. The bhnd bard, 
 Demodocus, is called, and sings the tale, how Achilles and 
 Odysseus once had high words at a banquet, and from that 
 day began the misery of the Greeks. 
 
 Thus sung the bard renowned ; but sad Odysseus, 
 Folding his hands in his long robe of purple, 
 Lifted its skirts, and hid his manly visage. 
 For shame came on him, and thick tears were falling. 
 Whene'er the minstrel paused amid his singing. 
 He wiped his tears and shewed his face uncovered. 
 And poured libations from the mighty goblets ; 
 But when again the lords of the Phseacians 
 Besought the minstrel to begin his singing, 
 Loving to hear the strain, again Odysseus 
 Covered his countenance and wept in silence. 
 The others saw him not; but the good monarch 
 Sat near, and saw ; and thus bespoke his nobles : 
 ' Hear me, Phaeacian rulers ; this our banquet 
 ' Hath feasted every soul, and the sweet music, 
 ' Which waits on festal days. Now let us practise 
 ' Our manly games ; that to his friends the stranger 
 ' May tell at home, how we excel the nations 
 ' In boxing, wrestling, leaping, and the foot-race." 
 He spoke, and led the way ; the nobles followed. 
 
 Then follow the games, in which they have a mind to surprise 
 the stranger, and raUy him on his apparent inaptness for 
 manly exercises. This rouses his spirit, and he throws a vast 
 quoit far beyond their utmost limits, and challenges them one 
 and all to any athletic exercise except running, in which he 
 says he fears he is not very well practised, having lived amidst 
 the perils of the sea. It appearing that they have ' caught a 
 
 r„..,. 1 1 1-^ 1 Book IX. 
 
 Tartar, Alcmous changes the subject, and proposes a song 
 from Demodocus,* and after that, a trial of skill in dancing : 
 
 That to his friends the stranger 
 May tell at home how we excel all others 
 In the gay dance and strains of heavenly music. 
 
 * This song bears marks of being of a much later date than the rest of the Odyssey. 
 
48 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 They return after these entertainments, and in the palace 
 Odysseus begs Demodocus to sing the song of the horse of 
 Troy. This again touches the tender chord, and the song is 
 stopped. The curiosity of the Phaeacians is no longer to be 
 checked, and the claims of hospitality have been fully satisfied. 
 The king therefore asks him who he is, and whence he comes, 
 and why he weeps at the tale of Troy. Then Odysseus begins 
 and recites his adventures : 
 
 Odysseus is my name, son of Laertes; 
 
 Tn skill and craft the rest of men I conquer; 
 
 Far as the spreading heaven my glory reaches. 
 
 My home is Ithaca : an island mountain 
 
 Makes it conspicuous o'er the western ocean ; 
 
 Around it thickly lie green islands scattered, 
 
 Dulichium, Same, and the woody Zante; 
 
 But it lies farthest to the West, beyond them, 
 
 Rocky and bare but mother of good warriors. 
 
 This island-home, to me of lands the sweetest. 
 
 Fain would I see; the nymph, divine Calypso, 
 
 In her smooth caverns wooed me for her husband; 
 
 As did the enchantress Circe in her palace ; 
 
 But never could they turn my stedfast purpose. 
 
 For to a wandering man on earth or ocean 
 
 Nought is more sweet than his dear home and parents. 
 
 But hear ye now my long distressful voyage, 
 
 Which the stern Fates apportioned me from Ilion. 
 
 Then follow four books of the traveller's narrative, rich in 
 incident and description, — models for story-tellers of all ages. 
 These, with the remaining part of the Odyssey, will furnish 
 us with matter for another chapter. 
 
 Meanwhile we would beg our readers whom these our 
 essays may have interested, not to imagine that we are about 
 to treat every poem which we shall notice, at as much length 
 as we have done these two. These are the greatest extant 
 monuments of human genius. Even the course of the ordinary 
 narrative in them is full of points of beauty, which no popular 
 poetical critic coidd allow himself to pass over. So that 
 necessarily our chapters on the Iliad and Odyssey are little 
 more than arguments, or tables of contents, with occasional 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. III. , 49 
 
 translations interspersed. "Where the design is unapparent, 
 and the work fragmentary, much of the taste of a commen- 
 tator is superseded ; and where the hoar of extreme antiquity- 
 has hallowed the edifice, criticism is awed into silence. 
 
 Let us come into the company of the herd of poets, and, 
 great and glorious spirits though they be, we shall breathe 
 more freely, and judge less sparingly; but — there again, as 
 sure as we look up, that grand old bust, blind and fillet-bound, 
 ia looking on us as we are writing ; it is the concentration of 
 human majesty, the t3rpe of the age of heroes ; surely it has 
 descended, with the poems, to bless otir libraries with its 
 venerable presence; and, be the critic's doubts what they may, 
 that brow meditated, that mouth uttered, these ancient songs. 
 
 Reader, examine as thou wilt — judge as thou canst — con- 
 vince as thou mayest, — but in thy ' heart of hearts' never 
 call in question the identity or truth of THE IDEAL 
 HOMER! 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE ODYSSEY. 
 
 He bade me tell it — 
 Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances. 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field; 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes i'th' imminent deadly breach ; 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
 And sold to slaveiy : of my redemption thence, 
 And portance in my tiuvels' history ; 
 Wherein of antres vast, and deserts wild. 
 Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven 
 It was my hint to speak, such was the process ; 
 And of the Cannibals that each other eat. 
 The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders. 
 
 Book IX. Thus spoke Othello, and thus also Odysseus. We left him 
 reciting his history before the court of Alcinous. First, he 
 tells them, the wind bore him from Troy on the coast of the 
 Ciconians ; where, by what right he does not say, (for piracy 
 and robbery were honourable in those days,) he destroyed a 
 city, and carried off the women and goods, haying slain the 
 male inhabitants. He seems to hare been cursed with very 
 injudicious companions : for after this exploit he cannot per- 
 suade them to set sail with their booty, but they will fain stay 
 there and enjoy it. This draws down the vengeance of the 
 neighbours ; and he loses the first instalment of his friends, in 
 number six from each ship. He proceeds — 
 
 Thence sailed we, grieving in our inmost spirit, 
 Though safe ourselves, for loss of our dear comrades. 
 Nor did the ships depart, before in order 
 To each lost friend farewell had thrice been spoken. 
 
 Very beautiful is the next adventure, and very beautifully has 
 it been enlarged upon by one who might be the gi'eatest poet 
 
CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 51 
 
 of the coming age — Alfred Tennyson. We shall make no 
 scruple of quoting largely from his admirable poem, the Lotos- 
 eaters ; no translation of ours could equal the rich melody of 
 the following stanzas : 
 
 ' Courage,' he said, and pointed toward the land, 
 ' This mountain wave will roll us shoreward soon.' 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land 
 In which it seemed always afternoon. 
 All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
 Full faced ahove the valley stood the moon ;* 
 And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
 Along the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall did seem. 
 
 A land of streams — some like a downward smoke. 
 
 Slow dropping veils of thinnest lawn did go; 
 
 And some through wavering lights and shadows broke, 
 
 Rolling a slumberous sheet of foam below. 
 
 They saw the gleaming river's sea-ward flow 
 
 From the inner land : far off, three mountain tops, 
 
 Three thunder-cloven thrones of oldest snow. 
 
 Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, 
 
 Upclomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 
 
 The charmed sunset lingered low adown 
 
 In the red West ; through mountain clefts the dale 
 
 Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
 
 Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 
 
 And meadow, set with slender galingale ; — 
 
 A land where all things always seemed the same! 
 
 And round about the keel, with faces pale,. 
 
 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
 
 The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 
 
 Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 
 Laden with flowers and fruit, whereof they gave 
 To each; but whoso did receive of them. 
 And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
 
 * In the printed copy, " About the valley burned the golden moon ;" We much prefer 
 the line in the text, which was in the original MS. 
 
52 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
 
 On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, 
 
 His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
 
 And deep asleep he seemed, yet all awake. 
 
 And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 
 
 They sat them down upon the yellow sand 
 Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
 And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, 
 Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 
 Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar. 
 Weary the wandering iields of barren foam. 
 Then some one said, ' We will return no more :' 
 And all at once they sang, ' Our island home 
 Is far beyond the wave : we will no longer roam.' 
 
 The resolve however is broken, for Odysseus forces them into 
 their ships, and binds them to their benches ; ordering those 
 who had not tasted the Lethean fruit to make all way. The 
 burden of the adventures recurs after each with melancholy 
 sound ; 
 
 Thence we sailed further, grieving in our spirits. 
 
 And this time well they might, for their next sojourn is with 
 a host who does not dine with them, but dines off them — 
 even the well known Cyclops. Here is the description of 
 them and their land : 
 
 Thence to the region of the haughty Cyclops 
 Came we, who trusting to their yearly produce 
 Sow not the land, nor plough ; but without labour 
 Grow all things for them, wheat and plenteous barley, 
 And vines which bear them wine in swelling bunches, 
 Dew'd by the rain of heaven. No markets have they, 
 Nor full assemblies, nor the seats of justice ; 
 But on the heads of lofty mountains dwell they. 
 In hollow caves; they make their laws and customs 
 Each for his own, and care not for another. 
 Before the harbour of the land, an island 
 Lies off, hard by, and wooded ; here are running 
 Wild goats unnumbered ; for no human footstep 
 Scares them, nor chase of hunter; on the mountain 
 
AND POETS CHAP. IV. 53 
 
 They range at pleasure. There no folds nor shepherds 
 Are seen, nor tillage ; for the Cyclops build not 
 Sea-passing ships, to wander to far regions j 
 Good is the island, and each fruit would render 
 In its due season : to the shore fair meadows 
 Reach down, soft, and well watered, fit for vineyards. 
 Smooth is the soil ; deep crops would tire the reaper. 
 A well locked harbour is there, where no mooring 
 Is needed, nor to cast the steadying anchor, 
 But one may land, and wait the seaward breezes. 
 At the creek-head a spring of clearest water 
 Flows from a eave, edged round with wavy poplars. 
 Thither we sailed, as some kind Power directed, 
 In the dark night ; nor could we see before us, 
 For a thick mist had closed around our vessel, 
 Nor did the moon shine out, but clouds concealed her. 
 None knew that land was near; nor did the breakers 
 Show their white foam, until our ships were stranded. 
 
 Then they refresh themselves, and in the morning obliging 
 nymphs bring goats to them that they might eat. They look 
 over into the land of the Cyclops, and see their dwellings 
 smoking, and hear their voices and the bleating of their flocks. 
 The next night past, Odysseus is stung by the traveller's gad- 
 fly, curiosity. He must go with his ship and his companions, 
 leaving the rest in the island, and see these Cyclops. They 
 set off — a black Monday for some of them ! The first thing 
 that greets their sight in the new land is a cave, high, and 
 embowered with laurel : surrounded by sheep and goats lying 
 about. AU this was very pretty ; but there lay also a man 
 sleeping there, and what a man ! if that could be called so, 
 which was not like (says Odysseus) common men who eat 
 bread and butter, but more resembled a shaggy top of some 
 hill seen above others from afar. 
 
 Doubtless Odysseus had heard and sung many a song on 
 the power of wine. 
 
 ' Punch cures the gout, the colic, and the phthysick,' 
 
 is not a modem strain alone. Bethinking himself of this and 
 
54 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 I 
 
 the like, he takes from his ship skins of glorious wine, which 
 a prince and priest had given him of old in gratitude for his 
 deliverance by his hand. And such wine it is — one pint to 
 twenty pints of water was the orthodox proportion — and then 
 it was better than most folk's best. But the traveller must 
 now speak for himself : 
 
 Ere long we reached the cave, but its strange inmate 
 
 Found not within : he to the fields had wandered 
 
 To tend his sheep. Under the mouth we entered 
 
 And all surveyed. Hampers of mighty cheeses 
 
 We saw, and lambs and kids in pinfolds crowded ; 
 
 Each by their ages from the others severed ; 
 
 The pails were full of whey ; dishes and skimmers 
 
 Held the white curd. Then spoke my twelve companions, 
 
 ' Take of the cheeses, and from out the pinfolds 
 
 ' Drive lambs and kids sufficient, and permit us 
 
 ' To seek our vessel, and re-cross the water.' 
 
 But I obeyed not ; for my spirit prompted 
 
 To wait and see our host : — perchance some present 
 
 His hand might proffer, worthy of my voyage. 
 
 Alas ! no pleasant boon he brought my comrades ! 
 
 We lit a fire, and taking of the cheeses 
 
 We ate, and waited till our host should enter. 
 
 At length he came, bearing a load of faggots 
 
 To cook his evening meal. Outside the cavern 
 
 He threw them crashing down ; we fled with terror 
 
 Into the far depths of the rocky dwelling. 
 
 Then his fat flocks he drove within for milking ; 
 
 Leaving the males without, both rams and he-goats. 
 
 Next a huge mass of rock again st the doorway 
 
 He placed : not two and twenty teams could stir it ; 
 
 So vast a stone his cavern entrance guarded. 
 
 Then sitting down, his ewes and bleating she-goats 
 
 He milked in order, and gave each her young one. 
 
 Thence, curdling half the snowy milk, he stowed it 
 
 In wicker baskets j half in pails reserving 
 
 For his own drink, against the hour of supper. 
 
 When this was done, a blazing fire he lighted. 
 
 And by the gleam perceived, and thus bespoke us : 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV. 55 
 
 ' Strangers, what are ye ? whence your course, and whither, 
 
 * Over the salt-sea foam ? Sail ye on matters 
 ' Of import, or unbound, as robbers, wander, 
 
 ' Risking your life, and bent on wrong and mischief?' 
 Thus spoke he j all our hearts within were broken 
 With fear of his deep voice, and savage bearing : 
 But I took spirit, and the monster answered : 
 ' Greeks are we, from the sack of Troy returning, 
 
 * The sport of every wind, across the ocean. 
 
 ' Far from our way we wander, by the pleasure 
 ' Of him who rules above. King Agamemnon 
 
 * Led us, whose glory among men is greatest : 
 ' So great a city hath his power subverted. 
 
 * Suppliant we clasp thy knees, and beg thy favour 
 ' In gifts, and treatment as befitteth strangers. 
 
 ' Though strong, revere the gods who guard the suppliant ;— 
 ' Zeus* is himself the wandering stranger's guardian, 
 ' And swift avenger of a guest's dishonour.' 
 
 I spoke J and he with ruthless anger answered : 
 ' Thou art a fool, or come from far, O stranger, 
 
 * Who urgest me the gods to fear, or reverence. 
 ' We Cyclops care not for the Zeus ye worship, 
 ' Nor all his tribe of gods; we are far stronger. 
 ' Nor would I spare thee, to avoid his anger, 
 
 * Nor thy companions, if my temper prompted. 
 
 ' But come, inform me where thy ship is stranded ; 
 ' On the far shore, or near, that I may know it.' 
 
 Thus spoke he, sounding me; but I, too skilful 
 To be thus caught, with crafty words responded ; 
 ' The wrathful sea-god broke my ill starred vessel 
 ' Against the rocks, below the furthest headland 
 ' Of this your shore, whither the wind from ocean 
 ' Bore it, — and we escaped from death, and left it.' 
 
 The churl said nothing, but his arms threw forward 
 On my companions ; two he clasped, and lifting, 
 Dashed down against the earth; their brains far scattered 
 Sprinkled the ground. Then limb from limb he tore them, 
 4nd made his meal. A lion in the mountains 
 Could eat no more; of bones, and flesh, and garbage, 
 Nothing was left. Weeping, our hands we lifted 
 
 * The father of gods and men, better known by his Latin appellation, Jupiter. 
 
56 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 And prayed to Heaven ; despair and trembling seized us. 
 Now when our host had filled his mighty stomach, 
 With flesh of man, and drank sweet milk sufficient. 
 He laid him down to sleep along the cavern 
 Amidst his flocks. Then with my heart I counselled, 
 Whether to draw my sword, and pass it gently 
 Between his ribs, where his large heart was beating ; — 
 But I bethought me we should surely perish, 
 For none could roll the huge rock from the doorway. 
 Therefore we wept again and staid for morning. 
 When morning came, again his fire he lighted, 
 And milked his flocks, and put them to their young ones. 
 When this was done, again he seized two wretches 
 Of my poor comrades, tore them, and devoured them. 
 Thus having made his breakfast, from the cavern 
 He drove his flocks, with ease the rock removing. 
 And then replacing, as one shuts a quiver. 
 Great were his shouts and whistling, as he drove them 
 Off" to the mountains ; leaving me deep scheming 
 Mischief, and praying to my patron goddess,* 
 To give me vengeance on him. Much considering, 
 I thought this way the best : — beside the sheepfold 
 Lay a huge club of olive, which the Cyclop 
 Had left to dry : we, when we saw it, likened 
 Its size to some ship's mast, which twenty rowers 
 Would urge along the deep. Of this six feet I severed, 
 And gave it my companions to be sharpened. 
 They made it smooth ; I pointed it, and turned it 
 In the hot fire, till it was scorched and hardened. 
 When done, I hid it in the heaps of ordure 
 Which covered the cave-floor. Then my companions 
 Drew lots, whose it should be, with me to venture, 
 To lift the stake, and in his eye f to churn it, 
 When he should be asleep. Four men were chosen. 
 The fittest and the best, and I, to head them. 
 The Cyclop and his flocks returned at evening : 
 And, — whether in his mind arose some fancy, 
 Or some god ordered things, — he shut within doors 
 All, and left none without.^ His door he guarded 
 
 * Athena, goddess of wisdom. 
 + He had but one, in tlie centre of his forehead. 
 
 t This, in the sequel, favoured the escape of Odysseus, who tied himself and com 
 panions each under a ram. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV, 57 
 
 With the great stone; his ewes and bleating she-goats 
 He milked in order, and gave each her young one. 
 When this was done, again he seized two wretches 
 Of my poor comrades, tore them, and devoured them. 
 When he had dined, I came and stood beside him, 
 Holding a cup of dark wine, and addrest him : 
 ' Here, my brave Cyclop, drink some wine; thou'st eaten 
 ' Hearty of man ; come wash it down ; I'll shew thee 
 
 * What sort of drink our good old vessel furnished. 
 ' I brought it for thee, if my fortune pitying, 
 
 ' Thou wouldst have sent me home ; but now thou ragest 
 ' Beyond all bearing. Thou great knave, what traveller 
 ' Will come to see thee after this thy madness ?' 
 
 I spoke ; he snatched and drank it up ; — 'twas wonder 
 To see how he was tickled with the liquor; 
 ' Give me some more,' he shouted out, ' and tell me 
 ' Thy name, that I may give thee gifts, and bless thee.' 
 
 Again I gave him the same cup of liquor; 
 And yet once more he drained it in his folly. 
 And when the wine around his brain came circling, 
 I spoke to him, and with soft words addrest him : 
 ' Cyclop, thou askest me my name : — I'll tell thee ; 
 ' And thou shalt give me gifts, as thou hast promised. 
 ' NOBODY is my name : father, and mother, 
 
 * And all my friends, NOBODY always call me.' 
 
 I ceased, and with fierce words the savage answered : 
 ' NOBODY shall be kept till last, and eaten 
 ' After his comrades; there's the boon I promised.' 
 He said, and staggering fell ; and lay, reclining 
 His huge neck backwards ; and deep sleep came on him.* 
 • ****• 
 
 Then I pushed in the stake beneath the'ashes, 
 
 Till it grew hot ; and all my men encouraged, 
 
 That none might shrink through fear: then when my bludgeon 
 
 Though green, was just upon the point of catching. 
 
 And shone with ruddy heat, I brought it near him ; 
 
 My men stood round ; Heaven strengthened all their spirits. 
 
 The stake they lifted up, the sharp end thrusting 
 
 Into his eye : I stood above, and churned it. 
 
 As when a man a thick shiptimber boreth, 
 
 With a great auger, which men turn, by passing 
 
 • Here the man mountain becometh grievously sick. 
 
58 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 A thong beneath, and this and that way pulling, 
 
 So that the tool runs firmly in the centre ; 
 
 So in his eye we turned the stake; and round it 
 
 Flowed the hot blood ; singed were the lids and eyebrows, 
 
 And in the flame the burning tendons crackled. 
 
 As when a smith, forging an axe or hatchet, 
 
 Dips it all hot and hissing in cold water, 
 
 (For thence the temper and the strength of iron :) 
 
 So hissed his eye around the red-hot bludgeon. 
 
 Cruelly did he roar: the cave resounded. 
 
 Trembling we rushed away ; with red blood flowing 
 
 He tore the stake out, casting it far from him ; 
 
 And shouted for his brethren who dwelt round him 
 
 In more such caves throughout the windy mountains. 
 
 They heard his cry, and came from all directions ; 
 
 And standing round the cave, enquired what ailed him ; 
 
 ' Why shout thus, Polyphemus, in the midnight, 
 
 ' Breaking our rest ? hath any robbed thy sheepfold ? 
 
 ' Or art thou being murdered ? Speak, and tell us." 
 
 Out from the cave the maddened Cyclop answered, 
 
 ' NOBODY'S murdering me, my friends and brothers.' 
 
 They answered angry ; ' If thou'rt hurt by no one, 
 
 ' And art alone, some stroke has fallen on thee 
 
 * Sent by high Heaven, and we cannot resist it. 
 
 ' Pray to thy father, the earth shaking sea-god.' 
 
 They said, and went; my glad heart laughed within me, 
 To think my name and craft had thus deceived them. 
 
 Thus far may serve for a specimen of a Homeric adventure. 
 After so long a translation, the story must hurry onward faster 
 than we could wish. 
 
 Having effected his escape from the Cyclop, not >vithout 
 abundance of the craft for which he was celebrated, Odysseus 
 Book X. reaches the land of ^olus, the lord of the winds, an exceed- 
 ing good fellow, who receives him and treats him for a month 
 in all manner of abundance. When he departs, ^olus gives 
 him a bag in which are sewn up all the adverse winds ; and 
 blows after him a soft west-wind alone. Thus they go on 
 nine days and nights, and arrive in sight of their country. 
 There it is — the dear old island — there goes the blue smoke 
 curling up from many a fire-side —and who sit round those 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV. 59 
 
 fires ? There are the well known shapes of the hills— infancy, 
 youth, home, wife and child rush over the mind of Odysseus 
 — but alas ! something more powerful comes down upon his 
 eyehds. Nine days and nights has he been holding the sheet, 
 making every tack and directing every turn of the helm, and 
 he is thoroughly tired out. Down he sinks and asleep he 
 falls. ' I wonder what's in that bag that he brought from old 
 jEoIus,' says a sailor. ' Gold, no doubt,' says another. ' Why 
 should the captain come home rich, and we empty ?' asks a 
 third. ' Let us open it and see for ourselves,' proposes the 
 first speaker. Easier done, than undone ; no sooner is the 
 string loosened than all the winds rush out ; a mighty storm 
 arises ; the ship goes any where but to Ithaca : Odysseus 
 wakes in misery, and meditates cutting short the affair by 
 drowning himself at once. However, he endiures : covers his 
 face, and resigns himself to fate. The latter so wills it that 
 they are carried back to the land of ^olus. They beseech 
 him for another wind-bag, but in vain. They get nothing 
 but harsh language, and are told that they must be hated 
 by the gods, or aU this would not have happened. So 
 they sail onward, and in six days more come to a land where 
 
 ' The paths of night and day are near togetlier 
 So that the labourer, if he do not slumber, 
 May double wages earn.'* 
 
 This country is also peopled by monstrous cannibals called 
 Lsestrygons. These gentlemen first eat a herald who is sent 
 to them from the fleet : then finding the Greek ships within 
 their harbour (their wary chief had moored his outside) they 
 smash the vessels with stones, and spear the crews like eels. 
 Meanwhile Odysseus and his crew have cut their cables, and 
 are off. They come to the island JEsea, the abode of the 
 enchantress Circg. The sailors being sent to explore are 
 entrapped (all but one) and partake of her poisoned viands. 
 They lose their human form and grovel as swine. Odysseus, 
 
 * This and the description afterwards of a land of perpetual darkness, seems to 
 imply that Homer had some knowledge by report, of countries very far noith. 
 
60 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 learning the news, seeks the enchantress, being fortified with 
 an antidote by the god Hermes.* When she tries her arts on 
 him, he draws his sword and makes her swear the oath most 
 sacred among the gods, (for she was a goddess) that she would 
 release his comrades, and counsel no further mischief for him. 
 This done, he longs for home. She wishes to detain him as 
 her husband, and weaves various excuses. Among other 
 things she informs him that it is necessary, before he goes 
 home, that he should go to the mouth of hell, and consult the 
 shades. 
 
 Now follows a book, full of wildness, mystery, and obscu- 
 rity. Listen to the directions given him for his ghostly jour- 
 ney : 
 
 Take not a pilot for thy ship, Odysseus; 
 Set up thy mast, and stretch thy white sails o'er it, 
 And sit content; the steady northern breezes 
 Shall bear thee to the place. When through the Ocean 
 Thou shalt have past, the groves of the dark goddessf 
 Shall come in view; poplars, and barren willows: 
 There land thy ship beside the eddying Ocean,{ 
 And seek the dark house of the ghostly monarch. 
 Here thou shalt find the four infernal rivers ; 
 And where two torrents pour their streams together, 
 Beneath a rock, a deep trench thou must sink thee, 
 And pour libations to the empty goblins, 
 First with sweet mead, with wine, and last with water. 
 • « » * * 
 
 When thou hast prayed to all the tribes of spirits, 
 Take a young ram, and a black ewe, and slay them 
 Pointing them to the north : thyself turn backward 
 And look upon the river. Then shall gather 
 Many light shades of heroes long departed. 
 » * * * 
 
 Then draw thy sword, and suffer not the Shadows 
 
 * Mercury. 
 + Persephone, the goddess of the dead. 
 
 t The ancients supposed that Ocean was a mighty river surrounding man's world. 
 Beyond it all was dreary and supernatural. 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV. 61 
 
 To taste the blood, ere he of Thebes, Tiresias,* 
 Shall be enquired of; he will tell thee all things. 
 Of thy return, thy journey, and its limits. 
 
 On this very pleasant errand then he sets out. In his way he 
 passes the Cimmerians, a people dwelling in darkness, to 
 whom the sun never rises. He arrives at the place, and all is 
 duly performed. 
 
 The dark blood filled the trench, and they collected. 
 The Shadows of the dead from the dark regions. 
 Virgins, and youths, and much-enduring elders, 
 And tender girls, cut oif when hope was springing : 
 And many wounded by the spear, with weapons 
 Reeking in gore, the Shades of slaughtered warriors. 
 All these around the trench in crowds came flitting, 
 Shrieking discordant : horror fell upon'me. 
 
 Then fearful things happen. The prophet comes and foretels 
 perils and dangers, but safe arrival home at last. Many ghosts 
 of Odysseus's acquaintance come, and drink the dark blood, 
 converse awhile, and disappear into the dark regions. There 
 comes his mother whom he had left alive when he went to 
 Troy ; there come many illustrious women, wives and daugh- 
 ters of heroes; there come the chiefs who fought at Troy, 
 Agamemnon, Ajax, and Achilles ; Odysseus also sees the 
 wonders of the place; Minos holding mock trials over the 
 ghosts ; Orion hunting the shades of wild beasts ; Tityus torn 
 by the vultures, but not wasting ; Tantalus athirst in the 
 midst of water, and hungry though surrounded by fruits; 
 Sisyphus rolling his huge round stone up the hill, till it slips 
 from him and botmds into the plain ; and others — but now 
 they crowd fast, and he becomes terrified more and more ; — 
 what if the Gorgon should appear to him, and turn him and 
 his comrades to stone ? The thought is enough ; he and his 
 men make a clear run for it, leap into their ship, recross the 
 
 * Tiresias was a Theban prophet, who was endued with the power of discernment 
 and foresight after death also. The usual idea of the soul after death was, that it was a 
 mere shadow of the human soul, requiring some animal nutriment before it could 
 discern or judge of things. Hence all these ghosts come and taste the blood, before they 
 know Odysseus, and converse with him. 
 
62 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 i 
 
 ocean river, then the salt sea, and come to the island Meea, 
 the dwelling of the Dawn, and the rising place of the sun. 
 Book XII. Here they find Circe, who loads them with good things, and 
 gives them injunctions for their journey, warning them against 
 the song of the Seirens, the danger of ScyUa and Charybdis, 
 and the temptation when on the isle of Sicily, to injure the 
 flocks and herds of the sun god, which fed on that land. The 
 Seirens' song is resisted — ScyEa and Charybdis are past — 
 (glorious are the descriptions, but our space is brief) — the last 
 danger, however, is the worst— they land on Sicily contrary to 
 the advice of Odysseus, — while there they are overtaken by 
 famine, a storm having long detained them, and are at length 
 compelled to kill and eat of the flocks of the sun god, which 
 were feeding round them. They take advantage of Odysseus 
 being asleep — the deed is done — he wakes and smells their 
 feast, and shudders for them — six days they revel on the for- 
 bidden food, and laugh at the foreboder of evil— on the 
 seventh vengeance comes. They set sail — and when land is 
 out of sight, such a storm arises, of wind, thunder, hail, and 
 every thing dreadful, as ' the oldest inhabitant ' of the ship 
 had never seen before — the crew by various means are all 
 killed, and turned to sea-birds — Odysseus alone, on his creak- 
 ing and dismasted craft, is borne away by the tempest, and 
 again threading ScyUa and Charybdis, at length arrives at the 
 island of Calypso, where we found him at the beginning of 
 the poem. 
 
 Thus then ends his narrative ; and though we have only 
 reached half way through the Odyssey, the remainder may be 
 compressed in a smaU space. 
 
 Being loaded with gifts and provided with a ship and crew 
 by his hospitable friends the Phseacians, Odysseus sets out 
 once more on the broad sea, and with better luck than ever 
 before. Sweet sleep falls on him : 
 
 Book XIII 
 
 Swift flew the vessel o'er the ocean billows, 
 Bearing the hero, god-like in his wisdom : 
 Who in his mind had borne full many sorrows, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP, IV. 63 
 
 And wars of adverse hosts, and mighty tempests ; 
 But now he gently slept, his toils forgotten : — 
 Till the bright morning star from the sea-circle 
 Lifted his orb, and heralded the sun -god : 
 Then drew the ship near to her destined island. 
 
 There is in Ithaca a sacred harbour ; 
 Two rocks stand forward in the sea to guard it; 
 Which break the winds and catch the mighty billows 
 Rolling from the outer sea. Within, the vessels 
 May ride unanchored in the deep calm water. 
 And in the inmost creek, a slim-leaved olive 
 Embowered a cave, dark, cool, and good for refuge, 
 To the nymphs sacred, whom men call the Naiads. 
 Within are cups and goblets carved in stone-work, 
 Where the wild bees their gathered stores deposit. 
 And there were looms of stone, where wrought the Naiads 
 Their robes of brightest purple. Living fountains 
 Sprung from the cave; and double was the doorway : 
 One entrance northward trod by human footsteps ; 
 One to the southward, sacred and untrodden. 
 Save by immortals. Hither rowed they, knowing 
 The place of old; the boat was driven upward 
 Full half upon the shore ; such way they gave her. 
 Then from the side upon the beach descending, 
 Odysseus from his place ashore they lifted. 
 And laid him on the sand, still wrapt in slumber. 
 
 He wakes, and knows not his country's land. "Where is he ? 
 what men dwell here ? are they robbers and cannibals, or 
 lovers of strangers, and godly men ? Often has he asked the 
 same train of questions, but never have they been so satis- 
 factorily answered. His patron goddess meets him, reveals 
 herself, and tells him her whole counsel. His heart is filled 
 with joy, and he kisses his native earth. 
 
 But now a great work was to be done, and about it they con- 
 sult. The suitors were to be destroyed. To this end Pallas alters 
 the form and appearance of Odysseus, and makes him decre- 
 pit, wrinkled, and meaning-looking, and puts on him the 
 clothes of a beggar. She then orders him to go and seek 
 Eumaeus the swineherd, and of him to learn the state of things 
 before any measures are taken. She herself meanwhile sets off 
 
64 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 to fetch. Telemachus, who is at Sparta, as related in the be- 
 ginning of the poem. 
 
 In the next book, the swineherd and the beggar-king be- 
 
 Book XIV. come acquainted. The Ithacan piggery is on a large scale. 
 Twelve pigstyes, each of fifty-sow power, held the breeders ; 
 the boars, for the fewness of which the poet apologizes, saying 
 that the suitors had played sad work with them, are three 
 hundred and sixty ; four large wolf-dogs lie guarding them ; 
 three deputy-pig drivers are in the fields each, with a flock; 
 and one is gone with a boar to the suitors. Odysseus, having 
 narrowly escaped being torn by the dogs, is hospitably treated 
 by Eumseus. They talk much of the king's return, which the 
 swineherd mourns over, and believes it wiU never be. The 
 stranger assures him that it wiU take place within the year. 
 While they talk, the absent herds return ; a fat pig is slain, 
 and they make merry. Odysseus tells them stories of the 
 wars of Troy, and how he had seen their king. Then they 
 sleep — Odysseus near the fire — the swineherd xmder a rock in 
 the open air, to guard his charge. The king is glad at the 
 trustiness of his servant. 
 
 B k XV Meanwhile Telemachus, having escaped the ambush of the 
 suitors, and directed by the goddess, lands at an unfrequented 
 part of the island, and comes to the swineherd's house. The 
 dogs greet him with fawning; Odysseus hears steps, and 
 wakes Eumaeus ; he sees his young prince, and is well nigh 
 beside himself with joy. The father and son meet ; the long 
 
 Book XVI lost, the long wept father ; the modest and pious son. Not 
 long is disguise kept up. During the temporary absence of 
 the swineherd, PaUas touches Odysseus again with her magic 
 wand, and makes him great and beautiful. Recognition, 
 greeting, weeping for joy, are trite and oftentold things. 
 There is a sort of hidden envy which leads men to scorn the 
 joys of others. Let then this meeting and its tearful happi- 
 ness remain in the first freshness and faultless melody of the 
 ancient bard. Next to congratulations, their mutual plans for 
 the destruction of the suitors form the subject of their talk. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP, IV. 65 
 
 These are in number one hundred and eighty men, good and 
 strong ; and therefore require no little circumventing. First, 
 Odysseus is to come in the garb of a beggar, and to submit to 
 ill treatment from them till a fit hour arrives for vengeance. 
 Next, no one, not even the queen, is to know of his arrival. 
 Then Telemachus is to carry away all the weapons out of the 
 reach of the suitors, only reserving enough for his father and 
 himself. 
 
 Now, reader, place yourself in the hall of Odysseus's palace. 
 There sit the suitors, eating and drinking. A bard plays the 
 harp to them, and the strain flows out at the doors, and 
 reaches the ears of two advancing to the porch. One is a 
 sturdy yeoman, with face accustomed to command, but what, 
 you might doubt. The other is poor and ragged ; but kingly. 
 He has already suffered insult, but prudently contained his 
 anger. They stand and debate: — the peasant advances, the 
 other remains. A dog, lean, old, and neglected, lies by the 
 palace gate. See — he is aware of something unusual. He 
 lays down his ears — he snuffs — he wags his tail. The beggar's 
 hand is at his face — it is wet with a reluctant tear. There is 
 much love laid up in that heart — but its hour is not come. 
 The two have entered. The yeoman sits and eats ; the other 
 stands and begs. He is abused and insulted ; Antinous, the 
 haughtiest among them, answers his request by a stool at his 
 head. He suffers it, and prophesies ill for the donor. The 
 house is raised at the evil deed : for they said it ivas an evil 
 deed, to wound a needy man who came unprotected. The 
 queen hears of it. She sends for the stranger to ask of him 
 concerning her husband. But their meeting is not to be yet. 
 He puts her off till evening. 
 
 But now a rival beggar, Irus, who has been accustomed to 
 monopolize the ' beat,' appears, and a fight ensues. The pro- 
 fessional mendicant gets worst off — for which Odysseus has 
 thanks and gifts from the suitors, who (Homer's o^^'n words) 
 died with laughter at the fun. 
 
 More passages follow, which we leave unnoticed, hastening 
 to our end. Night comes ; the stranger lights the maids to 
 
66 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 their work ; Telemachus gathers the weapons, as it had been 
 agreed ; and the plot thickens. 
 Book XIX. Insults are heaped on the stranger by the maid-servants, 
 who are in league with the suitors. The queen reproves them, 
 and enquires of him his birth and adventures. He invents a 
 story, teUing her how he had been to Troy with the Atreidse, 
 and seen Odysseus in Crete. 
 
 Thus spoke he, false things with true semblance telling: 
 
 She heard, and in a flood of weeping melted ; 
 
 As snow upon the tops of mountains wasteth, 
 
 The warm wind blowing; and full streams gush from it; 
 
 So down her beauteous cheeks fast tears were flowing, 
 
 For her dear husband, who was there before her, 
 
 Odysseus saw, and in his heart beloved her, 
 
 Pitying his own dear wife ; but to observers 
 
 His eyes, like horn, or iron, wore no meaning. 
 
 Fixed in his eyelids. 
 
 To prove his truth she requires him to describe Odysseus as 
 she had seen him. This he does minutely, choosing for his 
 description the very garments which Penelope had wrought ; 
 moreover he tells her the real story of her husband, up to the 
 time of his sojourning with the Phaeacians, and represents him 
 as being still there gathering treasure and about to return 
 shortly. For this he is honoured by the queen ; set in place 
 of dignity, and delivered over to the aged nurse, Eurycleia, to 
 be beautified. She, suspecting (as is the nature of old Avomen) 
 his similarity to her lost master, — dming the hospitable office 
 discovers him by a scar, the relic of a woimd received in 
 hunting from a boar in former years. The consequences of 
 the detection are prevented by Athena turning the attention 
 of Penelope another way, so that she does not notice the old 
 lady's emotion, nor her words. Odysseus puts his hand upon 
 her mouth and binds her to secrecy. Then follows a beautiful 
 speech from the queen ; 
 
 Soon will arrive the pleasant hour of slumber, 
 To them to whom the boon of sleep is granted. 
 But for my lot is endless grief apportioned; 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV. 67 
 
 Tears are my joy by day ; amidst employments, 
 Mine and my servants', weep I without ceasing; 
 And when the night comes, wrapping all in slumber, 
 As in my bed I lie, thick cares and grievous 
 Crowd round my heart, and keep me sad and wakeful ; 
 As the poor nightingale when spring is budding, 
 Sings sweetly, in the thick-leaved bushes sitting. 
 Pouring thick notes with many a trill and warble. 
 Thick notes and mournful ; thus my heart distracted 
 Meditates anxious cares and finds no comfort. 
 
 But our chapter must be drawing to a close ; though willingly 
 would we linger round these pleasant places of poesy for many 
 a midnight hour. 
 
 The insolence and pride of the suitors increase : heaven Book xx. 
 takes its part ; dire thunders boom through the palace hall ; 
 the eyes of the feasters are dim, their brains whirl round ; the 
 cups fall from their hands ; their measure of crime is fiUing 
 fast. Many a thread of life on the web of the fates is near its 
 end. The purposes of Providence are rising up upon men's 
 minds. Handmaids at the mill speak prophecies. Weary 
 with unrewarded toil, they snuff the approach of vengeance ; 
 the life of the injured is in the future. 
 
 Long years of doubt have ended, and the queen has decided Book xxi. 
 her course. Behold the bow of Odysseus ! strong, beautiful, 
 and precious, the memorial of a Kne of heroes, the gift of a 
 friend in arms. It hangs on its nail in the secret chamber — a 
 fair hand is reaching it down. The suitors are collected. 
 Whoso draws this bow, shall wed the queen. Unworthy is 
 he of Odysseus' wife, who draws not Odysseus' bow. 
 
 Whoso shall easiest draw that string and furthest. 
 With him 1 go, leaving this island palace. 
 My bridal home, my beautiful, my costly; 
 Oft will it rise among the dreams of memory. 
 
 Sweet words ; but bitter deeds follow. Bold is the trial ; the 
 faithful servants weep for their lady. Her son comes to her 
 rescue ; if he can draw the bow, she shall not wed. But he 
 is yotmg— his hands are powerless— he has failed. One after 
 
68 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 another, the suitors handle the bow — still straight is the wood, 
 and unstrained the string. 
 
 See three men advancing — the swineherd, the neatherd, 
 faithful among the faithless— and the third, the heggar-king. 
 They know him, they fall at his feet, they kiss and weep oyer 
 him. 'Will ye aid me?' 'We will.' 'Let the doors be 
 shut, and give me the bow.' 
 
 The suitors are warming the wood in the fire; but none the 
 more will it bend. ' Let us pray to the gods, and sacrifice, 
 and they will give us strength.' No : the gods are against 
 you. 
 
 The doors are shut. The bow is in the hand of its lord. 
 It is stretched — let go — the efibrt costs him nothing. Bright 
 and sharp is the twang of the string. Again heaven thunders ; 
 the hearts of the suitors quail. 
 Boob XXII. Now at length the sign is given. Father and son side by 
 side stand opposed to the herd of suitors ; insolent indeed, but 
 doomed. The beggar's garb is cast off; much work is to be 
 done ; naked and muscular, like the death-dealing god of the 
 bow, stands the injured and avenging king. ' Now let us try 
 another aim.' 
 
 Antinous, the most insolent of the suitors, is hftiag to his 
 mouth a golden two-handled goblet — full purple and full 
 bright the wine mantles within. It is near his lips — (there is 
 a proverb) — a strange and ungracious substitute enters the 
 mouth prepared for the draught — he falls — death is on him. 
 Tha crowd rises — their spirit is awakened — '111 hast thou shot^ 
 O stranger.' The king is revealed — 'Wretches, ye said I 
 should never return — behold me here.' Which way shall 
 they fly ? There is none. They tamper ; they try to nego- 
 ciate. ' A^illains, none of your protocols ! Fight, or die !' 
 
 Swords are drawn ; the struggle is fierce. There are traitors 
 within — twelve spears, twelve helmets are being brought. 
 Odysseus waxeth faint. The traitor goes again to the cham- 
 ber — they bolt him in — he may spend his time as he can. 
 But the kins is surrounded —he will faU ! But a divine arm 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV. 69 
 
 is with him, even Pallas Athena herself, and the fight is 
 restored. Slaughter rages : the bard and the herald are saved 
 alone. The handmaids, partakers in the suitors' guilt, are 
 strung up in the hall — their feet quiver, but not long. The 
 traitor is miserably slain — the work is finished. 
 
 But who shall tell the greetings and recognition between Book xxiii 
 the chaste long-suifering spouse and her husband-king? 
 Homer, not we. 
 
 With the same veil of reverence will we cover the deep BooUXXiv. 
 mystery and fading interest of the last book. — The king is at 
 home — wife, father, and son, are around him — his enemies are 
 destroyed— all seems finished : but fresh labours await him — 
 he has been a man of blood. His people rebel — there is more 
 slaughter. The gods in heaven are grieved — Athena descends 
 and stays the deeds of death, and makes covenants of peace. 
 A cloud is on the king — his brow darkens — the Odyssey is 
 ended. 
 
 READER— THIS IS THE GREATEST WORK OF 
 HUMAN GENIUS. 
 
CHAPTER V, 
 
 ON THE 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF THE LOST POETS OF GREECE. 
 
 Sib Isaac Newton, when he lived over the great gateway at 
 Trinity, had a little dog named Diamond. One morning the 
 philosopher was aroused from intense study by the ceasing of 
 the chapel bell. It was winter and dark — he left his candle 
 and his dog. He returned from chapel — but it was to rescue 
 some pitiful fragments from the wreck of his papers. ' Oh, 
 Diamond, Diamond, thou little knowest what mischief thou 
 hast done !' A mild speech — but it drove the philosopher 
 mad. 
 
 Yet the loss was not irreparable. Nature and nature's laws 
 change not. The mind of man grapples with them and binds 
 them, and if the fetter be broken, it may be knit again. The 
 tools are still preserved — the workmen are able and many — it 
 is only one fair fabric that is crushed — many may be hereafter 
 wrought. But now to a deeper calamity in the history of 
 our kind. 
 
 There was a saint— a patriarch of Constantinople, named 
 Gregory Nazianzen. The saint was also a poet, such as the 
 world then bred, in the poisoned death-chamber of the Roman 
 Empire. He was a poet without love. The sky, the fields, 
 the waters, the myriads of creation, — the wonderful heart of 
 man — all these entered not into his poetic account. Alas for 
 the man— for he knew not of the secret droppLags on the soul 
 of the grateftil and nourishing dews of Poesy — he knew not 
 the wonders and the joys revealed by communion with the 
 humblest things— he knew not that the lifetime of the Avorld 
 
 A 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IV. 71 
 
 has been an education, a progress — that the bright and burn- 
 ing thoughts of one generation have been woven into the 
 minds and every day lives of the next — he had never felt that 
 every work of art is sacred — is a creation — is an aiming at and 
 reaching after the first great Creator. Alas for the saint — for 
 he was not aware that the mighty struggles of human intellect 
 and genius before ' the true Light' arose were part of the 
 counsels of Providence, given to mankind to teach, to exalt, 
 to humble by exalting. All this he knew not — his Faith 
 possessed his soul, but that soul was narrow ; — there was no 
 room for his Faith to spread over and hallow the beautiful and 
 lovely creations of the Past — but it must cast them out, or it 
 could not dwell there. 
 
 I said, He was a Poet : that is, he had read much Poetry, 
 and made some verses. Now a great work opens on him. 
 What if the best parts of the ancient poets could be collected, 
 well morticed together, and made into a Christian poem ? 
 The idea is worthy of a patriarch — it shall be done. 
 
 He had power in abundance. Talk of your Pope— he is a 
 shrimp to what the patriarchs of Constantinople were. Let 
 them be brought — the hundreds, the thousands of tomes— the 
 treasures of the Avorld. Many are hurrying to the patriarchal 
 palace, books in hand. He has them all— the manly Alcaeus, 
 the tender Sappho, the pure Simonides, Alcman, Bacchylides, 
 Ibycus, and more. He has made his selection — the absurdest 
 drama that the world has seen.* The rest he has given to 
 the flames. ' Oh, Gregory, Gregory, thou httle knowest what 
 mischief thou hast done !' 
 
 This loss is irreparable. For who shall re-create the dream 
 of the Poet — that subtlest and most complicated result of the 
 xmions between mind and matter ? Who shall re-produce the 
 individual soul and character, identity of accompanying cir- 
 cumstances, the love, the hope, the fear, which gave birth to 
 the strains that have perished ? Our own great poet has told 
 
 * Drama loage insulsissimuni. — Poison, It is but just to add here, that the story in 
 the text rests on authoi-ity not altogether trustworthy. 
 
Sappho. 
 
 72 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 US of times when " the visible sceae with its solemn imagery" 
 enters far into the heart;* (oh, what an expression is that,) 
 and who shall prescribe for those times of hallowed influence ? 
 They came upon these ancient bards and are passed from us. 
 The fair lands which fed them remain ; but the spirit is gone. 
 The bright ^Egean still leaps and twinkles in the sunlight ; 
 but a different race are on its waters, and by its shores. 
 
 A few precious fragments, however, are left to us; lying 
 scattered in quotations here and there. Sometimes a mere 
 word, sometimes a Hne or two is given us ; sometimes a stave 
 or so of an old lyric song. Many of these sparkle with beauty, 
 and can never be forgotten. Listen then, gentle reader, while' 
 v:e lay before you some of these hallowed remains. And 
 remember while you read, that in this department, of all 
 others, translation is most difficult ; that the charm of these 
 fragments is generally the exact adaptation of beautiful words 
 to some beautiful thought ; and those words arranged in 
 metres exquisitely fitted to set them off to advantage ; so that, 
 with our essentially different and less flexible language, we 
 labour behind our patterns, and fail of our effect. However, 
 the best must be tried ; and it is hard, if the inherent beauty 
 of the thoughts do not bespeak some interest and admiration, 
 even where the words are inadequate. 
 
 The first place among the lyrical bards of Greece whose 
 writings are lost, is due to Sappho, of Mitylene, in the island 
 of Lesbos. Of the Hfe and character of this poetess, nothing 
 is known to us. A few rumours are afloat ; but having been 
 propagated long since her time, form too weak a foundation 
 for us to rest on. Her poetry is the theme of xmiversal praise 
 among the ancient critics ; and the few pieces yet left amply 
 justify the verdict. The following are the most celebrated of 
 her longer fragments. The first is a hymn to Aphrodita, 
 goddess of love. 
 
 Light-enthroned, eternal one, Aphrodita, 
 Child of Zeus, deep-counselling, I beseech thee 
 
 * Wordswoitli. 
 
 I 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. 73 
 
 Not with griefs keen agony, nor with judgments, 
 Conquer my spirit ; 
 
 But be present, if to my prayers aforetime 
 Thou hast bent thy listening ear in mercy. 
 And hast come, the palace of heaven's bright ruier 
 
 Willingly leaving. 
 Yoking to thy chariot thy birds of swiftness, 
 Fair to see, who bear thee around the surface 
 Of dark earth, their plumage amid the sunshine 
 
 Restlessly quiv'ring. 
 
 Soon they came ; and thou didst approach, and ask me. 
 Smiling with thy visage of love immortal. 
 Why I grieved in sorrowful supplication, 
 
 What was the burden 
 
 Of the wish, my fluttering heart that maddened. 
 — ' Whom art thou entrapping with soft persuasion 
 ' In thy nets of witchery ? tell me, Sappho, 
 
 ' Who hath offended ? 
 
 * If he now retreats, he shall soon pursue thee, 
 
 * If he now spurns presents, he soon shall give them, 
 ' If he loves thee not, he shall quickly love thee, 
 
 ' E'en tho' thou wouldst not.' — 
 
 Come to me now also, and loose my spirit 
 From its load of cares, and the utmost wishes 
 Of my soul, accomplish, and ever be thou 
 
 Present to aid me. 
 
 The metre of the above translation is that of the original, and 
 is called Sapphic, from its authoress. It ill suits our language, 
 and can only be made agreeable to the English ear by some 
 peculiarly happy position of words concurring with the senti- 
 ment to be rendered. It is given as a specimen to the reader 
 of the form which the thoughts of Sappho loved to take. The 
 rest of the fragments shall be clothed in metre less harsh and 
 unusual, except where the Sapphic form happens to please 
 our ear. 
 
 The second fragment has been the most celebrated of any 
 that have reached us. It describes the influence of excessive 
 beauty. Poets of all ages have sung how there is that in the 
 
74 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 presence of beauty which awes and subdues and inspires the 
 heart of man. Drayton, in his Polyolbion, could tell how 
 
 an unletter'd man, at the desired sight 
 
 Of some rare beauty, moved with infinite delight, 
 Not out of his own sinrit, but by that power divine 
 Which through a sparkling eye perspicuously doth shine, 
 Feels his hard temper yield, that he in passion breaks, 
 And things beyond his height, transported, strangely speaks. 
 
 Song 13. 
 
 Many hare beeen the translations of this piece of powerftJ 
 description ; we give our own with much diffidence, after such 
 able predecessors in the work : 
 
 Happy as the gods is he 
 Who shall sit in sight of thee. 
 Ever watching thee, the while, 
 Sweetly speak and softly smile. 
 
 When I saw thee, ill at rest 
 Leapt my heart within my breast ; 
 I would speak, but on my tongue 
 Mute the unformed accents hung. 
 
 Fire ran up my trembling skin j 
 Rang my ears with throbbing din ; 
 Darkness o'er my eyes was cast, — 
 Cold drops trickled down me fast. — 
 
 Quivering seized me ; ashy white 
 Turned I; those who saw my plight. 
 Senseless, speechless, would have said, 
 ' But a little, and she's dead.' 
 
 Perhaps the student of Poetry will prefer the smaller fragments 
 of Sappho, in which are found those deep touches of love and 
 nature, which make them sources of intense dehght to aU who 
 know them. Here is one of these ; often adopted and enlarged 
 on, but never so beautiful as in its own simplicity : 
 
 My mother sweet, I cannot weave my web — 
 My heart is thinking of the youth I love. 
 
 What a perfect picture is this, let in upon the mind by a sin- 
 gle touch of poetic art — an island home, looking over pasttires 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. 75 
 
 to the sea ; the matron steadily plying her task, and the pattern 
 growing under her hands; the Grecian maiden half blinded 
 with her tears, — these are brought instantly before us ; the ties 
 between mother and child, and those of a deeper love, which 
 seek support from the calmer feeling of long-tried confidence — 
 all these rise upon our minds, and we acknowledge them, in 
 their purest created form. Here is no accident of place or 
 circumstance to disturb our joy and its source ; the scene is 
 perfect in beauty. Take another instance of the same marvel- 
 lous power : 
 
 Full in heaven the moon was shining, 
 Round the altar stood the maidens. 
 
 This is such a night scene as that translated, in our second 
 chapter, from Homer ; the island cliffs and headlands each 
 distinct in light : the broad ^gean, bright beneath the moon, 
 a field of burnished gold ; the pure marble altar raised on the 
 shore ; round it the chorus of votire maidens ; over all the 
 boundless heaven ; and, heard at intervals, the plunging of the 
 restless waves. Yet again : 
 
 Sweet Evening Star! 
 Thou bringest all things home 
 Which day had scattered far ; 
 
 Thou bringest home the flock 
 And the herd thou fetchest back, 
 And the child unto its mother, thou sweet Evening Star. 
 
 Who does not love the evening ? the peaceful, social time 
 when the soul grows fast, and the irksome necessities of this 
 world's employments cease their importunate call ? There they 
 are, the assembled family : take them in one of the cottages 
 whose hght we even now see twinkle as we write. There is 
 the aged grandfather, laid by and made no account of during 
 the busy selfish day, — but now he is in his place and in honour 
 — he is next the fire — his eye sparkles as he tells his tale, or 
 vents his own, his well known joke ; and the little one on his 
 knee twines her fingers in his long white hair. The father is 
 come from his work ; the children cHng about him — the mother 
 
76 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 prepares their meal ; the sleek, well-disciplined cat sits unat- 
 tackingly by the warming toast ; the wearied dog is stretched, 
 stiff as embroidery, asleep on the warm stones : 
 
 Sweet Evening Star! 
 Tliou bringest all things home 
 Which day had scattered far ; 
 And therefore men's hearts bless thee, thou sweet Evening Star ! 
 
 Here is another night scene : 
 
 All the stars surrounding the moon's high pathway, 
 Back from sight their glittering faces cover, 
 Whensoe'er, full-circled, she lights the earth with 
 Silvery brightness. 
 
 Here is a day-dream in the shade of an orchard : 
 
 Cool fresh waters all the noon their meiTy tinkling keep 
 Through the laden apple-boughs that to their runnels weep : 
 From the whispering of the leaves comes down the power of sleep. 
 
 Here a fragment of a marriage song : 
 
 They held full beakers in their hand. 
 They poured libations on the strand, 
 
 And blessed the happy bridegroom. 
 
 We have one fragment, recording the poetic wrath of its au- 
 thoress against some common-place person of her acquaintance. 
 ' It has the appearance,' says a former translator of these frag- 
 ments, ' of a burst of indignation at some home-spun, mighty 
 'good sort of woman, who had neither a soul susceptible of 
 ' poetry herself, nor the sense to admire, nor the candour to 
 ' allow of it in others.' * How often have we met with such ! 
 But let Sappho speak : — 
 
 Thou shalt lie in the grave : never of thee mention or memory 
 Men shall hold in the long ages to come. Thou hast inherited 
 No sweet roses of song ; down in the dark house of forgetfulness 
 Thou shalt go with the dim ghosts of the dead, flitting and vanishing. 
 
 Here is yet another night-scene, wild and beautiful : 
 
 The Moon and Pleiades are set, 
 It is the midnight deep ; 
 
 * Bland's Collections from the Greek Anthology. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. 77 
 
 I watch the silent season flit, 
 As all alone I sleep. 
 
 One gem more, and we pass to another bard : 
 
 I have a child, a lovely child, 
 
 And she is like a golden flower ; 
 I would not be of her beguiled. 
 
 If Lydia's wealth should be my dower. 
 
 But we must say a few words of farewell to Sappho. Her 
 poetry is fall of force and spirit. The intense beauty of her 
 lines seems (so to speak) to be burnt into them, and wears the 
 stamp of fire. How great a matter of regret is it, that these 
 few chance selections should be aU which we have left. If 
 such beauties could be saved by grammarians and writers on 
 metres, merely choosing lines by way of example for their rules 
 (for such, with few exceptions, has been the history of their 
 preservation) what a rich feast of poetic delight might we not 
 expect from the whole, or even from the notes of an admirer. 
 Time has amply, however, fulfilled the prophecy of the poetess 
 herself. 
 
 Long, long ages hence) 
 
 They shall not my name forget. 
 Though the world be old, 
 And the heart be cold. 
 
 They shall talk of Sappho yet. 
 
 Next in the list is a coimtryman of Sappho's — Alcaeus. His Aicseus. 
 poetic merit is of a high order, though not equalling that of his 
 illustrious contemporary. He is known as the sworn foe of 
 tyranny, which at that time was spreading rapidly over the 
 cities and islands of Greece. Here is part of a song of triumph 
 at the death of a tyrant of Mitylene : 
 
 Now let us drink, and with thesound 
 Of merry footsteps, round and round 
 Let the merry dance be led. 
 For Myrsilus is dead, is dead. 
 
 Here is a noble fragment, often imitated by ancients and 
 moderns : 
 
78 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Not stones nor timbers, nor the workman's craft, 
 Can make your cities ; but where MEN are found 
 Able to stand by these and keep them safe, 
 There are your ramparts, there your cities built. 
 
 The following is a bold defiance to winter raging without : 
 
 The air-god raineth ; through the sky 
 Comes down the tempest mightily; 
 The streams are thick with solid ice ; 
 
 « • « * * 
 
 Keep down the winter; — pile up more 
 
 Upon the fire, and largely pour | 
 
 The honey-mellowed wine ; 
 
 And round our temples let the soft wool twine. 
 
 This poet was a warrior ; and although on one occasion re- 
 port says that he ignobly dropped his shield and fled, he 
 seems, by his own account, to have shared pretty largely in 
 spoils taken from the enemy. 
 
 With armour gleams my stately hall: 
 
 The god of war hath furnished all 
 
 With glittering helmets, from whose crown 
 
 White horse-hair plumes are nodding down ; 
 
 Fit head-pieces for men of mail ; 
 
 And, each upon its hidden nail, 
 
 Well polished greaves are hanging there, 
 
 And corslets of new linen fair; 
 
 And hollow shields whose shape is marred 
 
 With many a dint of spear and sword ; 
 
 Chalcidian blades are hung beside, 
 
 And belts, and tunics. With just pride 
 
 Memory cons over these her stores ; 
 
 Each has its tale to tell 
 
 Of battle prospered well, 
 Since first the trade of war was ours. 
 
 We next meet with what is supposed to be a political descrip- 
 tion of state evils ; at least so the imitation by Horace has led 
 us to conclude : 
 
 The waves come onward thick and fast : 
 We, midst the tempest and the blast, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. 79 
 
 In our dark vessel scud along; 
 Already is the gale too strong 
 For our strained ropes ; in vain we toil, 
 The widening leaks our labour foil ; 
 Our shivered sail through many a rent 
 Gives the fierce hurricane a vent ; 
 Our anchors fail, and as we go, 
 Danger is round us, death below. 
 In every billow toil and woe. 
 
 In another fragment lie describes the heat and thirst of an 
 Eastern summer. 
 
 Moisten your throats with wine; the raging star 
 
 Is risen upon the earth; the summer burns ; 
 
 All is athirst with heat. Beneath his wings 
 
 The shrill cicada pours his music forth. 
 
 Perched on the boughs; and the rank thistles bloom. 
 
 In another he pays a beautiful comphment to Sappho, (there 
 is an ancient tale of tender passages between them, but like 
 all other fair tales of hoar antiquity, modem chronologers have 
 attempted to disprove it ;) 
 
 Dark tressfed, chaste, and sweetly-smiling Sappho. 
 
 Simonides is the next name on our list ; and it is a great simonides. 
 name. It was borne by three at least — the first, author of a 
 long and very dull poem on the characters of women — the 
 third, writer of many epigrams and epitaphs — but the se- 
 cond, by far the greatest of the three, famed for purity and 
 pathos, and whose lyrical poems were perhaps the most preci- 
 ous of any which have been lost to us. "Wordsworth writes 
 respecting him, 
 
 O ye who patiently explore 
 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
 What rapture, could ye seize 
 Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
 One precious, tender hearted scroll 
 Of pure Simomdes. 
 
 This poet was also a native of the " isles of Greece" of im- 
 
80 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 mortal memory, which thickly stud the ^gean sea. Ceos 
 had the glory of producing Simonides. His life is little 
 known ; but it was spent among those great and successful 
 struggles for liberty on the part of Greece which mark, as with 
 a bright track, the beginning of the fifth century before our 
 era. The despot of Asia was bent upon enslaving the land 
 which had despised his messages and his power. His myriads 
 covered the earth and seas. The tale of his defeat is weU 
 known ; the name of Xerxes has become a scoff and a by- 
 word ; and Thermopylae, Salamis, Plat^a,' with the earher 
 but not less glorious Marathon, are words which bring with 
 them high and holy remembrances — they have become the 
 watchwords of fireedom throughout the world. A poet amidst 
 such scenes, and such a poet, must have lived, sung, and 
 died, in glory. ' The lyre and sword' might have been the 
 title of his poems, as it has been iu later times of those of 
 Theodor Komer. The very first fragment which we shall 
 translate, is the praise of the Spartan heroes who fell at 
 Thermopylae. It is preserved by the historian Diodorus 
 Siculus, who calls it an ' encomium worthy of their valour :* 
 
 Those in Thermopylae who died, 
 They had a death of joy and pride; 
 Happy, thrice happy, is their fate ; 
 Their tomb, an altar consecrate ; 
 Before our mourning be our praise. 
 Before the wail the triumph raise; 
 Such high desert, and such a tomb, 
 Not rust, nor years, shall e'er consume. 
 There rests within that hallowed ground 
 The triumph-song of nations round ; 
 liConidas, the Spartan king, 
 Shall to our strain his witness bring ; 
 Who left the fame of valour high, 
 And glory which shall never die. 
 
 He also wrote the simple but inimitable epitaph, which was 
 inscribed over them : 
 
 Stranger, go tell the Spartans, that we rest 
 Here in the tomb, obeying their behest. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. 81 
 
 The following is a combination of four small fragments of 
 threnes or funeral songs : 
 
 Being a man, pronounce not thou 
 
 What may betide ; 
 Nor, looking on another, dare to guess 
 
 How long he may abide : 
 For not so quickly changes the small fly, 
 
 The creature of a day, 
 As one fell whirlpool bears into its depths 
 
 Wealth, virtue, all away. 
 We have long years for death ; 
 But few and evil days of mortal breath ; 
 Evil and few: but when we die, 
 All the long lifetime of the world in the cold grave we lie. 
 
 Melancholy indeed is this, as are all the strains of ancient 
 times that touch upon the unknown state beyond the grave. 
 What has not poetry gained by the Christian Revelation ? 
 And yet how sweetly sad are these dirges to us — how dear to 
 our hearts are these drops bled from the world's deep wound 
 before the healer came ! 
 
 Our next fragment of Simonides is the most strikingly 
 beautiful of all in the Grecian lore. 
 
 Danae was the daughter of Acrisius, king of Argos, in 
 Peloponnesus, in fabulous times. Zeus, the father of gods 
 and men, loved her, and she bore him a son named Perseus. 
 Her father had heard an oracle that he should be killed by his 
 grandson. This grandson then must perish. The daughter and 
 her babe are enclosed in a chest, and thrown into the sea — 
 
 When the winds howled round their ark, 
 
 When the fierce waves tossed their bark. 
 
 Faint she quivered with alarm. 
 
 Tears fast dropping, and her arm 
 
 Lovingly about her child 
 
 Wound she ; — ' Baby meek and mild, 
 
 ' Woe is me — but thou in bloom 
 
 ' Of sweet slumber, in this tomb 
 
 ' Dark and dismal, breathest on, 
 
 ' Though the cheerful day is gone, 
 
 ' Though escape remaineth none ; 
 
82 
 
 CHAPTEBS ON POETRY 
 
 ' Nothing, baby, dost thou care, 
 
 • Though above thy long brown hair 
 
 ' Ride the weltering waves along, 
 
 « Though the wind is loud and strong; 
 
 ' Wrapt in purple mantle wave, 
 
 ' A fair face, unwitting harm, 
 
 ' If the wind and waves should be 
 
 ' Cause of dread, my child, to thee, 
 
 ' If thou wouldst but listen here, 
 
 ' I would whisper in thine ear, 
 
 ' Hush, my baby, sweetly sleep, 
 
 « Hush thou raging, plunging deep ; 
 
 ' Hush, O hush, the woes I weep. 
 
 ' Let the better day be nigh 
 
 ' In thy counsels, Father high ; 
 
 ' Thou who dost all issues htdd, 
 
 ' If the prayer be not too bold, 
 
 ' Grant me, ere his life be done, 
 
 ' Just revenge by this my son.' 
 
 The tenderness and beauty of this celebrated fragment are, we 
 fear, ill preserved in a translation. The reader who can recur 
 to the original, can alone enter fully into them. 
 
 Concerning our next lyrical poet, Alcman, it is even doubt- 
 ful from what part of Greece he sprung. It would seem from 
 the character of the fragments left us, that he also belonged to 
 the islands of the jEgean, or the Asiatic colonies of Greece. 
 Two small relics are of exceeding beauty. The first is a night 
 scene, sacred and still : 
 
 The crags are sleeping, and the mountain valleys. 
 
 The slopes and rocky places are at rest, 
 The creeping tribes whom dark earth nourisheth, 
 
 Beasts in their lair, and insects in their nest ; 
 In their black caves the monsters of the deep 
 
 Are still ; the feathered race are all asleep. 
 
 The other looks like the speech of an aged bard, lamenting 
 the decline of his strength : 
 
 No more, sweet girls, whose honey'd voice is heard 
 In sacred song, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP, V. 83 
 
 Can my limbs bear me ; would I were some bird 
 
 To flit along 
 In glistening plumage drest, 
 
 The halcyon tribes among, 
 Upon the ocean's foamy breast, 
 By no grief nor fear possest, 
 Ever on my sunny wing, 
 Light of heart, and gay of plume, a blessed bird of spring. 
 
 Our next poet, Stesicliorus, is a Sicilian, contemporary stesichorus. 
 witli Sappho and Alcseus. We present but one fragment to 
 our readers, wliich besides being very beautiful, is curious in 
 shewing the fabulous interpretation of the return of the sun 
 each day to the east, at a time when earth was supposed to be a 
 level plain. The god of light is regarded as a labourer, who 
 having performed his day's work, returns to his home in the 
 evening. The piece is probably taken from some poem on the 
 labours of Hercules. 
 
 Now from his airy height the sun 
 
 Into his golden boat went down, 
 
 That, passing o'er the ocean foam, 
 
 He might arrive at his dark home 
 
 Down in the depths, where dwell apart 
 
 The youthful consort of his heart. 
 
 His mother, and his children dear; 
 
 Meanwhile the traveller drew near 
 
 And entered the thick laurel grove, 
 
 Great Hercules, the son of Jove. 
 
 One fragment shall also be given from Bacchylides, nephew Baochyiides. 
 of Simonides of Ceos : — 
 
 Not by men self-chosen are 
 Prosperous times, or strength in war, 
 
 Or civil faction's snare : 
 Fate stoops down her errant cloud 
 Big with blessing's golden load, 
 
 Fickly, here and there. 
 
 From the many fragments, chiefly moral and sententious, Archiiocims, 
 we select one also from Archilochus, a native of Paros, also 
 an iEgean island. This little piece was written on occasion of 
 
84 
 
 CHAPTEliS ON POETRY 
 
 the poet, whose fortune had been wrecked in civil commotion, 
 migrating to Thasus, a neighbouring island. 
 
 There it stands, our exile-home 
 Raised above the barren foam, 
 Like the backbone of an ass, 
 Shaggy with wild wood and grass. 
 'Tis not such a happy place, 
 No such land of love and grace. 
 As the island whence we come. 
 As the streams that bless'd our home. 
 
 Who has not heard of Anacreon ? For with him we shall 
 conclude our chapter of fragments. Glory to the Ionian 
 colonies — again we find our poet sprung from them : Teos gave 
 him birth. Great was his fame as a writer of odes and 
 elegies. None of the latter have reached us. A considerable 
 number of odes are extant, bearing his name ; but the critical 
 reader is compelled to acknowledge that many of them will 
 not bear examination, and were evidently written many cen- 
 turies after the age of the true Anacreon. They have always 
 been popular ; and have given rise to a kind of poem called 
 Anacreontic, of a character lively and graceful, and an easy 
 flowing metre, and adapted for conviviality. Of these odes, 
 doubtful though they be, we shall give one or two as speci- 
 mens to our readers : we have chosen those that foUow, not 
 as being the most celebrated, but as not being translated 
 among the well known Anacreontics of Cowley. The metre 
 is that of the original. 
 
 1. TO SPRING. 
 
 See how, the Spring appearing, 
 The graces scatter roses; 
 See how the waves of ocean 
 To perfect calm are softened. 
 See how the sea-bird floateth — 
 See how the cranes are parting- ■ 
 Full-faced the sun is shining, 
 Now cleave the clouds asunder. 
 And dapple earth with shadows ; 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. S5 
 
 Now fields and flocks look fairest. 
 Now bursts the earth with plenty ; 
 Now buds the fruitful olive. 
 
 II. LOVE AND THE BEE. 
 
 Young love once in the roses 
 A bee asleep among them 
 Espied not, and it stung him. 
 The sting was on his finger, 
 And loudly did he bellow. 
 
 Part running and part flying, 
 He sought the fair Cythera, 
 ' O mother, I have perished,' 
 He cried, 'and nought can save mej 
 ' A little winged serpent 
 'Hath stung me in the finger — 
 ' A bee, the rustics call it." 
 
 She answered, 'If the stinging 
 ' Of this small insect pain thee, 
 ' How much, think'st thou, do they bear, 
 ' Whom thine own darts have smitten ? ' 
 
 III. THE PRAISES OE THE ROSE. 
 
 While the spring is scattering garlands, 
 I will praise the rose of summer : 
 Come, my friends, and help me praise it. 
 
 'Tis a heavenly exhalation, 
 Filling- mortals with rejoicing; 
 'Tis the darling of the Graces, 
 In the months when Love is blooming; 
 'Tis the God of Love's own plaything. 
 
 'Tis, besides, the theme of Poets, 
 'Tis the plant the muses honour : — 
 Sweet it is to pluck it, even 
 When the thorns are thick around it ; 
 Sweet it is to take and cherish 
 In the hand its gathered blossoms, 
 Calling out its sleeping fragrance. 
 Sweet it is in halls and banquets, 
 Sweet in sacrifice and triumph. 
 
 What without the rose can please us ? 
 Rosy-fingered is the morning, 
 
86 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Rosy-armed the Nymphs and Graces, 
 
 Rosy-fair is Aphrodita, 
 
 In the songs of ancient poets. 
 
 Roses with his healing conserve 
 Mingles in the wise physician ; 
 Roses strew we o'er the relics 
 Of the dear ones that have left us. 
 Time this flower alone can conquer j 
 For its hlossoms, e'en when faded, 
 Part not with their first fresh odour. 
 
 Come, my friend, and I will tell you 
 ■ Whence its birth. What time the Ocean 
 Bore the youthful Aphrodita 
 Spray-besprinkled, from its surface, 
 And what time the warrior goddess 
 Sprung all armed, from the great Father, 
 Filling heaven with joy and wonder : 
 Then the earth, the first and fairest 
 Of her children, bore the roses. 
 
 For the blessed heavenly conclave 
 Sprinkled down rare drops of nectar ; 
 And where'er the earth received them, 
 Thick and sweet, on thorny branches, 
 Sprung the roses, flowers of pleasaunce. 
 
 Thus far for fragmentary lore. Many and beautiful are the 
 smaller poems of Grecian bards, strewed thick oyer many a 
 page of ancient common-place-books and anthologies. To 
 these we shall devote one chapter or more, hereafter. 
 
 Meantime, reader, if these precious relics of beauty hare 
 not gladdened thee, and made thy poetic heart leap within 
 thee, let not the blame rest with these old songsters, who are 
 thus feebly and iU represented : — judge not the statue by the 
 chip that remains ; — blame not these Chapters on Poetry and 
 Poets, which first hare attempted to unlock the treasures of 
 ancient song to the heart of the Enghsh people, so that the 
 mechanic and the cottager may see the beauty of which 
 he knew not, and rejoice : — but blame the inadequacy of the 
 translator, and of the words which he was constrained to 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. V. 87 
 
 employ; and remember an ancient ditty of our own, itself 
 not less beautiful than these lays of elder times, which 
 says, 
 
 That ' violets plucked the sweetest showers 
 Can ne'er make grow again.' 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE GRECIAN DRAMA— ^SCHYLUS- 
 
 The Grecian The Greeks Were such, a people as the world has seen but 
 
 character. 
 
 once. Situated in a country diversified ^bove every other with 
 hill and dale, mountain and moorland, springs and caverns ; 
 under a chmate rich in beautiful skies and seasons ; and girt 
 by a sea which presents the fairest effects of sun and cloud, 
 they grew up under the constant tuition and presence of 
 natural beauty. They added to this advantage a cast of mind 
 the most subtle and discriminating ; an astonishing quickness 
 of perception ; the perfect appreciation of modes of thought 
 and character which were brought before them ; and an exqui- 
 site ear for melody, of a kind far higher and more difficult than 
 any of which we can form an idea. It will complete the 
 excellence of this wonderful people, if we further remark, that 
 the scantiness of their dress and the frequent occurrence of 
 gymnastic contests gave them more opportunity than has ever 
 been enjoyed in a highly-civilized land, of entering into the 
 full beauty of the unclothed human form ; that the statuary 
 and the painter could illustrate by living examples his rules of 
 proportion ; and could delineate faithfully, situations and 
 attitudes, which the modem artist can only witness in the 
 constrained postures of a model, but with Avhich they were 
 daily familiar. From the combination of these perceptions 
 The Grecian and poAvcrs, the Grecian Drama took its rise. We are told 
 
 Drama. 
 
 that its origin Avas in the vintage songs and dances, which 
 bands of youths and maidens performed in honour of the God 
 of the vine. In these strains they tried their skill, and the 
 prize was the goat, the nibbler of the vine, {trogos in Greek, 
 from whence they tell us tragedy, more properly trag-ody, is 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VI. 89 
 
 derived.) The company of singers was called chorus ; a word 
 signifying a dance. In process of time, the songs were con- 
 nected together by a story, which was told by an actor, speaking 
 between them. And at certain points of his narrative he 
 paused, and the chorus broke out, in songs mournful or gay, 
 accompanied with a dance festive or solemn, as the occasion 
 required ; but as yet there was no dialogue. A second actor 
 was added by j9Eschylus, the subject of our present chapter : 
 and thus the first example given of what we should call a 
 dramatic poem. The chorus was retained, though now in a 
 subordinate situation, as far as the plot and action were con- 
 cerned. This afforded the poet an opportunity of displaying 
 his lyrical powers ; and gave the audience the multiplied 
 pleasure of dramatic action, song, music, and the dance, com- 
 bined. 
 
 Our readers must however be careful not to confound these Distinction 
 ancient representations with our modern ones, nor to suppose dim drama. 
 that interests purely human were their subjects. In them 
 every thing was mighty and colossal. The dignity of the per- 
 sonages was in most cases superhuman : they were gods, or 
 heroes, or men of ancient and mysterious fame ; their actions 
 and situations were corresponding. The plays were acted in 
 the open air. The stature of the actors was artificially increased. 
 They wore masks, not more to equal the size and dignity of the 
 intended visage, than in accordance with the simplicity of the 
 elder tragedy, which was generally the process of one great event, 
 requiring one state of mind and feeling. The chorus stood, 
 and in the intervals between the acts performed its dances, 
 at the front of the stage. The scenery was simple and uniform ; 
 in some cases the same scene was retained during the whole of 
 the play. The speeches of the actors were spoken, or rather 
 chaimted, slowly and solemnly. All was awful and subduing. 
 The subjects were drawn from the national history or theology ; 
 the destiny of some fated family or individual ; the old legends 
 of the wars of Troy and Thebes ; and the recent defeats of 
 Persia. 
 
 1 
 
^schylus. 
 
 The 
 
 90 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 ^Eschylus is the most sublime poet of the Grecian drama, as 
 well as its first in point of time. He chooses the most lofty- 
 subjects and treats them in the most lofty style. His men are 
 gods : his gods, mysterious abstractions, dim and yast. Ilis 
 choral songs are bold, abrupt, and grand ; pregnant with high 
 sentences respecting the destinies of mortals, and crowded with 
 the most magnificent imagery, couched in sounding and unusual 
 words. 
 
 The first drama of ^schylus which we shall select to exem- 
 
 ^ B™und*'"'' P^^fy *^® foregoing assertions, is that entitled PROMETHEUS 
 BOUND ; the most ancient in its subject, as well as the most 
 simple in arrangement, of any which have come down to us. 
 In order to understand the plot of this remarkable play, our 
 readers must be informed of a few particulars respecting the 
 religious belief of the Greeks. 
 
 Aiguraent. The family of gods which we find in power during the ages 
 of classic Uterature, had not always borne rule over the earth. 
 There were traditions of an earlier and a better dynasty having 
 reigned in heaven : and even beyond that, of the great parents 
 of all. Heaven and Earth, having been the first gods. The 
 dynasty immediately preceding Zeus (Jupiter) and his family, 
 had been that of the children of Heaven and Earth — the Titans. 
 Of these one of the latest born and the wisest was PROME- 
 THEUS. His very name signifies fore-counsel. By his 
 assistance, the worn-out Cronus (Saturn) and his company 
 were dethroned, and the power delivered into the hands of 
 Zeus, his son. The new lord of heaven was proud, stern, and 
 wilful in liis rule. The universe groaned under his oppression. 
 The old laws and rights were forgotten. The majestic remnants 
 of the former rule were despised and scattered : the mighty 
 Titans, each one more than a match in sl;rength for all these 
 weaker deities, were quelled— Destiny aiding the revolution. 
 Prometheus himself, the abettor of Zeus, was forgotten in pride 
 and ingratitude. But above all the miserable race of men was 
 the sufferer by this change. Under former rule, they enjoved 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VI. 91 
 
 the golden age. Justice and piety, truth and love, had reigned 
 among them. But they were now deserted by these pure and 
 holy powers. Crime had come in, and the earth had been 
 cursed. The knowledge of evil had begun : the knowledge of 
 good had not yet dawned upon them. In their weakness and 
 misery they dwelt in caves and imitated the beasts. They 
 practised no arts. They knew not the blessings nor the powers 
 of the elements of fire ; and without this, how should they 
 exercise craft or till the ground ? 
 
 The friend of this oppressed race was Prometheus. By him 
 the sacred flame was brought down and placed on earth. By 
 him knowledge was given, art was taught, hope and desire 
 were lodged in the breasts of men, and all on the earth was 
 changed. Men now no longer cursed the day that bore them. 
 Life and love, activity and joy were seen on every side. Here 
 the proud city glittered from afar, crowded with battlements 
 and towers. Here the blue ocean was alive with the white 
 sails. Here the boys and virgins crowned themselves with 
 flowers in the dance. Here the strains of music and song 
 floated on the wind. All on earth was changed. 
 
 But a deadly crime had been committed against the new 
 rulers of Heaven. The vengeance of the offended Zeus fell on 
 the benefactor of mankind. Mighty was the power, high the 
 dignity of the offender ; awful and enduring must be his pun- 
 ishment. Two personages, the ministers of the heavenly will, 
 have it in commission to superintend the matter. Strength and 
 Force. The God of fire, Hepheestus, (Vulcan) is pressed 
 reluctantly into the service. 
 
 Scene. — The Scythian Mountains. — A wild chaos of gigantic rocks is 
 seen : above them all, one towering into the skies, with its Iroadface 
 southward. Thousands of feet it rises sheer, and the eagles and 
 vultures are soaring and screaming up it. From between two crags 
 advance four forms. Two are dim and dreary, as if they had not a 
 heing of their own, but were evoked by a mightier. The third is 
 toil-worn but strong ; of heaven-built and metallic frame ; wearing 
 
92 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 the marks of fiery toil. In one hand he bears massy chains ; in the 
 other a solid iron mallet, and wedges and nails of the same material, 
 and of enormous size. His face is marked with sorrow, and he 
 gazes with pity on the fourth in company, who is led by the two 
 before-mentioned. This latter is one of lofty bearing and godlike 
 form. His clear brow commands the scene, and from his eye seems 
 to look forth the soul of the world. Indignation is stamped upon 
 his countenance. His body is vast and naked. He advances, though 
 under compulsion, yet as one knowing his lot, and fulfilling it. He 
 is an image of Power that has been, is not, but is yet to be. 
 
 The dialogue now begins. The persons represented in the 
 drama are, 
 
 Strength, the servant of Zeus. 
 
 Force, the servant of Zeus. 
 
 Hephaestus, god of Fire. 
 
 Prometheus. 
 
 Chorus of Ocean Nymphs. 
 
 Ocean himself 
 
 lo, the daughter of Inachus, king of Argos, 
 beloved by Zeus. 
 
 Hermes, the messenger of Zeus. 
 The first two scenes we shall present entire to our readers. 
 The speakers in the first scene (in his earHer plays ^schylus 
 never introduces more than two actors, and the chorus, which 
 is not yet present) are, 
 
 Strength, the servant of Zeus. 
 
 Hepheestus, god of Fire. 
 
 STRENGTH SPEAKS. 
 
 We have arrived at Earth's extremest verge, 
 The Scythian waste of trackless solitude. 
 Thy care must be to do the high behest 
 Which our Sire gave thee — to these lofty crags 
 To bind this rebel in eternal links 
 Of adamantine fetters. For thy charm, 
 The worker of all art, sight-dazzling lire, 
 He stole, and gave to mortals — wherefore now 
 Such recompence he pays — that he may learn 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VI. 93 
 
 Fealty to observe to Him above, 
 
 And cease from practising his love to man. 
 HephtBslus. Ye have done all — no more doth He require 
 
 Of you, his servants; but my heart doth fail — 
 
 I cannot bind to this strange den of storms 
 
 A god of kindred race : and yet I must — 
 
 Our Father's word 'tis hard to disobey. 
 
 Thou lofty One in council, child of her 
 
 Whose name was Justice, not my will nor thine 
 
 Concurring, with inevitable bonds 
 
 1 am to nail thee to this desert rock ; 
 
 Where never voice shall reach thee — never form 
 
 Of any mortal shall thine eye behold ; 
 
 But thou shall parch in the sun's burning rays. 
 
 And change thy heavenly bloom ; pleased thou shall see 
 
 The variegated night succeed the day, — 
 
 Pleased thou shall see the sun disperse the dew j 
 
 And ever shall the weight of present ill 
 
 Distress thy spirit ; for he is not yet 
 
 Who shall release thee. Such is thy reward 
 
 For loving men : and for that thou, a god, 
 
 The gods not fearing, hast imparted gifts 
 
 Sacred, and disallowed to mortal hands. 
 
 For this at yonder undelightsome rock 
 
 Thou shall maintain erect and sleepless watch : — 
 
 Many the cries and groans of fruitless woe 
 
 Which thou shall utter : He who rules above 
 
 Is stern of purpose, of unbending soul : 
 
 For He is ever harsh, who newly reigns. 
 Strength. Stay there— for wherefore dost thou weave delays, 
 
 And pity him in vain ? Why not abhor 
 
 This god, whom all in Heaven so justly hate, 
 
 And who hath given to man thine heritage ? 
 HephcEstus. The ties of love and friendship are loo strong. 
 Strength. It is ev'n so : but dar'sl thou disobey 
 
 Our Sire's behests ? dost thou not fear this more ? 
 Hephaestus. Thou'rt ever fierce, and full of rash resolve. 
 Strength. In this at least : for it doth nought avail 
 
 To mourn for him : labour not then in vain. 
 Hepheestus. O my hard craft, how much I hate thee now ! 
 Strength. Blame not thy craft : of all the present ills 
 
 Thy craft hath nothing done to be the cause. 
 
94 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Hephcestus. Would that some other wielded these my tools. 
 Strength, All things we gods can do, save govern all ; 
 
 None is entirely free but Zeus himself. 
 Hcphcestus. This I know well, and have not ought against. 
 Strength. Wilt thou not hasten then to bind his chain, 
 
 That thy delays may not be seen above ? 
 Hephcestus. Here are the bolts made ready for his arms. 
 Strength. Take him then, round his wrists with thy full strength 
 
 Weld them, and rivet well unto the rock. 
 Hephcestus. The work proceedeth with no idle hand. 
 Strength. Strike harder, — narrower yet, — give him no room ; 
 
 Escape, though desperate, he can yet devise. 
 Hephcestus. This arm at least is fixed beyond his power. 
 Strength. Nail then the other safely; he shall learn, 
 
 Wise as he is, that Zeus is abler still. 
 Haphoestm. None (save himself) can blame this work of mine. 
 Strength. Now then, the sharp tooth of the iron wedge 
 
 Drive through his chest, and see thou make it firm, 
 Hephcestus, Alas, alas, I grieve to see thy pains! 
 Strength. Art thou delaying still, and o'er the foe 
 
 Uttering thy plaints ? Beware thou mourn not next, 
 Hephcestus. Seestthou a sight which thou canst bear to see? 
 Strength. I see this rebel reap his just reward. 
 
 But now around his sides clasp thou the belts. 
 Hephcestus. It is my duty, urge me not again. 
 Strength. Yea, but I will, and goad thee to thy work. 
 
 Now bow thyself, and chain his limbs below. 
 Hephcestus. The work is done — the labour is not long. 
 Strength. Now firmly drive your nails and pierce his feet : 
 
 Heavy his wrath who overlooks thy work. 
 Hephcestus. Thy tongue speaks language fitted to thy form. 
 Strength. Be softened if thou wilt, but blame not me, 
 
 Because my hate is fit, my purpose stern. 
 Hephcestus. Let us begone, — the toils are around his limbs. 
 Strength (to Prometheus.) Here then insult — and steal the heavenly 
 rights 
 
 For creatures of a day. Which of these pains 
 
 Can mortals ease thee from ? By a false name 
 
 The gods have called thee, ' the fore-counselling One:' 
 
 Thou needest one, methinks, to counsel thee, 
 
 ■How thou may'st shift this burden from thyself. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP, VI. 95 
 
 Scene II. Prometheus alone, nailed and chained to the lofty rock 
 above mentioned. Around is a vast prospect. Mountains, lands, 
 and rivers lie before him, even to the far and glittering sea. Over 
 head the sun is bare and bright. Prometheus speaks. — 
 
 Thou divine air — ye swiftly fleeting^ winds, — 
 Fountains of rivers, — and je ocean fields 
 Dimpled with countless waves — thou mother earth — 
 And thou, all seeing circle of the sun — 
 Be witness, what a god from gods endures. 
 
 See with what torments fierce 
 
 Pierced through, I shall endure 
 Ten thousand years of woe: 
 
 Such a relentless course 
 
 The new-established king 
 Against me doth pursue. 
 
 Alas, alas, one woe is present now, 
 
 And more are yet reserved. Where will the end 
 Of these my sorrows be ? 
 And yet, what say I ? Throughly do I know 
 All that will happen — nought unlooked-for comes 
 To my foreseeing soul. But I must bear 
 My fated toil — Almighty Destiny 
 Is on me with her rigid hand of power. 
 I may not grieve— I may not hold my griefs 
 In speechless tolerance. To mortal hands 
 I gave the heavenly gift — for this the yoke 
 Of dire necessity is on me laid : 
 By stealth within a stafl" I bore to them 
 The hidden fount of fire, which taught them art, 
 And furnished forth their lives. Therefore I pay 
 The penalty of sin ; chained beneath heaven 
 Midway in air. 
 
 Hah ! what could be that voice, 
 That sense of near approach of living thing, 
 Divine or mortal, or of both commixed. 
 That floated to me here ; 
 
 Comes any to this final bound 
 
 Of the great earth to see my woe ? 
 
 Behold, behold the fated One, 
 
 The foe of Him above — the god 
 
 Whom all his fellows hate 
 
 n 
 
96 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Who crowd the hall of Heaven — 
 
 The friend of hnman kind. 
 What do T hear? What fluttering draweth near, 
 As of some feathered flock ? Air, far and near, 
 Is on the whisper with the rush of wings. 
 Each thing that comes raiseth new cause of fear. 
 
 Thus far the Poet. The approaching band is the chorus of 
 ocean nymphs, whose still recesses in the depths have been 
 boomed through by the loud strokes of the mallet of Hephaestus. 
 They have come on the wings of the light winds to see and to 
 condole. By their request he relates to them the whole history 
 of his ancient services to the gods, and his present requital. 
 He begs them to remain by him and watch his fortunes. 
 
 Next comes Father Ocean himself, borne on a winged 
 courser. He tells Prometheus that he has no better friend — 
 and in proof of the assertion (as usually is the case) proceeds 
 to give him sage advice, when it is of no use. Many and 
 wise are the sentiments which this respectable old gentleman 
 utters : which, however, the sufferer receives by no means 
 respectfully : 
 
 Prometheus. I envy thee because thou bear'st no blame, 
 Who didst in all help and take share with me : 
 But leave nie now, and give thyself no care ; 
 Thou canst not bend the tyrant — 'tis no task 
 Of quick accomplishment: but be thou ware 
 Lest by the way to Him thyself get harm. 
 
 Ocean. Far better art thou to advise thy friends 
 
 Than thine own self; my friendship is in acts. 
 Draw me not back : for I will go — and Zeus, 
 'Tis mine especial boast, will grant me this 
 Of free good will — to loose thee from thy chains. 
 
 Prometheus. I praise thee for thy will — nought lacketh there : 
 But weary not thyself — for all in vain 
 If thou dost ought, thy pains will be bestowed. 
 Keep thyself out of harm, and live in peace ; 
 'Tis not my mind, if I myself have fallen, 
 To draw companions with me in my fall. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VI. 97 
 
 Ocean.* Not me at least — for thine own brother's woes 
 Are fresh within my heart, who in the West 
 Standeth, the pillars of the heaven and earth 
 On his broad shoulders bearing, — no light weight. 
 I also call to mind the earth-born lord 
 Of the Cilician caves, Typhon the fierce, 
 The hundred-headed monster, who withstood 
 The gods' united strength, from his dark jaws 
 Hissing forth murderous threats — by force subdued; — 
 From out his eyes flashed bolts of living fire, 
 As if to whelm heaven's kingdom by his might ; 
 But the unsleeping thunderstroke of Zeus 
 Met him, — the winged lightning, breathing flames. 
 Which reft him of his vaunting ; to his heart 
 The flame descended, and his giant strength 
 Was scorched and withered — now, a feeble corse, 
 Near to the narrow sea he lies, compressed 
 Under the roots of ^tna ; on whose top 
 Hephasstus sits, working the heated steel ; 
 Whence ages hence shall burst rivers of fire. 
 Wasting with angry jaws of lambent flame 
 The fruits of level Sicily. Such bile 
 Shall Typhon upward cast, such heated showers 
 Of fiery hail, though by the bolt of Zeus 
 His ancient might be all to ashes turned. 
 
 Prometheus. Thou art not inexperienced, nor dost want 
 Me as thy teacher: save thou then thyself 
 As thou know'st how ; for I will drink this cup 
 Of sorrow, till the wrath of Zeus shall cease. 
 
 The dialogue continues a little longer, and then Ocean departs 
 on his Pegasus ; and the interchange of woful words goes on 
 between Prometheus and the Chorus. After a song in which 
 they lament his unworthy fortune, he describes to them the 
 benefits which he had conferred on miserable mortals, in the 
 following lines : 
 
 Prometheus. Think not that pride, or haughtiness of soul. 
 Locks up my lips: deep sadness gnaws my heart, 
 
 * The best editions give this speech to Ocean. It seems far more appropriate thus, 
 and not (as in some copies) in the mouth of Prometheus. 
 
98 
 
 CHAPTEES ON POETRY 
 
 To see myself thus set at nought and scorned. 
 And yet who gave to these new gods their power ? 
 Who, but myself ? But let that pass : ye know 
 All that I could declare. Hear ye the wounds 
 Of wretched mortals, which my hand hath healed : 
 How, when before they were as infants, I 
 Put wisdom in their minds, and gave thena power, — 
 Them, who before, though seeing, saw in vain, 
 Though hearing, heard not : but, as in a dream, 
 Thro' their long life all things obscurely mixed. 
 No brick-built dwellings had they, warm and safe, 
 No work in wood : but in dark caves beneath 
 They dwelt, like burrowing ants. No certain sign 
 Had they of winter, nor of flowery spring. 
 Nor of fruit-bearing summer, but all works 
 Unknowingly they did, until I shewed 
 The risings and the settings of the stars. 
 Yet more — the chief invention of all art, 
 I found out numbers, and the signs combined '^ 
 
 Of letters, and unfailing memory. 
 Mother of every muse. I was the first 
 To yoke the beasts, and teach them to obey 
 The whip and rein : and that I might relieve 
 Mortals from toil severe, I joined the horse 
 To the proud chariot, the rich man's delight. 
 None but myself found out sea-passing ships. 
 That float with linen wings athwart the world. 
 But, which was more than all, if any fell 
 Into a sickness, there was none to help, 
 Unguent, nor healing draught, nor diet bland; 
 For want of these they pined, until I shewed 
 The art of mingling kindly antidotes. 
 With which each sickness might be safely met. 
 
 Such things I gave them : and beneath the ground 
 The riches that lay hidden from mankind, 
 Copper and iron, silver and bright gold. 
 Who, before me, can boast that he hath known ? 
 In one short word of all the substance hear, — 
 ' Men from Prometheus every art derive.' 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VI. 99 
 
 Then enters a new visitant. lo, the daughter of Inachus 
 king of Argos, was beloved by Zeus. Hera (Juno) stung 
 wdth jealousy, inflicted on her the loss of her human shape, 
 and the penalty of long and painful wanderings over the 
 world. — In southern covmtries, we learn that the extensive 
 herds are often driven almost to madness by the fear of the 
 breese, or gadfly— that on hearing its approach they leave the 
 fairest pastures, and rush wildly over rocks and streams. In 
 such a shape and with such a pursuer, was the daughter of 
 Inachus roving over the world. In her case Prometheus 
 continues his work of benevolence to mortals. He announces 
 to her the wanderings yet fated for her to accomplish ; and 
 strange and horrible they are. Time would fail us to relate 
 all the barbarous races whom she is to visit in turn, before she 
 reaches the Egjrptian Delta, the term of her persecutions. In 
 one matter is the Argive princess connected with himself. She 
 is to bear a son by Zeus, whose twelfth descendant is to be the 
 renowned Hercules, the looser of Prometheus. lo departs, 
 panic-struck by her airy tormentor. Meanwhile, the spirit 
 and boldness of the mighty prisoner increase. The Choms 
 have observed, that there is no way of escaping from the 
 counsel of Zeus, when he breaks out in a strain which intro- 
 duces the terrible and sublime ending of this drama ; — our 
 readers will thank us for giving the two last scenes, as we 
 have the two first, entire. 
 
 Prometheus. Yea, Zeus himself, albeit his thoughts are high, 
 Shall be abased : — a marriage he prepares, 
 Which from the tyranny of highest heaven 
 Shall cast him into dust ; — his father's curse, 
 Invoked, when from his ancient throne he fell, 
 Shall then be all fulfilled. No god but I 
 Can shew him safe escape from this ill fate. 
 All this I know, its very form and time: 
 And thereforfe let him sit above and trust 
 To his earth-shaking bolts, — let him launch forth 
 His shafts of lambent fire — all shall avail 
 As nouglit to guard him from his shameful fall : — 
 
100 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Such an antagonist even now himself 
 
 Prepares, a monster hard to be withstood ; 
 
 Who shall wield fire brighter than lightning flash, 
 
 Whose voice shall drown the thunder; and the spear 
 
 Of dread Poseidon, the earth shaker, shall 
 
 This foe in shivers rend. By such a fate 
 
 When he hath fallen, shall Zeus at length be taught 
 
 'Twixt power and thrall how wide a difference lies. 
 
 Chorus. What thou dost wish, against thy foe thou speak'st. 
 
 Prometheus. Yea, what I wish, but what shall be fulfilled. 
 
 Chorus. Must we then think that Zeus shall be o'ercome ? 
 
 Prometheus. Aye, and shall suffer fiercer pains than mine. 
 
 Chorus. How canst thou speak such words, and tremble not? 
 
 Prometheus. What should 1 fear, whose fate is not to die ? 
 
 Chorus. But he may doom thee to some direr pangs. 
 
 Prometheus. I challenge him : this soul is armed for all. 
 
 Chorus. Those are the wisest, who avert his wrath 
 By due submission. 
 
 Prometheus. Ye may bow you down, 
 
 And pray, and oil the ruler's troubled soul 
 With flattering words; to me he's less than nought. 
 Let him rule norv, and do his little will : 
 His reign shall not be long. 
 
 But I behold 
 Hither approach the lacquey-slave of Zeus, 
 His newest majesty's new courier; 
 He brings, be sure, some tidings yet unheard. 
 
 Enter Hermes. 
 
 Hermes. To thee I speak, bitterest of bitter tongues. 
 Sinner against the gods, who hast purloined 
 The heavenly fire, and given gifts to men : 
 The Sire commandeth thee to say, what words 
 Were those thou spakest, and what marriage bond 
 Shall cast him from his throne : — and tell me not 
 In thine own riddling way, but plain and clear ; 
 Give me no double sense : thou knowest well 
 Such answers soften not the ire of Zeus. 
 
 Prometheiis. It is a well-mouthed and sapient speech, 
 Such as befits the lacquey of the gods. 
 Ye are but young in power, — and think that ye 
 Dwell safe in scathless towers— have not I seen 
 
AND POETS, CHAP. VI. 101 
 
 Two despots tumble from these very thrones ? 
 And I shall see the third, who ruleth now, 
 Basest and quickest fall. Can I, dost think, 
 Tremble and crouch before these youngster gods ? 
 'Tis further from my thoughts than thou canst tell. 
 Go hie thee back the way thou earnest here : 
 For nothing thou shall learn which thou hast asked. 
 
 Hermes. 'Twas just by such perverse and erring words 
 That thou didst bring on thee thy present woe. 
 
 Prometheus. This plight, be sure, I would not change for thine, 
 Thy gilded slavery. Far better 'tis to serve 
 This naked rock, than to run post for Zeus. 
 Thus must I rail at him who rails at me. 
 
 Hermes. Thou seemest to take pleasure in thy plight. 
 
 Prometheus. Pleasure ! such pleasure light on all my foes : 
 And thee I number in the list of them. 
 
 Hermes. Hast of thine evils aught to lay to me ? 
 
 Prometheus. Yes, in one word, I hate the host of gods, 
 
 Who, when my hand hath helped them, wrong me thus. 
 
 Hermes. I see thou labourest with a dire disease. 
 
 Prometheus. Yes, the disease of hating who hate me. 
 
 Hermes. How hard would'st be to bear if ihou didst reign ! 
 
 Prometheus. Alas ! 
 
 Hermes. Zeus knows not such a word as this. 
 
 Prometheus. But lapse of years may teach him this and more. 
 
 Hermes. Hast thou not yet learned to control thy tongue ? 
 
 Prometheus. No ; if I had, I should not talk with slaves. 
 
 Hermes. Thou wilt not tell, it seems, what the Sire asks. 
 
 Prometheus. Thou tbink'st I must oblige so kind a friend ? 
 
 Hermes. Thou mockest : dost thou take me for a child ? 
 
 Prometheus. Yea, for a child, and yet more simple far. 
 If thou dost hope aught to extort from me. 
 There is no torment, nor no harsh devise 
 Whereby he can compel me to divulge 
 My words, before he loose me from these bonds. 
 Aye, let the dazzling flame be downward hurled. 
 And with his white-winged snows, and direful claps 
 Of subterranean thunder, let him whelm 
 All nature in the storm, he ne'er shall force 
 Me to declare by whom his power must fall. 
 
 Hermes. Hast thou said aught that can amend thy lot ? 
 
 Prometheus. My course is weighed and pondered long ago. 
 
102 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Hermes. Endure, thou rash one, to submit thy thoughts 
 Unto thy present ills ; at length be wise. 
 
 Prometheus. Thou troublest me in vain ; were I a wave, 
 Thou might'st as soon persuade me. Let it not 
 Within thy thoughts have place, that I shall bend 
 To feminine obsequiousness, through fear 
 Of Zeus, thy master : shall beseech my foe 
 With womanly uplifting of my hands. 
 To free me from these chains : — it cannot be. 
 
 Hermes. I seem to speak words many, and in vain. 
 
 His heart nor melts nor softens at my prayers : 
 But as a new yoked colt, champing the bit, 
 He plunges, and against his bridle fights. 
 But he is lavish in perverseness weak : 
 For stubbornness, when wisdom backs it not, 
 Hath less account than none. Wherefore hear now, 
 If thou refuse obedience to my words, 
 What storm shall come upon thee, and what height 
 Of dread inevitable woe : — this cliff 
 The mighty Father first shall rend apart 
 With thunder and sharp lightning, and deep hide 
 Thy body, in the strong embrace of rocks. 
 Thus ages long shalt thou fulfil : then back 
 Into the light return, where the swift hound 
 ' Of Zeus, the murderous eagle, tearing wide 
 A gash across thy side, shall visit thee, 
 A daily guest unbidden, and shall feed 
 On thy dark liver. Look not for an end 
 Of all this woe, till some kind god be found 
 Willing to seek the dismal realms below, 
 And take thy pains upon him. Now advise ; — 
 My words are no vain threat, but said in sooth : 
 For the high tongue of Him who rules above 
 Utters no falsehood, but performs its words. 
 Look well and ponder — and persist no more 
 To choose thy self-will, and reject wise thoughts. 
 
 Chorus. The words of Hermes to our ears convey 
 The sense of timely wisdom ; they advise 
 Thy soul to leave its pride, and learn good counsel. 
 Consent — 'tis folly to persist in sin. 
 
 Prometheus. What he would say I knew before : 
 Nor is it matter of complaint 
 
Ajntd poets, chap. VI. 
 
 103 
 
 That foe should suffer ill from foe. 
 Let therefore now descend 
 The two-edged curl of fire : 
 Let heaven with thunder rock 
 And with the wild winds howl: 
 Let the tempest wrench the earth 
 From its deep foundation roots : 
 Let him fling the ocean waves 
 Boiling with their surge and spray 
 Round the courses of the stars : 
 Let him in his eddies fierce 
 Of the nether whirlwind, snatch. 
 This my body, till it drop 
 In the blackening gulphs of hell : 
 All will not avail to crush me, 
 I can never die ! 
 Hermes. Ye hear his frenzy-prompted words, 
 
 Mad must he be, who vaunts in woe. 
 But ye who hitherto have sJiared 
 With pitying heart his troubles, hence 
 Quickly depart, lest even ye 
 By the loud bellowing thunder struck 
 Be of your sense bereft. 
 Chorus. Speak better words, and counsel that 
 
 Which we may follow : this thy speech 
 Cannot be borne. Why orderest thou 
 So base an action ? We will bear 
 With him, whatever is decreed. 
 Traitors we hate ; no human crime 
 Is worthier to be shunned. 
 Hermes. But yet remember what I say : 
 
 And blame not fortune, if ye fall 
 To fierce calamity a prey. 
 Nor say that Zeus hath you involved 
 In deadly danger unforeseen. 
 For ye are warned : not suddenly. 
 Nor stealthily, have ye too fallen 
 Into an endless net of woe 
 
 Which your own folly spread. 
 
 An awful interyal follows : as if by one calling them, tlie 
 clouds gather ; strange and dreadftJ voices thicken ; the 
 storm is begun. The voice of Prometheus is heard : — 
 
104 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Prometheus. Not in threat,— in very deed 
 
 Reeleth now the tottering earth : 
 Bellows now the thunder near; 
 From the rifted heaven run out 
 Tendrils of far glittering flame : 
 From the plains the dust is soaring 
 In the whirlwind ; all the breaths 
 Of all tempests leap and rush 
 One against the other roaring: 
 To the sky the deep is lifted. 
 Such a blast with terror armed 
 Down upon me cometh, charged 
 With the anger of the gods. 
 
 O my mother, dread and vast ! 
 
 Who about the earth art cast, 
 
 Who the common light dost hold, 
 
 O thou Firmament, behold 
 Me thine offspring, how I suffer wrongful woes untold. 
 
 (The curtain drops.) 
 
 Thus our readers are in possession of the principal part of this 
 most wonderful play. Thus they have a specimen of the 
 Greek Drama. But it is a specimen only of one kind. All 
 in it is superhuman. But let it not be thought that such was 
 always the case. Our next chapter will bring before them 
 three plays by the same author on the story of Agamenmon's 
 family. 
 Mysterious- But let US conclude mth a few remarks on the Prometheus 
 
 ness of the 
 
 subject. Bound. Has not the reader felt ere this, that there is about 
 it a strange air of mystery — a link of association with even 
 high and holy things ? This benefactor of human kind — the 
 object of divine wrath — thus crucified on high — bears he not 
 a dim resemblance to One other of whom we know ? It is so 
 — ^but how, we say not. We know that ^schylus was once 
 accused of divulging the doctrines taught in the mysteries : we 
 know that these mysteries contained many a fragment of an- 
 cient truth, pure in some degree from the overlaying of the 
 popular superstition : may some primitive tradition have 
 descended from the dUuvian forefathers of the Grecian race — 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VI. 105 
 
 some part of the creed of man before tlie flood — may not the 
 Prometheus Bound contain a ray, however confused and dis- 
 torted, of that light, by which we are taught to believe heaven 
 hath enlightened the world ? 
 
 The world must be at an end before an answer can be 
 given. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE ORESTEA OF ^SCHYLUS. 
 
 tale of Troy. 
 
 Never were two series of legends more fertile in stirring 
 incident and pregnant moral, tlian the tales of Troy and 
 Thebes. From each, of them the great dramatists of Greece 
 have woven some of their most masterly plays. 
 Sequel of the The details of the Trojan expedition had been amply given 
 in the IHad of Homer. Various other poems (now lost) had 
 continued the narrative to the dispersion of the Greeks after 
 the taking of the city. The returns of these heroes were full 
 of adventiire and peril. Dangers on the deep, and dangers at 
 home, awaited them. Odysseus, as we have seen, after ten 
 years' wandering on the waters, only reached his home to do 
 desperate battle with the suitors, and to end his days in blood. 
 Menelaus, the person on whose behalf the expedition had 
 been made, after being tempest-tost, and carried into another 
 sea, from which ' the birds take a year to fly,' with difficulty 
 reached his kingdom. One of the two who bore the name of 
 Ajax, had fallen by his own hand in his madness ; the other 
 perished by the wrath of the goddess Athena. Achilles, 
 godlike and swift, had been treacherously slain in the dance, 
 before the destruction of Troy, by an arrow from the 
 ravisher of Helen. Diomede, the thunderbolt of war, who 
 had wounded even celestial warriors, found the wrath of the 
 offended deities working in his home, and fled indignant to 
 settle in distant parts. Of all, the aged Nestor seems alone to 
 have arrived at ' the sandy Pylos ' in peace, and reigned as 
 aforetime, pondering on the days gone by. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 107 
 
 But our present concern is with tlie king of men, Agamem- subject of the 
 non ; with his return, and its consequences, ^schykis founds 
 on these occurrences three distinct plays, but forming one 
 course of action, and called by the name of Orestea, from 
 Orestes, son of Agamemnon, being the most prominent person 
 in the three taken together. The titles of these three are. 
 
 1 . Agamemnon, containing the death of the king. Names of the 
 
 2. Choephori, containing the avenging of his death. three plays. 
 
 3. Eumenides, containing the pursuit and trial of the 
 avenger. 
 
 Through these three our limits will only allow us to pass very 
 hastily. A few prehminaries being explained, we shall at once 
 carry our readers to the scene of action. 
 
 The king, on his departure from Troy, had left at home his i. The Agam- 
 queen, Olytemnestra, of divine birth, and half sister to Helen, 
 the cause of the war. A bard, of sacred character, was left Prefatoiy 
 
 Notices. 
 
 to guard and advise the queen ; and -Slgisthus, a relation, was 
 left in charge of the kingdom. But in the course of the 
 expedition, a deep wound was inflicted on her maternal 
 feelings. We have selected in our first chapter, as an instance 
 of our doctrines respecting art, the sacrifice of Agamemnon's 
 daughter on the altar, to procure favourable winds for the 
 fleet. This took place at Aulis, where the allied fleet was 
 assembled. She was decoyed from home under pretence of 
 marriage to Achilles. The fond and joyful mother sent her 
 away in her beauty and pride— and next heard of her as a 
 victim to her father's ambition ! The cords of her affection 
 were now broken. Her lord had (so she reasoned) forfeited 
 his power : her husband, his claim to her faith. The bard 
 was dismissed into exile. The steward of the kingdom was 
 accepted by the queen, and she became his. Meantime, the 
 years waxed on. Ten summers had nearly elapsed since the 
 king had departed. The guilty pair reigned in the palace, 
 keeping, however, as yet their union private. Electra, the 
 surviving daughter of the king, and Orestes, whom he left an 
 infant, were pining for his return. So, in semblance, was the 
 
108 ' CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 false queen. It had been agreed, before the expedition, that 
 Avhenever Troy should be taken, the event should be announced 
 to those at home by a series of beacons placed on the highlands 
 between Europe and Asia. 
 
 But hush — the scene ojiens — what do we see? 
 
 TiBiE, Midnight. 
 
 Oiieiiing of The flat roof of the palace of Agamemnon, at Mycence. The stats burn 
 the play. 
 
 brightly overhead. Beneath, the houses and streets are dimly seen, 
 
 and beyond, the far hills loom heavily in the sky. On the roof sits 
 
 one wrapt in a night-cloak, humming an ancient song. He pauses, 
 
 and stretches him as one wearied. The stars look to him cold and 
 
 cheerless. He gazes blankly on them. They seem to him to have a 
 
 presence, and to ivitness his thoughts, which thus find utterance : 
 
 Grant me, ye gods, release from this my toil, 
 
 This length of yearly watch, which, as a dog. 
 
 High on this roof I am ordained to keep : — 
 
 I know the company of nightly stars, 
 
 The lamping potentates, glittering in heaven, 
 
 Which bring the summer and the winter round — 
 
 I know their risings and their settings all. 
 
 I wait the appointed sign, the beacon light 
 
 Which is to bring the news of captured Troy : 
 
 For such the counsel of our reigning queen. 
 
 And oft as this my dark and dewy couch 
 
 I keep, not visited by dreams. Fear stands 
 
 And warns oft' Slumber, which alights not down 
 
 Upon my weary eyes: and when to song 
 
 I Would betake me, or low murmured hum, 
 
 Sweet music, medicining my dearth of sleep, 
 
 T fall to grieving for this ancient house, 
 
 Not well-appointed, as in former days. 
 
 So that I need to pray for blest relief 
 
 From these my toils, when the glad light appears. 
 
 A something appears above yonder dark hill — is it a star 
 rising ? It increases — no star was ever so bright and red. It 
 shoots up and flares mldly in the sky — the watchman starts 
 up and gazes — 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 109 
 
 Hail ! beacon-light of night, making it day 
 For very gladness, starting the gay dance 
 Throughout our Argos, for this joyful news. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 Now haste I to the queen, that she may rise, 
 And lift throughout the house a choral song 
 To welcome this glad signal. — Troy is fallen ' 
 And I myself will usher in the dance, 
 And bear glad tidings to my lord within ; — 
 The stake was theirs ; the lucky throw is mine. 
 
 He descends, with a few surmises about the state of the house 
 within, and with a wish that all may be right, respecting the 
 coming of the king. How this prepares for the dark scenes to 
 follow, the reader will presently see. 
 
 Now follows the Chorus of all Greek Choruses, at least to 
 our mind. Wild and magnificent in the extreme, it rushes 
 on, a glorious river of melody. Much of its beauty must be 
 lost in an English translation. We shall rather endeavour to 
 give our readers the poetry of the song, than attempt a literal 
 rendering — and must crave their indulgence while so doing : — 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 'Tis the tenth long year. 
 
 Since the vengeance-laden pair. 
 The royal-throned and sceptred pair, 
 
 The brother-kings, set forth : 
 And from them burst the pealing shout of war! stern war! 
 As angry eagles soaring 
 
 In soiTow for their brood. 
 On the oarage of their pinions 
 
 Wheel above their empty nest, 
 Wailing for the labour of their love gone by ; 
 The while the blest Immortals 
 
 Bow their ear unto the cry, 
 And send upon the murderous man the bitter stroke of wrath; 
 'Twas thus that the Almighty 
 
 Sent forth the angry kings, 
 With the ravisher to deal : 
 Storing in his deep designs, 
 
110 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 For Trojan and for Greek, 
 Many a struggle fierce and long, 
 Many a tug of battle strong, 
 Many a day of toil and fear, 
 Many a crash of brittle spear. 
 As it must be, 
 So it is : 
 Fate will have her final way : 
 Not with shrill shrieks of woe. 
 Not v\ith sacrifice, nor tears, 
 Canst thou turn the iron purpose of the fearful three ! 
 They went — we were left, 
 Age-stricken, unavenged : 
 As children we were left; — 
 For the young life of the child 
 Is rising in his breast. 
 While war and manly glory 
 Are far distant yet: 
 And distant are they too 
 From him, who fading downwards 
 Into sere and withered age, 
 Leans upon his staff, and wanders 
 Like a day-dream on the earth. 
 
 We will sing the fatal omens 
 
 That sped them on their way, — 
 For the deep persuasion 
 Of the songs prophetic 
 
 Hath not passed away : 
 'Twas an eagle urged them onward, 
 
 A dark and kingly eagle 
 To the king for signal sent ; 
 
 And with him was another. 
 With snowy plumage blent : 
 
 By the palace towers appearing, 
 
 In the region to the right. 
 Their bloody feast they parted 
 
 On the far-seen height; 
 'Twas a hare whom they had snatched 
 
 From her course upon the plain, 
 
 With young, and ere the birth-hour 
 
 By their talons rent in twain : — 
 
 Sing sorrow, death and sorrow, but let victory remain. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 1 1 1 
 
 On this the sage diviner 
 
 When he saw the brother-kings 
 This way and that disputing, 
 
 To the strife his wisdom brings ; 
 'Twas thus he spoke prophetic : 
 
 ' This army that ye lead 
 ' In time shall pour its vengeance 
 
 ' On the guilty city's head; 
 ' The tower, and hall, and treasure house 
 
 ' Shall all be plundered quite ; — 
 ' But may no stroke of adverse fate 
 
 ' On this army first alight. 
 * For the heavenly nymph, the Huntress, 
 
 ' Hath shewn her anger plain 
 ' By the strange and bloody banquet 
 
 ' Of her father's air-dogs twain : — 
 • Sing sorrow, blood and sorrow, but let victory remain.' 
 
 For she, the patroness divine 
 
 Of young and tender things. 
 Both glad and sad fulfilment 
 
 Of this her omen brings. 
 O may some God of healing power 
 
 Dissuade her, lest she raise 
 Til winds, on this your armament 
 
 Imposing sad delays : 
 Demanding other sacrifice, 
 
 More grievous, which shall breed 
 Strife upon strife, till all your race 
 
 By just revenge shall bleed 
 So spake the prophet, mingling 
 
 His good with evil strain ; 
 The heavenly signs interpreting; 
 
 Then raise the song again — 
 Sing sorrow, strife and sorrow, but let victory remain. 
 
 * • * * 
 
 The day was come : the elder king. 
 
 The captain of that host. 
 Bent to his adverse fortune, 
 
 On Aulis' tide-washed coast; 
 No breezes breathe from off the land 
 
 To fill the waiting sail, 
 
112 
 
 AND POETS. CHAP. Til. 
 
 And, cankered with the long delay, 
 
 Their ships and cables fail. 
 When fading was the flower of Greece, 
 
 The prophet dared to speak 
 A bitter, bitter remedy, 
 
 At which each heart might break ; 
 Their staves against the grouud they struck. 
 
 Those brother-monarchs twain ; 
 'Twas fearful to obey the word, 
 
 And grievous to refrain : 
 ' How shall T slay my heart's delight ?' 
 
 The elder captain cried ; 
 ' How shall I see the altar foot 
 
 ' With her dear life-blood dyed ? 
 ' But how (for evil hems me round) 
 
 ' Shall I desert my host, 
 ' All clamorous for the virgin-blood 
 
 ' To loose them from the coast ?' 
 He spoke; his purpose stronger waxed, 
 
 Compulsion armed his heart ; 
 And from his madness gentle love. 
 
 And heavenly truth, depart. 
 
 He steeled his soul to sacrifice 
 
 The beauty of his child. 
 To aid avenging warfare 
 
 For a woman weak and wild : 
 The arbiters of murder stern 
 
 Looked cruel and unmoved 
 At the tender one, her father's joy, — 
 
 At the father whom she loved : 
 He spoke ; the altar-ministers 
 
 Approach her where she lay 
 All lifeless with the weight of fear, 
 
 And bear her form away ; 
 Their hand is on tier virgin lips, 
 
 Farewell she may not speak ; 
 Lest words of adverse omen 
 
 Should from her anguish break. 
 And, as prepared for sacrifice, 
 
 Her veiling garments fall. 
 And shew her, like some statue fair, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 1 1 3 
 
 Soft Pity smites them all. 
 She looks as she would speak ; full oft 
 
 That happy virgin voice 
 In his palace chambers singing, made 
 
 Her father's heart rejoice. 
 
 What followed is not mine to tell ; — 
 The prophet's art was proved full well. 
 
 But see, tlie attention of tlie Chorus is turned to yon comer of 
 tlie stage. Who is that, entering stately, with a royal and 
 solemn step, with a face composed as if for joy ? Who, but 
 Clytemnestra ? But is she joyful ? She is. Not that Troy 
 is taken, not that her lord is returning ; but that the hour of 
 her vengeance is come. She is a woman lofty of soul and 
 stern of purpose. She is the Lady Macbeth of the ancient 
 drama : like, but oh, how different — the modern dame dared 
 all /or her husband, the ancient heroine against him ; in the 
 latter, a mother's wrongs were festering at her heart, and were 
 the spur and excuse of her ambition : in the former the ' un- 
 sexing ' for which she prays is more than half accomplished, 
 and ambition needs no excuse and no spur but the joint 
 welfare of him to whose life she is bound. 
 
 The news is made known — Troy is taken : the method and 
 transmission of the torch-signals is detailed : she expatiates 
 on the misery of the fallen city, and conjectures what the 
 captors may be doing, at this moment or that. Now they are 
 feasting after their evil. Now they are dividing their captives. 
 Now they are demolishing by fire and sword. O let them 
 spare the temples of the gods, and remember that they have 
 yet a return to accomplish ! Then follows another sublime 
 choral song. It sings of divine justice — of the crime which 
 Paris the faithless guest had committed— of the feelings of the 
 bereaved husband — 
 
 He reigns; but deep desire 
 Of her, his absent one, with hidden fire 
 
 Consumes his life away; 
 Like a pale phantom day by day 
 
114 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 He rules his palace halls ; 
 
 The statue-peopled walls 
 For him have now no charm : 
 Each finely moulded arm, 
 
 Each sculptured hreast divine, 
 
 He loathes ; his aching eyeballs pine, 
 And love within him dies. 
 In sleep, before him flies 
 
 The form beloved ; it will not stay, 
 
 But flits on dusky wings away. 
 
 It bewails the mourning which there will be in Greece over 
 the lost heroes : 
 
 Not the loved familiar gait 
 Shall their anxious looks await ; 
 Only the memorial urn 
 With the ashes, shall return. 
 
 It ends with some fearful surmises as to the divine vengeance 
 on the causers of bloodshed — some dark hints of dreadful 
 calamity to befall the victor-king. 
 
 People talk of the unities of time and place ; and point to 
 the ancient drama as the pattern of their observance. Here, 
 at least, we have a splendid violation of the unity of time. 
 No sooner has the Chorus finished its song, than the herald 
 appears, the precursor of the returning host. Now, our 
 readers might be disposed to exclaim, ' How unnatural !' 
 Let us, however, judge of it by principles of art. You are 
 sitting, a spectator of TEschylus's play. You have seen the 
 torch-beacon — you know that the main interest of the play is 
 to consist in the events which follow the king's return. You 
 long for that return. In your imagination you annihilate the 
 time betAveen. You Avish them back, that the play may 
 proceed. The Poet fulfils your AA-ish. His object being not 
 to deceive you by a show of reality, but to create a mighty 
 train of events evolved by mighty principles, his action 
 proceeds. The return might be one of many days : it might 
 be of many years — it matters not to him. The unity of time 
 is thus subservient, not to the actual duration of things really 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 115 
 
 done, but to the requirements of that state of mind which the 
 Poet has created in his reader. So much in defence of 
 iEschylus. 
 
 But while we have been Avriting, the herald has told her 
 tale, the queen has vaunted her joy ; incidental matters have 
 been discussed ; the Chorus has sung the dirge of Troy ; and 
 the screaming of trumpets, and the flashing of arms announce 
 the coming of the king. 
 
 Now follows the most masterly scene in ancient Tragedy. 
 Shall we say in ancient and modern? It might suit our 
 present mood so to say — for when we are reading J^lschylus, 
 we are soaring in regions seldom penetrated even by poets- 
 But even with the boundless £ether round him, when he rises 
 and sings at heaven s gate, the morning lark still keeps in his 
 sight one sweet dewy spot that lies beneath amidst the wilding 
 flowers; he visits the skies, but he dwells there. Even so, 
 sweet Shakspeare, -with thy home of blessed thoughts and 
 native flowers of song, do we love thee ; and time shall be, if 
 the listening ear do not fail, nor the grateful tongue tire, when 
 we will pay thee our tribute, in the happy overflowings of a 
 poet's heart. But how we ramble — look upon the stage once 
 more. 
 
 They are met — stately and noble is the king of men, — but 
 discreet withal, and god-fearing. The queen is lavish of her 
 attentions — ^her professions are loud, her praises many. She 
 boasts of her tears in absence — her faith, her purity, her love 
 — alas ! alas ! alas ! She counts the foot that has trampled 
 on Troy, too illustrious to be set on the mean soil of earth. 
 Purple must strew the way to the palace — costly tapestry 
 must be spread to catch the victor's footsteps. The king 
 shrinks from the triumph — it seems to him a dangerous glory. 
 We know of one whom the hand of God struck, in the midst 
 of pride and pomp — from such a stroke the king of men 
 recoiled with fear. Besides, it is not like Grecian simplicity 
 but more allied to barbarian splendoiu-, to walk upon purple 
 and flowers of gold. But he is persuaded : he protests, but 
 
116 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 complies. Awfully mysterious are the speeches of the queen. 
 There is hardly one which does not darkly allude to the deeds 
 to come. And she sums up all, after congratulation pointed 
 with stings, praises with taunts, the sharper and bitterer for 
 being covered by double words, with a terrible prayer. 
 Zeus, Zeus, the great accomplisher of fate, 
 God of the marriage bed, hear thou my prayer; 
 Be thou the worker of tliine own design. 
 
 But who is this in the chariot — apparently a captive — but of 
 mid and prophetic aspect ? She is of royal birth, the daughter 
 of Priam, Cassandra. The king has brought her from Troy. 
 Her history is a strange one. In her youthful days she had 
 been beloved by ApoUo. She had rejected his suit. He 
 offered her the faculty of prophecy. She appeared to yield. 
 The gift w^as granted : the power was hers. She was faithless, 
 and rejected him still. The gift once given, he could not 
 revoke. It had been ratified by the dreadfiil oath w^hich binds 
 the gods. But he could render it useless. He appointed that 
 Cassandra should ahvays prophesy truth, but never be believed. 
 Every calamity which has befallen her house and her country 
 has she foreseen, and foretold — but none has heeded. Hither 
 then she comes with her fatal gift. Here there is ample 
 material for its exercise. The ancient evils of the house, (for 
 it had been a family abundant in crime and blood) the 
 miseries impending, the awful crimes which Avere to shut in 
 the dreary fortunes of this race, her own approaching fate, — 
 all these are wildly and enigmatically shadow^ed forth by the 
 inspired maiden, and her words heard with astonishment and 
 incredulousness by the Chorus. The following are some of 
 her ravings : 
 
 Cassandra. Prophetic truth is labouring in my breast, 
 
 And it will forth. — See ye those children pale, 
 
 How they beset the house, dreamy and dim, 
 
 The ghosts of infants by their parent slain ?* 
 
 * Thyestes, the son of Pelops, and uncle of Agamemnon, had been fed by his brotlier 
 and enemy Atreus on the flesh of his own child. From this honid banquet the miseries 
 of the house of Atreus begin — and to this Cassandra alludes in the text. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 117 
 
 Their hands are full of their own flesh — strange food, 
 Unholy banquet, which their father spread. 
 From these hath an avenging lion risen, 
 Even to be guardian of this house, alas, 
 And to devise revenge on this my lord, 
 (I speak as fits a slave) at his return. 
 Him, the great Captain, and the scourge of Troy, 
 His hateful consort, having soothed with words, 
 Shall miserably slay. The weaker hand 
 Shall overbear the stronger. What dire pest 
 May I best name her ? some empoisoned snake, 
 Or Scylla, habitant of deadly rocks. 
 Spreading her traps for sailors in the strait, 
 A boiling hell of waters ? How she greeted him. 
 Vile hypocrite, her voice was as of one 
 Who shouts as battle turns, she seemed to joy 
 At his unhurt return. But what if none 
 Give credence to these words ? What then ? Stern fate 
 Will work its work alone ; and ye, full soon, 
 Pitying my lot, and witnessing my words, 
 Too true a prophet shall acknowledge me. 
 Chorus. Thyestes' banquet is to me well known ; 
 I shudder at its mention, hearing thee 
 Whom least 1 thought, detailing all its woes. 
 But in the rest I cannot follow thee. 
 Cassandra. Thou shalt ere long see Agamemnon slain. 
 Chorus, Calm thy rash tongue, poor wretch, and talk not thus. 
 Cassandra. No calming power suggests the deed I speak. 
 Chorus. True, if it must be ; but may heaven avert it. 
 Cassandra. While thou art praying, they are murdering. 
 Chorus. By what man's hand shall such a crime be wrought ? 
 Cassandra. My prophecies thou hast not understood. 
 Chorus. No : I ken not the murderer's device. 
 Cassandra. And yet I speak the Grecian tongue too well. 
 Chorus. So do the oracles ; but they are hard. 
 Cassandra. Alas ! what fire is coming o'er me now ? 
 Apollo, oh Apollo, oh me, me ! 
 She, the fell lioness, coupled in crime 
 With the base wolf, in absence of her lord. 
 Shall slay me also ; mingling in her ire 
 My ruin likewise in her cup of death. 
 Even now she whets the faulchion for her lord, 
 
118 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 And boasts to pay my voyage here with blood. 
 Why do I wear these my vain ornaments, 
 My staff, and wreath prophetic on my neck ? 
 Thee will I crush before my turn is come. 
 
 {Throwing off her ornaments. 
 Lie there and perish ; I shall nothing lose; 
 Go, and endow some other to her ruin. 
 See, the bright God himself is doing off 
 My robe prophetic. Long has stern contempt 
 Been poured upon my art, and to my foes, 
 Yea, and my friends, I have but seemed to be 
 Some wandering quack. Now he hath led me here ; 
 Where, for my country's altar, the sad block 
 Appears, and I must die by bloody stroke. 
 But not forgotten by the Gods above 
 Shall we two perish": there shall come for us 
 A sure avenger, who shall stain his hands 
 In his own mother's blood. Afar he dwells 
 An exile now, but he shall then return — 
 Llis father's blood shall cry, and fetch him back, 
 And crown the griefs of his ill-fated race. 
 But why do I complain — I who have seen 
 My own dear country, sunk in hopeless woe, 
 And these, its ravagers, requited thus ? 
 Uncalled I'll go — I will invite my death. 
 Grant me, ye Gods, a swift and easy stroke, 
 That without struggle, my life's dearest blood 
 Forth flowing, I may close these fevered eyes. 
 
 {She goes wildly towards the altar. 
 
 Meantime the queen's designs have been proceeding. The 
 king is weary with his voyage. She has taken him to the 
 refreshing hath. She has attended him there, and spoken 
 more false and soothing words. ' Come forth, and let the 
 wife of thy youth clothe thee with the garments she has 
 prepared.' 
 
 Still the prophetic maid is raving without. She cries, 
 
 There is a smell of slaughter from the house, 
 A thick dank vapour, as from sepulchres. 
 
 In a few more words she bewails her oyra. fate — an awful 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VII. 119 
 
 pause follows — the Chorus begin a song — you hold your 
 breath — you feel your heart throbbing — hark ! — hark again i 
 'Tis one dying, one dying within ! 'Tis the voice of — the 
 king ! Never was shriek like that from one who should speak 
 again. 
 
 The Chorus run hither and thither in confusion. The doors 
 of the palace open — what see we ? The murderess standing 
 triumphant — the bloody knife in her hand — beneath her, the 
 deed she has done. She rejoices — she boasts of her victory. 
 'Twas no mean artifice, that of hers. As he came from the 
 bath she cast over him a fatal garment vdthout outlet — and 
 thus entangled, naked, and helpless, he fell by her hand. 
 His blood is on her — she points to it, and tells them, that a 
 flower does not more rejoice in being sprinkled with the dew 
 of heaven. She taunts him v^dth his crimes. The Chorus 
 lament and remonstrate — she answers with insult and scorn. 
 Her paramour returns — they congratulate — all things shall be 
 firmly settled and well governed — their sun of glory is rising — 
 some few threats of distant revenge are uttered by the Chorus, 
 — but the avenger is an infant — he is distant — the clouds clear 
 away — the day of tyranny and sin has begun in Mycenae. 
 
 Is this all ? 
 
 Our next chapter shall right the balance. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE ORESTEAD OF ^SCHYLUS, 
 
 Continued. 
 
 Ghost. List, list, Olist; 
 
 If ever thou didst tliy dear father love, — 
 Hamlet. heaven ! — 
 
 Ghost. Eevenge his foiil and most unnatural murder. 
 Hamlet. Murder ? 
 Ghost. Murder most foul as in the best it is : 
 
 But this is most foul, strange, and unnatural 
 
 rpjjg Some voice like this, of a spirit ' dumb to others, but speak- 
 Choephon. -j^g ^^ Mm,' has young Orestes heard, in the retirement of his 
 childhood. His sister Electra, during the times of murder 
 and tyranny, had him, yet an infant, conveyed away to the 
 house of a family friend. Here he has grown up — his young 
 Kmbs have knit into power — his heart is on fire with high 
 thoughts. 
 
 Meantime, sin and blood have been the order of the day at 
 Mycense. The cup of crime is full. The murderess, the adul- 
 teress Queen, has had a fearful vision. In the night she has 
 risen up, she and her servants ; and there was a great cry in 
 Mycense. The interpreters are called. ' The dead,' say they, 
 ' the mighty dead are angry. Their revenge is working.' Some 
 sacrifice, some expiation must be made : some procession mtli 
 offerings to the murdered one's tomb. 
 The arrival It is the dawn of day. — From afar, two persons are ap- 
 
 of Orestes. _ _ _ ^ 
 
 proaching the town, toil-worn and dusted with travel ; you 
 see them and wonder. They are the little cloud no bigger 
 than a man's hand, from which will burst mighty changes. 
 There is, hard by the palace, a lofty sepulchre. There the 
 
CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 121 
 
 strangers halt. One lifts up his voice in prayer. His words 
 have heen lost in the wreck of ages. What he prays, we 
 know not ; but we can guess. But Avhat sees he ? There 
 moves towards him a dark robed procession ; the women of 
 the palace, with libations and votive gifts. He looks — it is — 
 it is his own sister Electra heading them, with slow and 
 trembling step. He turns to his companions : " let us stand 
 aside, and wait the issue." He deposits his votive locks of 
 hair on the tomb ; one to the founder of his race ; one to his 
 murdered father; and then retires. Meanwhile, their wail 
 has burst forth — 
 
 Chorus. Forth hurried from the palace gates 
 
 I come these offerings to convey ; 
 
 Wild grief hath torn my robes, 
 
 And bathed my cheeks in blood ; 
 
 On agony my heart hath fed 
 
 Long dismal years of woe. 
 
 But now shrill teri'or, at midnight, 
 Ilath raised her spirit-harrowing cry ; 
 And the dream-prophets all 
 Declare that the great Dead 
 
 Are angered with their murderers. 
 And meditate revenge. 
 
 For this the godless queen hath sent 
 These thankless gifts to soften fate : 
 But at her bid, to pray 
 I dare not : for what words 
 
 Can expiate the stain of blood ' 
 
 Which mother-earth hath drunk ? 
 
 Dark clouds ai'e gathered o'er the house, 
 Full of stern hatred, for the death 
 Of its great masters. Awe, 
 And dread of majesty. 
 
 Of old so strong in every Ijeart, 
 Are faint and feeble now. 
 
 Good fortune is their present strength, 
 Their god, and more ; but the fell stroke 
 Of justice reaches all ; 
 Some, in their noon of life, 
 
 Some in the twilight of their days ; 
 And some in death's dark night. 
 
122 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Blood must be rendered up for blood : 
 Mischief doth hunt the sinner's path : — 
 There is no help in rites — 
 All sacrifices, poured 
 UjDon one murderer's bloody hand 
 Cannot wash out the stain. 
 
 But I (for captive is my lot) 
 Must praise perforce -whate'er they do 
 Who rule me by their will ; 
 But I in secret weep, 
 
 Hiding my face : and pine away 
 With long and weaving grief. 
 
 The song ceases, and Electra speaks : — she is in doubt what 
 to do : — words have been put into her mouth by her mother, 
 to offer up at the tomb ; shall she speak them, while her 
 heart dissents? Shall she pour the libations in silence 
 even as her father perished in silence ? Shall she speak the 
 thoughts of her heart, and pray for vengeance on the mur- 
 derers? 
 
 The women counsel her Avell : ' Speak from thine heart. 
 Pray for vengeance — pray for thyself — pray for Orestes — ^pray 
 for every enemy of blood and tyranny/ Her prayer is uttered 
 accordingly — and the Chorus give their assent in a concluding 
 song. 
 
 But whence are these locks of votive hair ? She sees them 
 — she takes them up — she compares them with her owti, — 
 
 The 
 
 recognition, their colouT, their character is similar ; but they are not hers. 
 They cannot be her mother's. Came they from Orestes P 
 They are most like his ; he must have sent them : then he is 
 living and well. But where ? Her mind flutters with hope 
 and fear. Oh, for some fresh testimony ; she looks doAvn — 
 behold the footmarks of two persons in the sand. What we 
 wish, we believe ; — ^they must be his, and his fellow-traveller's; 
 they are like hers — the same shape, the same character, 
 
 * If the reader is disposed to doubt the evidence afi'orded by the shape of the foot- 
 marks, let him remember that when the foot was left in its natural state, as in Ancient 
 Greece, distinctive peculiarities would be mlich more readily noticed and retained, than 
 with us, who both conceal the feet from view, and destroy their natural foim. The 
 Indian to this day can track by the character of the footmark, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VIII 123 
 
 she begins to tremble for joy. He is surely near- — tbe object 
 of her anxieties, and prayers, and hopes, — the only tie which 
 has bound her to a life now long rendered miserable. Who 
 is this that speaks to her ? It is Orestes himself. Great 
 Poet, thou art a master oyer the mind of man. Before he 
 appeared she was all confidence — now she is all doubt. The 
 stranger must be mocking her misery. But the doubt is not 
 long. Behold, he says, the place whence I cut the locks 
 which are in thine hand ; if that be not enough, behold this 
 robe, thine own work, — see the embroidery of strange animals 
 which thine own hands laboured. There is no doubt now. 
 
 Electra. Oh, precious nurseling of thy father's house, 
 
 Thou child of many tears, and patient hopes, 
 
 Whose might is our salvation — thou dear soul, 
 
 Thou comest to me, dowried with the love 
 
 Of four dear relatives — my father's claim 
 
 On thee hath lighted — thou hast taken up 
 
 My hated mother's place ; and my poor sister, 
 
 Ruthlessly sacrificed — all meet in thee, 
 
 My loyal brother; — thou shalt do me right. 
 
 If only might and justice, with that third, 
 
 The great Avenger, Zeus, be on my side. 
 Orestes. O Zeus, vouchsafe to take our cause in hand ; 
 
 Behold this lordly eagle's orphan brood. 
 
 Reft of their sire, who in the crushing folds 
 
 Of the fell serpent, died. Stern hunger now 
 
 Is on his offspring ; for they have not power 
 
 To fetch them home the prey their father brought. 
 
 Shouldst thou permit his orphans, who amongst 
 
 All men, most honoured thee, to pine and die, 
 
 Whence wilt thou get thee honour ? If thou kill 
 
 The eagle's offspring, how wilt thou transmit 
 
 Thy signals to mankind ? This royal stock 
 
 Once withered to the root, all piety, 
 
 And thankful days of offering, will fail. 
 
 Grant thou our prayers ; and lift from low estate 
 
 This house, o'erwhelmed with unexampled fall. 
 Chorus. My children, ye whom Fate hath pointed out 
 
 To save your father's house, — keep silence now ; 
 
 Lest some, for talking's sake, report these things 
 
 
124 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 To those in power : — whom he it mine to see 
 Ere long, stretched on the smoking pile in death. 
 Orestes. Apollo's high oracular behest 
 
 Will not betray me — for 'twas bis command 
 
 Which urged me to this work : he threatened much, 
 
 Speaking of dire calamities, to light 
 
 On my young life, if I should not pursue 
 
 My father's murderers, and mete to them 
 
 The measure which they gave— I was to pine 
 
 In hopeless poverty, and in the end 
 
 Forfeit my life, worn out with various ills. 
 
 All things, he said, which bring kind help to men 
 
 In nature's weaknesses, all herbs and drugs, 
 
 Should lose for us their virtue, and should turn 
 
 To poisons ; loathsome tetters should come up 
 
 And bark about our skin, and inward gnaw ; 
 
 And leprous down whiten above the sores. 
 
 More vengeance of the furies, manifold, 
 
 Denounced he, from my father's blood to spring, 
 
 Plagues, dimly frowning from the dread obscure, 
 
 But bent right aiming on my victim-soul. 
 
 For vengeance from the shades, unseen, but sure, 
 
 For the dear blood which mine own race have shed, 
 
 Hunts down, as with a scourge, my cursed life, 
 
 With madness, and dream-shudders whirled and tossed. 
 
 And thus, he said, unhelped of holy rites 
 
 Cast out from sacrifice, bearing the load 
 
 Of my sire's wrath alone, all unbelov'd. 
 
 And all dishonoured, should I pine to death, 
 
 Dried up and withered by all- wasting pain. 
 
 Such threats, and such commands, enjoin the deed. 
 
 And did they not, it must no less be done : 
 
 All my desires to this one point converge, 
 
 My love of justice — my unbounded grief 
 
 For my lost father — and besides, the lack 
 
 Of wealth and power, to me his offspring due. 
 
 And indignation, that these Argive heroes. 
 
 The conquerors of Troy, should thus submit 
 
 To two vile women. For I count Mm one : 
 
 If not, his temper shall ere long be tried. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VIII. 125 
 
 Such are the high motives which prompt Orestes in his 
 dreadful design. After more choric songs and prayers, and 
 after whetting their purpose by recollections of their father's 
 unworthy murder, and its attendant circumstances, Orestes 
 enquires the cause of the procession which he had seen on 
 arriving at the tomb. 
 
 Chorus, I know, my child, for I was there; the queen, 
 
 Struck by a fearful dream, commanded it. 
 Orestes. And can ye tell the dream, of which ye speak ? 
 Chorus. She dreamt a serpent issued from her womb. 
 Orestes. And to what end did such a semblance tend ? 
 Chorus. She thought the new-born beast restlessly moved 
 
 Amidst its cradle-clothes, in want of food ; 
 
 And she applied it to her teeming breast, 
 Orestes. Did it not wound her with its poisoned tooth ? 
 Chorus. Yea, and with milk it drew forth clots of blood. 
 Orestes. Methinks 'tis no bad image of myself. 
 Chorus. And she woke screaming from her sleep — forthwith 
 
 The lamps throughout the house, lately extinct, 
 
 Sprung into light, where'er her cry was heard — 
 
 And she, in hope to calm her troubled soul. 
 
 Sent forth these votive offerings to the tomb. 
 Orestes. Hear me, O earth ;— hear me, my father's tomb ! — 
 
 May this dream figure forth success to me. 
 
 Thus I interpret it— the sense fits well. 
 
 If this same serpent, sprung from the same place 
 
 From whence I sprung, and cradled ev'n as I, 
 
 Sucked the same breast which fed my infant life. 
 
 And mixed its nourishment with clots of blood, 
 
 And she in terror woke — whither can point 
 
 This fable, but that she who bred the mischief, 
 
 Should die by him she bred— and T, in form 
 
 Of this same snake, am doomed to draw her blood. 
 
 Is it not so ? interpret it for me. 
 Chorus. May it be thus '.—but now advise thy friends-- 
 
 Who must be active— who must stand and wait. 
 
 Tlip nlot is now concerted. Orestes, like a traveller, and The 
 
 xjj.!^ r . conceiting of 
 
 accompanied by Pylades his friend, is to present hmiself at the plot. 
 the palace gate, speaking in the Phocian dialect (to which 
 
126 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 country Orestes had been sent) and pretending to bring the 
 news of the death of Orestes, which they knew would be 
 acceptable. They are to ask for the queen and ^Egisthus, 
 and the rest are to follow. The Chorus and Electra are to 
 stand by and speak or not as occasion demands. 
 
 Now is fate busy mth the doomed ones — their time is 
 come. The strangers stand at the threshold, and ask to 
 speak with some one having authority in the house — some 
 woman, or better some man, for man to man can speak more 
 fearlessly. (Is not Orestes already shrinking from the fearful 
 interview with his mother ?) The queen herself comes to 
 them, assures them of hospitable reception, and bids them 
 speak their errand. The news is told. Orestes, say they, is 
 dead, and if you wish to bury him, we have the urn with his 
 remains at home, which you can send for if you please. 
 Electra puts on excessive grief — Clytamnestra triumphs — the 
 nurse, who has tended him when an infant, takes up a right 
 nursely wailing, and goes to fetch her ' pest of a master ' by 
 the queen's orders. 'How did she say he must come, at- 
 vengeance. tended, Or alouc ? ' ask the crafty Chorus. ' Attended,' 
 replies the old woman. They reverse the order — ' Tell him 
 to come alone ;' and give her the reason. A solemn prayer 
 from the Chorus follows ; and iEgisthus appears, wearing 
 outward semblance of decent grief and surprise, but doubting 
 the truth of the message. 'Turn in then,' says the nurse, 
 ' and speak with the gentlemen yourself.' He goes, and the 
 moment of suspense is arrived. 
 
 Chorus. O Heaven ! what shall I say or whence begin, 
 To nrge these doings onward by my prayers! 
 
 Or when shall I have done, 
 If my good will is measured by my words ? 
 For now the strife of bloody steel 
 Is at its crisis : either now 
 
 Will sink for ever down 
 
 This lordly house ; or light 
 
 And liberty will spring 
 Henceforward into birth, 
 
 I 
 
 The 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VIII. 127 
 
 And all the old prosperity come round. 
 Such combat doth the youthful prince. 
 Against these two maintain, 
 Their sole antagonist ; 
 May victory be his ! 
 JEgisth%is. (from within) Ah me ! alas ! 
 Chorus. Listen — listen again ! 
 
 How goes the matter ? how hath fate determined ? 
 
 For us, let it be ours to stand aside, 
 
 That we may be guiltless, be it either way ; 
 
 For this one struggle shall decide the whole. 
 Enter a servant stamping and howling. 
 
 Woe, woe, woe, woe I My master is no more ! 
 
 Woe, woe again ! ^gisthus hath been slain ! 
 
 Open the gates into the women's chambers — 
 
 Come, come, — we want a hand both prompt and strong — 
 
 I do not mean to help the one that's gone — 
 
 Of course not — why, ye do not move — 
 
 I speak to persons deaf, or slumbering — 
 
 Where is the queen ? what doth she ? for her life 
 
 Hangs on a thread — justice is near her neck. 
 Enter Clytcemnestra. How now ? what clamour rises in the house ? 
 Servant. Lady, the dead are slaying them that live. 
 Clytcemnestra. Alas ! I know thy meaning through thy riddle. 
 
 Craft, which ourselves employed, hath caught ourselves. 
 
 Give me an axe — we will resist to death : 
 
 One struggle, and we conquer or we yield : 
 
 For to such evil choice affairs have come. 
 Orestes, (entering wildly) Thee too I seek — for him, enough is done. 
 Clytcemnestra. Alas ! then hast thou died, my lord and love ? 
 Orestes. Lovest thy lord ? Then lie in the same tomb — 
 
 Thy marriage-faith will then at least be safe. 
 Clytcemnestra. Withold, my son — revere this naked breast — 
 
 Here thou hast lain, and breathing in sweet sleep 
 
 Drawn with thy toothless gums thine infant food. 
 Oredes. Pylades, shall I yield ? — shall I not slay her ? 
 Pylades. Where then are all the faithful oracles 
 
 Spoken from holy shrines ? where the firm oaths ? 
 
 Let all be adverse, but the gods thy friends. 
 Orestes. Thou hast prevailed — thou counsellest me well. 
 
 Here, (to the queen) follow me — I'll slay thee by his side. 
 
 For thou didst judge him worthier than my father; 
 
 1 
 
128 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Sleep then with him in death, since thou dost love him, 
 And hatest him who should have had thy love. 
 
 Clytcemnestra. I brought thee up, — life at thy hands I crave. 
 
 Orestes. Shalt thou, who slew'st my father, live with me ? 
 
 Clytamnestra. 'Twas stern Necessity compelled the deed. 
 
 Orestes. And that Necessity hath bred this new one. 
 
 Clytcemnestra. Fearest thou not thy parent's curse, my child ? 
 
 Orestes. That parent thrust me wildly from my home. 
 
 Clytcemnestra. Thou hast determined then to slay thy mother ? 
 Orestes. 'Tis thine own crime, not T, will be thy death. 
 Clytcemnestra. Beware the angry furies which shall haunt thee 
 
 On mine account. 
 Orestes. And, if I spare thy life 
 
 Will not the same pursue me, from my father ? 
 Clytcemnestra. To my entreaties thou art deaf as stone. 
 Orestes. Yes, for my father's murder pricks me on. 
 Clytcemnestra. Ah me ! this is the snake I bore and nourished, 
 
 Too true a prophet was my dream last night. 
 Orestes Enough — thou killedst him thou shouldst have loved. 
 
 And thou must suffer like unnatural death. 
 
 [//e (joes out driving her before 1nm.'\ 
 
 Thus ends this terrible scene — ^but the chief power and terror 
 of the play is yet to come. Let not the reader or spectator 
 think that Justice has done her work, or that the matricide 
 will go free. Slowly and fearfully does the mist of madness 
 begin to creep over his mind, from the moment of his mother s 
 death. The angry Furies whom she threatens are not forget- 
 ful of their work. We know no passage in ancient or modem 
 poetry so masterly and so a^vful in effect as that which con- 
 cludes this play. Driven by destiny into the inextricable nets 
 of crime, the devoted of Heaven to his work, but the criminal 
 in and by means of that work, Orestes was the very person 
 Avhom the spirit of the Grecian drama delighted to pourtray. 
 By such a portrait, all the deep questions of foreknowledge, 
 freewill, and fate, were stirred in the breast : all the sympa- 
 thies powerfully excited— and the supernatural brought into 
 action in its most awful phase — ^that of a power on the moral 
 feelings. Here follows the scene of which we speak. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VIII. 129 
 
 ( The Chorus sing Jirst a song full of wild forebodings, and 
 earnest prayers for the ultimate safety of Orestes, who hath 
 done great things, but dreadful.) 
 
 Orestes. Behold the pair, the rulers of this land, 
 And parricidal wasters of mine house. 
 Majesty clothed them while they held the throne, 
 In death they are united — their pledged faith 
 Remains — they pledged destruction to my sire. 
 And joint destruction to themselves — 'tis done. 
 Behold here also, ye my witnesses, 
 This fatal garment, within which enwrapped, 
 Bound hand and foot, my royal father died. 
 
 [Producing the rohe which Clytcemnestra had put over Agamemnon in 
 the bath.'] 
 
 There, stretch it out — stand round it and display 
 
 This human net, that the great Sire may see — 
 
 Not my sire, but the Sun, whose piercing eye 
 
 Beholds all this, — my mother's work impure — 
 
 That he may be my witness, that with right 
 
 I have sought out and wrought my mother's fall : — 
 
 Her paramour's, I count not — he hath died 
 
 A shameless caitiffs death. But she, who plotted 
 
 For her own husband such a toil as this. 
 
 Who loved her children only when she bore them, 
 
 But after, loathed them, changed to enemies ; 
 
 What thinkest thou ? Was she stime monster fierce 
 
 That might corrupt by contact, without wound, 
 
 So savage was her nature and so dark ? 
 
 [Turning to the robe] 
 What may I name it best ? Some hunting net. 
 Some shroud to wrap the dead — some bathing dress, — 
 Nay, 'tis a toil, a maze, a labyrinth, 
 A snare to catch the feet — such as some thief 
 Who lives by way-side plunder would employ, 
 And it should minister to deeds of blood. 
 And feed his hot desire. Snch bad device 
 Be far from where I dwell; nay, first 
 I would be curst to hopeless barrenness. 
 Chorus, Alas ! dire deeds are these ! 
 
 The king w^as miserably slain — 
 
 I 
 
130 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 But we may see 
 The poor survivor hurried fast 
 In mental agonies. 
 
 Orestes. Did she the deed or not ? Here is my witness, 
 This garment — here JEgisthus' sword drew blood — 
 The stain is dried and clotted with long standing, 
 Hut ye may see where the rich tints are gone, 
 Yielding to rusty blooddrops — a brave thrust 
 Was that — thou didst it nobly, poor ^Egisthus ! 
 Methinks this parricidal robe beholding, 
 I must bewail the miseries of our race, 
 Clothed as I am with these polluted ensigns 
 Of an unenvied triumph. 
 
 Chorus. Varied is human life — 
 
 Not long can happiness prevail — 
 But we may see 
 One trouble pressing on the present hour — 
 An(>ther, close at hand. 
 
 Orestes. Aye, and another, and another yet, 
 Who knows where they will end ? I feel me borne, 
 As by iierce steeds, out of my measured course : 
 I cannot rule my thoughts — they hurry me 
 Whither I know not — fear sits at my heart — 
 Too ready to respond with shriek and dance. 
 To the fierce wrath without. But while I yet 
 Speak ^within reason, I i>roclaim to ye. 
 My friends — that I am strong in innocence. 
 That I have slain my mother with just cause, 
 That parricidal spot, hated of Heaven. 
 And I allege that he who charmed me on 
 To this bold deed, and is the chief in fault. 
 Is the Oracular God at Delphi's shrine. 
 Who gave me to believe that doing this, 
 I should be free from blame : — What ills he threatened 
 If I obeyed not, 'tis not mine to tell. 
 Nor yours to guess. 
 
 Therefore to his shrine 
 Will I betake me : there sit suppliant. 
 With these, a suppliant's tokens ; at his fire 
 Which ever burns, purge off this kindred blood. 
 For so he ordered — be ye witnesses, 
 All ye of Argos, how these ancient ills 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. VIII. 131 
 
 By me have righted been : and now I fly 
 
 An exile from my home, leaving the fame 
 
 Of a base matricide, alive or dead. 
 Chorus. Thou hast well done: call not such evil words 
 
 Over thyself — for thou hast set us free 
 
 And all thy country men, — having cut down 
 
 The towering insult of these monsters twain. 
 Orestes. Ah ! ah ! I see them — they are gorgon-eyed, 
 
 Clad in black robes, — with hair tangled in knots 
 
 Of spotted serpents — I will stay no longer. 
 Chorus. What fancies turn thy brain ? Dearest of all 
 
 To thine avenged father, fear thou not. 
 Orestes. These are no fancies, no imagined fiends — 
 
 They are my mother's angry hounds of wrath. 
 Chorus. The blood is yet unwashen on thine hands — 
 
 'Tis this breeds strange disquiet in thy brain. 
 Orestes. O, king Apollo ! there are more in sight ! 
 
 And noisome blood-drops trickle from their eyes. 
 Chorus. There is a shrine which will acquit thee safe 
 
 From all these ills : Apollo is tliy friend. 
 Orestes. Ye cannot see them — but I see them well — 
 
 I am driven hence — and I can stay no more. 
 
 [He rushes out, as one pursued.] 
 
 Chorus. Good speed go with thee, and the god 
 Who is thy guardian, keep thee safe 
 In all thy fated trials. 
 
 Thus the third tempest now hath burst 
 Of family destiny 
 Over these kingly roofs. 
 First the dread banquet of strange ilesb, 
 Even his own, and all the ills 
 Which poor Thyestes bore- 
 Then the base death which overtook 
 Our victor lord, the hero-king, 
 Who led the Greeks to war. 
 And now a third fell stroke hath fall'n. 
 For ruin or for rescue sent, 
 Por it is yet in doubt. 
 O, when and where will the great storm of woes 
 Sink finally to blest repose ? 
 
 [The scene closes.] 
 
132 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 .The 
 I'umenides 
 or Fuiies. 
 
 Trial and 
 
 acquittal of 
 
 Oresles. 
 
 Political 
 bearing of 
 this Play. 
 
 The remaining play, the Eumenides or Furies, may be 
 dismissed with a brief notice. Its interest to the Athenians, 
 as will be seen, was chiefly political. 
 
 The scene opens in the temple of Apollo at Delphos. 
 Orestes is sitting on the central altar as his sanctuary. The 
 Furies are lying round, sleeping, wearied with their pursuit. 
 Hermes, by command of ApoUo, conveys Orestes to Athens, 
 there to take his trial for the murder, under the arbitration of 
 Athena. The ghost of Clyta^mnestra rises, and awakens the 
 Furies. ' Your victim is gone — awake — pursue.' They are 
 driven out of the temple by Apollo. 
 
 The scene meantime changes to Athens : and Orestes is 
 brought to trial by the court of Areopagus, then first consti- 
 tuted as a tribunal of murder by the tutelary goddess. The 
 judges are appointed : the forms are gone through — the votes 
 for condemnation and acquittal are equal. Athena, as presi- 
 dent, gives her casting vote for Orestes. The Furies are at 
 first angry and disappointed — but by degrees, being soothed, 
 and having a temple promised them, they are conducted in 
 peace to their destined place of honour on the Acropolis. 
 Orestes departs, purified and pardoned, to rule his paternal 
 kingdom. The woes of his house are at an end. 
 
 Now all this had, as we have hinted, a political bearing. 
 At the time when 'the Eumenides' was written and acted, 
 violent attacks had been made on the authority, and even the 
 existence of the Areopagus — the first criminal court in Athens 
 — venerable fi-om immemorial usage, firom its strict and simple 
 proceedings, and its unimpeachable integrity of judgment. 
 These attacks were headed by no less a person than the fa- 
 mous Pericles : to whose party, fi-om birth most probably, but 
 certainly from education and disposition, ^Eschylus was 
 strongly opposed. ' The Eumenides' was written to produce 
 a popular feeling in favour of the Areopagus — ascribing its 
 foundation as a court to their patron goddess, and making her 
 predict the eternity of its duration, and commend it to the 
 safe keeping of her people. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. Till. 133 
 
 Thus our readers have had an opportunity of reviewing 
 another specimen of Grecian dramatic art, which derives its 
 interest not from ancient mythologies and supernatural actors, 
 but from the destinies of one famity, wrought out by indivi- 
 dual passions, but tending towards one fulfilment. They will 
 from the chapters already in their possession be able to see 
 how entirely diflferent a thing Grecian dramatic interest is, 
 from that which would now engage the sympathies of an 
 audience. They will see how insulated the Greek drama 
 stands — and (we would hope) how beautiful it is in that its 
 position. 
 
 Our next chapter wiU bring before them the story of 
 GEdipus, as contained in two plays of Sophocles. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE (EDIPUS OF SOPHOCLES. 
 
 ^schyius Our readers have as yet only been presented with specimens 
 
 and Soplio- •' '' ^ , ^ . , , 
 
 cies compar- of jEschylus, the father of the Greek tragedy. In his bold 
 choice of simple and prominent incidents — his lore of that 
 which is vast and above nature — and his abrupt and sounding 
 style, we have the true elements of the sublime in poetry, in 
 their first, their birth-form. We now approach a more ad- 
 vanced state of dramatic art ; not in point of time so much, 
 as in the character of the Artist's mind. Sophocles and 
 ^schylus were for some years contemporaries on the stage. 
 But while ^schylus was soaring into regions unapproached 
 before, and frequently astonishing his audience by monstrous 
 inventions, and long pompous words, Sophocles was more 
 quietly gaining celebrity by his consummate skill in exhibiting 
 the turns of fate, and the contrasts of human destiny. If 
 ^schylus was the sublimer poet, Sophocles was the more 
 finished artist. In his plays, nothing is wanting, nothing is 
 superfluous. By every entering person, by every speech, the 
 plot is stealthily unfolding ; the whole is Uke an exqiiisite 
 piece of mosaic, cunningly put together, the distinctive cha- 
 racter of each stone visible upon inspection, but all blended 
 beautifully into one general effect. His choral songs also, 
 dropping the wild and abrupt character of those of ^schylus, 
 formed poetic accompaniments to the scenes as they passed ; 
 now admonitory to overbearing pride, now consolatory, at 
 another time triumphant hymns of praise, or deep impas- 
 sioned prayers. His style is in keeping ■with all this. His 
 
CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 135 
 
 choice of words eminently happy, his sentences full of depth, 
 and yielding deeper meaning upon repeated study ; his versi- 
 fication without a fault, singularly smooth and pleasing. Yet 
 Sophocles is never weak. His strength is that of a giant, but 
 he does not use it as a giant. 
 
 When you suspect he is uttering common-places, there is 
 deep wisdom beneath ; when his images seem merely those of 
 every-day poets, there is on examination a fitness and happi- 
 ness in them which you never suspected. 
 
 It is no wonder then that with ourselves, as in Athens of 
 old, Sophocles should be the favourite. Unblameable sym- 
 metry, and perfect poUsh, are seldom united with the wide 
 grasp of poetic thought, the boundless play of the fancy, ' the 
 vision and the faculty divine ;' but where these good things 
 have been married together in one mind, the effect upon us is 
 that clear delight of soul, that perfect complacency and repose 
 of the intellectual man, than which it is difficult to imagine a 
 higher state of pure enjoyment. There is sublimity in the 
 rare and appalling convulsions of nature ; the earthquake, the 
 storm, the conflagration, are full, each of its peculiar grandeur; 
 but where among things sudden or strange, can we find such 
 sublimity, as in the perfect and faultless order of the bright 
 throng above us, each knowing his season, and all rolling, vast 
 beyond thought, beautiful beyond compare, round the throne 
 of the Eternal ? 
 
 Therefore we love Sophocles, and therefore we mean that piays of 
 our readers should love him also. And we have chosen for or the Taie of 
 
 CEdipus. 
 
 the purpose of recommending him, the subject which occupies 
 the greatest number of his remaining plays — the fortunes of 
 the person and family of CEdipus, king of Thebes. On this 
 subject we have three plays ; CEdipus the King, CEdipus 
 AT CoLONOS, and Antigone. The two former, containing the 
 history of CEdipus himself, will furnish us with ample matter 
 for the present chapter. 
 
 The first of these has universally been esteemed the most section i. 
 perfect drama in existence. The development of the plot is Kmg.' '^ 
 
136 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 that in which the author has especially excelled : and that his 
 excellence in that department may he fully perceived, we shall 
 first simply tell the tale of CEdipus, and then give an analysis 
 of the play. 
 'J lie Tale of Laius, king of Thehes in Boeotia, had been warned by an 
 
 CEdipus. ' & ' 
 
 oracle, that if ever he had a son, he should perish by that 
 son's hand. He had a son, CEdipus ; who, as soon as bom, 
 was delivered to a shepherd to be exposed on mount Cith^- 
 ron ; his feet being pierced and tied with thongs. The expo- 
 sure however did not take place. The shepherd gave the 
 infant to a fellow herdsman, feeding his flocks on the moun- 
 tain, and in the service of Polybus, king of Corinth. Polybus 
 and Merope, his queen, had no child. They saw the infant 
 and adopted him ; and he grew up as their son. In the 
 course of a drunken quarrel, some one threw out a hint that 
 GEdipus was not the genuine offspring of the blood-royal. 
 This vexed him, and after fruitless enquiry at Corinth respect- 
 ing his birth, he quitted the country to ask of the oracle at 
 Delphi. There he heard a dreadful announcement : that he 
 should kill his father, and be wedded in incestuous marriage 
 mth his mother. To avoid this, (considering those of Corinth 
 as his parents,) he determined not to return, but took the road 
 towards Thebes, a town strange to him. On his way he met, 
 in a place where three roads joined, an old man travelling in 
 a chariot, with a few attendants. He was commanded to 
 give place, and wantonly struck by the old man on his disobe- 
 dience. His spirit was stirred ; and he avenged the insult by 
 the death of the insulter, and all his company, with one ex- 
 ception. This old man was Laius, king of Thebes, his own 
 FATHER. He proceeded to the town : found it in dismay and 
 daily losing its citizens under the cruelty of a monster named 
 Sphinx. This Sphinx had proposed a riddle, ' What is that 
 which is two-legged, three-legged, and four-legged ?' whoever 
 answered this riddle should vanquish the Sphinx, and deliver 
 the country. A reward was proposed for such a man, the 
 hand of the queen in marriage, and as a consequence the 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 137 
 
 kingdom for himself. GEdipus was the solver of the riddle ; 
 The animal,' said he, ' is no other than man : as an infant 
 he has four legs, his own and his nurse's ; as a man, he has 
 two ; as an aged cripple, he has three, going with a stick.' 
 The Sphinx was vanquished, the city delivered ; CEdipus 
 married the queen Jocasta, (his own mother) and became 
 king of Thebes. 
 
 Now then opens the play of GEdipus the King. Some Aliening of 
 
 ^ ^ -^ the play. 
 
 years have elapsed since the above events. There are born to 
 the king two sons, Eteocles and Polynices ; and two daugh- 
 ters, Antigone and Ismene ; all grown up to the strength of 
 youth. — But the blood of Laius has cried to heaven — the 
 murder will not rest. QEdipus has forgotten it — the country 
 has forgotten it — but heaven has not. A fearful plague rages The pesti- 
 in the city. The offspring of their women is shed before its 
 time — the flocks cast their young ; the fruits wither in the 
 bud ; beauty pales her cheek — strength drops her arm. The 
 king and royal family are exempt. They flourish in enviable 
 happiness, feared and admired. CEdipus, the saviour of his 
 country, stands pre-eminent in glory, and is called ' illustrious ' 
 by all. To him then the attention of the perishing people is 
 turned. They come in procession to his palace, with the 
 priest of Zeus at their head. They sit as supplicants at his 
 gate. They consult the king as to the means of escaping the 
 present evil. His wisdom saved them once ; it may again. 
 Could man be on a prouder eminence ? He has anticipated 
 them. He is anxious for his people, and has sent the queen's 
 brother, Creon, to inquire of the oracle at Delphi. While The oracle. 
 they are speaking together, Creon returns ; and, as he asserts, 
 with good news. The oracular answer is, that the guilt of 
 blood is on the land. ' Murder has been committed, and the 
 murderer is in the territory. Let but the people find and 
 banish him, or requite blood with blood, and the plague shall 
 cease.' The following conversation ensues : 
 
 Oedipus. To what man's fate do these dark words allude ? 
 X 
 
138 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 C'reon, We had, O king, before thou rul'dst the land, 
 
 A sovereign, named Lain?. 
 Oedipus. By report 
 
 I know his name ; I never looked on him. 
 Creon. 'Tis of his death that we are ordered now 
 
 To find the authors and requite their guilt. 
 Oedipus. And where are they ? How may we find again 
 
 The long-lost footsteps of this ancient crime ? 
 Creon. In this our land they are declared to be : 
 
 Hid, through neglect ; but to be found, if sought. 
 Oedipus. Was Laius in the palace, or the field, 
 
 Or in some foreign land, when he was murdered ? 
 Creon. He left the city on some sacred errand, — 
 
 He thus gave out — but he returned no more. 
 Oedipus. Did no one see it ? Had he with him none, 
 
 Whom we might find, and take his evidence ? 
 Creon. They perished all save one — he fled through fear, 
 
 And one thing only can depose for certain. 
 Oedipus. What thing ? for one thing may draw on the rest, 
 
 If it afford us but one clue of hope. 
 Creon. He says that robbers met him— that he fell, 
 
 Not slain by one, but by a company. 
 Oedipus. How could the robbers, if not bribed with gold 
 
 From hence, have been so bold upon their king ? 
 Creon. The same was thought e'en then; but the dead king 
 
 Had none to help him to his just revenge. 
 Oedipus. What urgency of evil was upon you. 
 
 That you could not investigate the thing ? 
 Creon. The riddling Sphinx compelled us to attend 
 
 To our woes present, and to leave the rest. 
 Oedipus. But I will sift the matter from the first. 
 
 Well hath the God, and well hast thou, bestowed 
 
 This care upon the dead : it is but just 
 
 That I work with you, on this land's behalf, 
 
 And in God's cause. It is not for some friend 
 
 Dwelling afar, but for my own well-being, 
 
 That I shall strive this stain to wipe away. 
 
 For whoso killed the king, the same peichance 
 
 May lift just such a hand against my life ; 
 
 Thus in avenging him, I save myself. 
 
 But rise, my sons, take up your suppliant boughs; 
 
 Let some one summon hither all the people; — 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 139 
 
 For I will take all steps. Either we rise, 
 (God grant it,) or we are for ever fallen. 
 
 Such is the state of the king's mind — fully determined to 
 leave no stone unturned, by turning which he may throw 
 light on this mysterious transaction. A song follows from the 
 Chorus, praying for success in the investigation, and describ- 
 ing finely the misery of the present state of things. We shall 
 give our readers one chorus of Sophocles — ^but it shall not be 
 this, though this well deserves their admiration. The assem- The denun- 
 bly is gathered, and there follows another speech from OEdi- 
 pus, awfully to be fulfilled in the person of the unconscious 
 speaker. 
 
 Whoever be the man, 1 interdict 
 
 All of this land, of which I hold the power, 
 
 From lodging him, or greeting him with words, 
 
 Or making him partaker in the prayers 
 
 Offered in public, — or in sacrifice : 
 
 But I command ye all to thrust him out. 
 
 As our pollution; thus the god hath said. 
 
 So strong a succour shall mine office bring 
 
 To the god's cause, and to the king that's gone. 
 
 Thus I devote the murderer, — whether one 
 
 Hath done it, or the secret lie with more, — 
 
 May he drag out a wretched life, unblest.* 
 
 And I pray further, if within my house 
 
 He be contained, and with my consciousness, 
 
 That I may suffer all I have invoked. 
 
 And all these things I solemnly conjure 
 
 You to perform, both on my own behalf, 
 
 And for the god who hath revealed thus far, 
 
 And for this land, thus miserably lost. 
 
 Reft of her children, without hope from heaven. 
 
 * It is impossible to avoid expressing our thanks to the author of a very sensible 
 article in the Foreign Quarterly Review, Sept. 1839, for his exposure of the childish 
 criticisms of Person and his followers, by which just the most beautiful lines iu the 
 Greek tragedies, (being those in which the eflect is given by the very ii-regularity com- 
 plained of,) have been reduced to dead monotony. It is to be hoped that the efforts of 
 such scholars as the writer of that article will restore us, among other lost treasures, 
 the beautiful and expressive word &/j,otpov in this line. Person's substitute, &fxopou, 
 (besides being found in no manuscript, for which these gentlemen care little,) has not 
 the same force either of sound, or, as appears to us, of meaning. 
 
140 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Further conversation ensues : in the course of which the 
 Chorus advise the king to send for the hhnd prophet Teiresias, 
 who knows all things. ' It has been done,' rephes the king, 
 ' on the advise of Creon ; I have sent twice, and wonder that 
 he has not come some time since.' Alas ! there was too much 
 reason why he should be unwilling to come ! After long 
 delay, he does come : but he is gloomy and desponding. To 
 the king's entreaties that he will reveal what he knows con- 
 cerning the murderer, he only replies, ' Ask me not ; it is not 
 wise,' and at last positively refuses to say more. He had for- 
 gotten, he says, for the moment, what was the object of the 
 enquiry, or he would never have come. 
 
 At this refusal, the king's anger is roused : he turns to 
 
 reproaches, and accuses the prophet of having himself advised 
 
 and assisted in the deed, if his hands did not perpetrate it. 
 
 The pro- Such a charge kindles wrath in return ; and the aAvful secret 
 
 plietio disclo- , « . . 
 
 sure. escapes from the lips of Teiresias. 
 
 Teiresias. Dost thou say so ? I charge thee from this hour, 
 According to the law thyself hast made, 
 Never to speak word more to these, nor me, — 
 
 For THOU ART HE THAT DOTH POLLUTE THE LAND ! 
 
 Oedipus. Wretch! and how think'st thou to escape this word, 
 Thus in thine anger insolently uttered ? 
 
 Teiresias. As I best may : the truth is my defence. 
 
 Oedipus. Who taught thee this ? for it was not thine art. 
 
 Teiresias. Thyself — for thou didst force me to disclose it. 
 
 Oedipus. To disclose what ? speak it again, and clearer. 
 
 Teiresias. Didst thou not understand ? art tempting me ? 
 
 Oedipus. I understand not well : — repeat it me. 
 
 Teiresias. I say thou art the murderer whom thou seekest. 
 
 Oedipus. It is not safe for thee to say this twice. 
 
 Teiret>ias. Shall I say more, and rouse thine anger further ? 
 
 Oedipus. Say what thou wilt; for all thy words are vain. 
 
 J'eiresias. I say that thou unconsciously dost hold 
 
 Unhallowed intercourse with those thou lovest, 
 And canst not see what horrors gird thee round. 
 
 Oedipus. Shall thy bold tongue run on unpunished thus ? 
 
 Teiresias. Yea, if there be but any force in truth. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 141 
 
 Oedipus. There is, except for thee — thou speatest none : 
 
 Thine ears, thy mind, thine eyes, are blind alike. 
 Teiresias, Unhappy man ! thou easiest taunts at me, 
 
 Which on thyself e^ch tongue shall shortly turn. 
 
 Awfiil denunciations — but true. The king's rage continues. 
 Who can have suggested such a thought to the old man ? It 
 must hare been Creon — ^he is nearest to the throne — no doubt 
 it is a conspiracy got up by Creon. As such CEdipus treats 
 it — shutting his ears to the things which Teiresias is disclosing. 
 ' Thou art a fool,' says he to the old prophet. ' Thy parents 
 thought not so,' is the reply. ' My parents ? what pa- 
 rents ?' cries the bewildered king. 'Thou knowest them 
 not. This day shall shew thee thy birth, and thy ruin.' 
 With other such fearful hints, the prophet departs, having , 
 first given the king a catalogue of the miseries about to hap- 
 pen to him, and pledged his prophetic skill for their fulfilment. 
 
 Soon GEdipus and Creon meet. High words ensue. Let 
 us pause a little here to reflect on the skill of the poet. 
 CEdipus has found the truth which he sought. Were he but 
 humble and patient, the heavy blow might be softened in its 
 descent on him. But in his pride of kinghhood, he braves it 
 out. It must be a treasonable design— and he contrives to 
 involve himself in a quarrel with Creon, the most faithful 
 upholder of his throne. Now let us mark the av\dul unfolding 
 of the truth before the eyes of this wilful king. 
 
 The queen overhears the dispute between GEdipus and Disclosure 
 Creon, She enters to pacify them. She enquires into the 
 cause of the quarrel. It is told her. She asks the source of 
 the informatioon. 'That unprincipled prophet,' repKes the 
 king, 'whom he sent to me.' The conversation proceeds 
 thus : 
 
 Jocasta. Leave thou thy care about thyself, and hear 
 While I shall prove, that in this world of ours 
 There is no man that hath prophetic arts. 
 Short is my proof: — an oracle once came 
 To Lai'us, (I say not from the god, 
 But from his servants) that his fate should be 
 
142 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 To die by his son's hands, who should be born 
 
 Of me, and him. Now Laius was slain, 
 
 As report goes, by thieves from a strange land, 
 
 Where three ways meet : — whereas our infant child, 
 
 Not three days from its birth, was thrown to die 
 
 With its feet pierced, upon the savage rocks. 
 
 So that Apollo saved him not, to be 
 
 The murderer of his father, nor did Lains 
 
 Suffer the ill he dreaded from his son. 
 
 Such things the prophets prophesied : for whom 
 
 Care not thou aught. For whatsoever things 
 
 The gods Iiave use, them will they bring to light. 
 
 Oedipus. What stir of thoughts, and dread uncertainty 
 Come o'er me as I listen to thy speech ! 
 
 Jocasta. What new suggestion turns thee from thy course ? 
 
 Oedipus. I thought I heard thee say, that Laius 
 
 Came by his death where three highroads diverge. 
 
 Jocasta. So it was said, and hath not been denied. 
 
 Oedipus. Where lies the spot where this encounter happened ? 
 
 Jocasta. Tlie country is called Phocis; and the roads 
 From Delphi and from Daulia join in one. 
 
 Oedipus. How long a time hath past, since these things were ? 
 
 Jocasta. Not long before thou didst receive the power 
 Over this country, were the tidings brought. 
 
 Oedipus. Father of heaven ! what wilt thou do with me ? 
 
 Jocasta. What is this panic which hath fallen upon thee ? 
 
 Oedipus. Ask me not yet — but tell me, I beseech thee. 
 What form had Laius ? how was he in years ? 
 
 Jocasta. Of stature large, — hoary with whitening locks ; 
 His general aspect not unlike thine own, 
 
 Oedipus. Alas ! I fear me, I have cast myself 
 Unwary, upon curses deep and dread. 
 
 Jocasta. How sayest thou ? I quake to look on thee. 
 
 Oedipus. T sorely dread the prophet shall prove true. 
 But tell me one thing more, and I shall know. 
 
 Jocasta. I fear — but I will answer, if I know. 
 
 Oedipus. Was he but slightly tended, or did soldiers 
 Guard him around, as did beseem a king ? 
 
 Jocasta. They were but iive in all — one was a herald ; 
 There was one chariot, in which Laius rode. 
 
 Oedipus. Ah me ! 'tis all too jjlain. Who was the man 
 Who brought these tidings to the citizens ? 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 143 
 
 Jocasta. A servant, who escaped alone with life. 
 
 Oediirus. Is he at present in the palace here ? 
 
 Jocasta. No — when he thence returned, and beheld thee 
 
 Having the power, and his old master dead, 
 
 He prayed me earnestly to send him forth 
 
 To the sheep pasture, that he might be far 
 
 From this our city. He prevailed with me, 
 
 For he was worthy, as a slave may be, 
 
 To have this favour, or a greater granted. 
 Oedipus. Are there not means to bring him here again ? 
 Jocasta. There are : but why shouldst thou desire to see him ? 
 Oedipus. Lady, I fear that I have heard full much 
 
 To make me wish an interview with him. 
 
 The servant is sent for : meanwhile, at Jocasta's request, the Kays of hope, 
 
 king relates his past hfe, and the occurrence in question. 
 
 Now, thinks the reader, all is clear. The plot is very well 
 
 developed. You may think so — but all is yet to come. 
 
 The dark cloud has passed over which heralds the storm — 
 
 there may be simshine yet before the tempest breaks. There 
 
 is yet one small hope — a straw at which CEdipus may catch. 
 
 ' The servant said La'ius died by robbers. Now if he shall 
 
 stand to this, I am yet free — I am not the murderer.' Such 
 
 is the state of things, when the Chorus take up their song, 
 
 and indulge in wild questionings respecting the certainty of 
 
 oracles — those given to Laius it appears were not true — he 
 
 did not die by his son — how can these things be ? 
 
 The strain is ending when Jocasta enters with votive 
 oflFerings for the safety of her lord and house, in fear and 
 trembling. ' CEdipus is terror-stricken,' she says, ' and is at 
 the mercy of every one who can excite his mind. What 
 shall the crew do when their pilot is aghast with fear ? ' 
 
 At this point a foreign messenger, dusty and way-worn, 
 enquires for the palace of CEdipus. He is from Corinth — 
 and brings the news of the death of Polybus the king there, 
 and of the succession of QEdipus to the vacant throne. This 
 intelligence changes all into joy. Where are the oracles now P 
 CEdipus was to kill his father : but now he has died a natural 
 death, in a good old age. 
 
144 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Oedipus. Ha, ha ! why should one shape one's course of lift- 
 After oracular voices, or regard 
 The birds that clang above us ? They decreed 
 That I should slay my father — but he lies 
 Already dead — and I am here in Thebes 
 Raising no arm against him — but forsooth 
 He may have died for grief at loss of me — 
 And thus I may have killed him ! Well, he lies 
 Low, and the oracles are with him gone. 
 
 Jocasta. Told I not thee as much, when this begun ? 
 
 Oedipus. Thou didst : but I was borne away by fear. 
 
 Jocasta. Think then no more of oracles henceforth. 
 
 the^eTonT" There is but one thorn in this garland of pleasure — and that 
 is derived from the very superstition which CEdipus has been 
 just deriding. His mother, (as he thinks) Merope, yet lives 
 — the oracle denounced that he should commit incest with 
 her — ^he cannot go to Corinth. ' If that be all,' says the mes- 
 senger, ' I can free you from that fear.' ' Do it,' says the 
 king, ' and thou shalt be rewarded.' 
 
 How soon an airy fabric of pleasure and hope is crushed 
 down by one Avord — one surmise — one dash of a pen ! even 
 so is it with ffidipus. The messenger frees him from his 
 fear— THEY WERE NOT THY PARENTS ! ! ' How 
 was it then?' Now the blackness is gathering. The tale is 
 told — at the hands of this very messenger did the king of 
 Corinth receive the helpless infant ffidipus. He refers him 
 to his pierced feet for confirmation of his story. One link 
 alone is wanting— the shepherd who took the babe must be 
 sent for. He has been sent for — it is the same as the sur- 
 viving servant of Laius. 
 
 But who shall tell the unutterable Avoes of the horror- 
 stricken queen ? Avho shall paint her Avild agony, as she 
 conjures her husband (now, alas ! combining Avith that ano- 
 Biindness— ther name) to enquire no further ? But BLINDNESS — the 
 
 mental. 
 
 very reproach which he cast on the prophet, has happened to 
 the Avretched king — he still, even still, misapprehends the 
 Avhole matter. He ansAA^ers the queen : 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 145 
 
 Be of good courage — if I shall turn out 
 A slave by three descents, thou art no worse. 
 
 He thinks it is only the nobility and genuineness of his birth 
 which are at question, and attributes Jocasta's fear to her un- 
 willingness to be found wedded to one of low descent. 
 
 Jocasta. Oh, I beseech thee — stir this thing no further ! 
 Oedipus. Nought shall persuade me not to search it out. 
 Jocasta. 'Tis thy best interests that 1 have at Iieart. 
 Oedipus. Ah, this expedience long has been my bane. 
 Jocasta. Oh wretched man, may'st thou ne'er know thy birth ' 
 Oedipus. Will some one bring this shepherd here to me ? 
 
 Let her alone, to boast her noble blood. 
 Jocasta. Oh wretch, wretch, wretch ! this is my latest word — 
 
 For I shall speak to thee no more for ever! 
 
 \^She rushes out in an agony of grief and terror. ~] 
 
 Chorus. Whither hath fled the queen, by her wild grief 
 Hurried away? I fear me much, O king, 
 Lest from her silence some great harm break forth. 
 
 Oedipus. Break forth what will; but as for me, my birth, 
 Be it but common, I am bent to find. 
 It seems that she (for she hath lofty thoughts) 
 Blushes to own my lowly pedigree. 
 'Tis no dishonour — I avow myself 
 The child of Fortune — she hath given me much- 
 She is my mothtr — and the months, my nurses, 
 Have portioned out my lot for weal or woe. 
 Such being born, I cannot be so low 
 That I should shrink from searching out my race. 
 
 Alas, poor king ! the cloud is already oyer him, and his 
 chambers are darkening with its gloom. There follows a 
 choric song, which heightens that gloom. It is joyous and 
 sportive — the white butterfly which which flutters before the 
 blackness and makes one feel it more intensely. It is not the 
 Chorus of which we spoke above , but it is short, so we will 
 give it. 
 
 If r might a claim advance 
 To the keen prophetic glance, 
 I would prophesy, that soon, 
 Ere the wane of yonder moon, 
 
146 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Thou, Cithseron,* shalt be famed 
 In the dance and in the song — 
 Thou, the royal birthplace named — 
 Thou, who didst our sovereign rear, thy woods and rocks among. 
 
 Such, O Phcebus, be thy care : 
 Thou heavenly archer, grant our prayer. 
 
 Wl'o of nymphs thy life began ? 
 By the mountain rover, Pan, 
 Wooed to love, or the bright Power 
 Phoebus, who knows every bower, 
 
 And each mountain pasture fine : 
 Or perchance Cyllene's king,-)- 
 
 Or the god of I'osy wine. 
 On the hill tops revelling, 
 
 Thee, a f(>undling child, did raise, 
 Dropt by the nymphs with whom he plays. 
 
 Disclosure The fatal interview now arrives 
 
 the thud and 
 
 last. The old servant enters 
 
 the storm is ready to burst. 
 He is unwilling to speak : but the 
 importunity and threats of the king at length extort from him 
 the whole : how he received the child at the palace, and from 
 the queen's own hands, with command to kiU it : how he 
 pitied it, and gave it to the Corinthian shepherd. 
 
 Oedipus, Alas ! alas ! then it must all be true ! 
 Thou light of heaven, farewell ! I look on thee 
 Now for the last time — I, who have been proved 
 Of an unnatural birth — unnatural 
 In my foul marriage — and the perpetrator 
 Of an unnatural, parricidal murder. 
 
 \_Ei-it. 
 
 The mirth of the Chorus is turned into mourning. 
 
 Race of mortals on the earth 
 How I count ye nothing worth ? 
 Who has more of human bliss 
 Than enough to think it his ? 
 
 And before the dream is past 
 
 It declines, and will not last. 
 
 The mountain on which CEdipus was exposed when an infant. 
 + Hermes, or Mercury 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 147 
 
 It Is now the reign of woe. Another messenger enters — 
 ' The queen is dead ! her own hands have done it.' And the 
 wretched (Edipus ? 
 
 Behold him once more. * 'The eyes which have served Biiudness- 
 
 corporeal. 
 
 him so ill, which have seen without discerning what it was 
 most important for him to know, have been for ever extin- 
 guished. And in this condition, most wretched, most help- 
 less, he enters once more, to exhibit a perfect contrast to his 
 appearance in the opening scene, and thus to reverse that 
 irony of which we have hitherto seen but one side. While he 
 saw the light of day, he had been ignorant, infatuated, inca- 
 pable of distinguishing truth from falsehood, friend from foe. 
 Now he clearly perceives all that concerns him : he is con- 
 scious of the difference between his own shrewdness and the 
 divine intelligence : he is cured of his rash presumption, of 
 his hasty suspicions, of his doubts and cares : he has now a 
 sure test of Creon's sincerity, and he finds that it will stand 
 the trial.' 
 
 With the speech of the Chorus, which concludes the play, 
 we will conclude our notice of it : 
 
 Behold ye men of Thebes, this (Edipus — 
 Who solved the famous riddle, and was high 
 Above us all in power, and envied none 
 His fortunes, nor his ease — into what depth 
 Of dark adversity he now hath fallen. 
 Call then no mortal happy on this side 
 Of his departure hence : not till his life 
 Hath reached its end, free from all misery. 
 
 It is reported, we hope not truly, that Sophocles had evil and section ir, 
 unthankful sons : who, when grey hairs were upon him, CEdipus at 
 
 ^ _ Colonos. 
 
 represented to the magistrates that he was imbecile and 
 unable to manage his property. In his defence, he recited 
 the play on which we are about to enter, and which he had 
 
 * We quote from a masterly article, ty the Bishop of St. David's, in the Philological 
 Museum, vol, ii. pp. 483—537, ' On the Irony of Sophocles.' 
 
148 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 just then finished composing. He was covered with praises, 
 and his sons with shame. Listen then, gentle reader, with 
 the more interest. 
 
 It was in the high and palmy state of Athens. Theseus 
 (duk Theseus himself — the Theseus of the Canterbury Tales, 
 and the Midsummer Night's Dream) held the sway. He was 
 the friend of the oppressed, the foe of the oppressor. AU in 
 Athens was good government and order. 
 
 Two miles from the city rose the hillock and grove of 
 Colonos — one of those sweet dreaming places for the lover 
 and the poet, which weave their way into our hearts, and 
 which we determine to celebrate in song — one of nature's own 
 lecture-rooms, where by the leaves and the flowers, the 
 gnarled boles and feathery mosses, the song of birds and the 
 hum of bees, she speaks deep and lasting lessons in the ear of 
 her scholar. It was besides a sacred grove. What nature 
 lavished on it, religion hallowed. If we know the heart of a 
 poet, it was very dear to Sophocles — he owed to it many a 
 tender thought, many a gentle dream, many a sweet union of 
 words, revealed to him he knew not how, and worked in 
 afterwards in immortal verse. 
 Opening cf Placc yoursclf in imagination beside this same grove : for 
 there our drama opens. Enter not ; the ground is too holy. 
 The venerable goddesses — the Furies — called by way of pro- 
 pitiation the Gracious Ones, have claimed it as their own. 
 Two persons are approaching. An old man, blind and feeble, 
 is guided and supported by a light and slender girl. Their 
 garb is poor ; the very rags of beggary hang about them. 
 But their bearing is that of no common beings. Listen— he 
 speaks : 
 
 Child of a blind old man, Antigone, 
 Whither have we arrived ? what men are they 
 That own this city ? who will now relieve 
 The wanderer (Edipus, with scanty gifts 
 SufBcient for the day ? Little he asks, 
 Receiving less, — but still enough for me. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 149 
 
 Content is taught me by adversity, 
 Now of long standing — and my inborn firmness 
 Bears up, and murmurs not. But, O my child, 
 If any seat thou seest, either on ground 
 Which may be trodden, or by sacred grove, 
 Place me, and seat me down ; that we may find 
 What is this place : for we are come to learn 
 Our duty — and when known, to accomplish it. * 
 
 Antigone. My poor old father, as mine eyes can judge, 
 
 The towers, that crown the city, are yet distant :^ 
 But this, 'tis clear, is some fair hallowed spot, 
 Lavish in growth of olive, bay, and vine ; 
 And in the grove unnumbered nightingales 
 Are sweetly trilling : hither, bend thy limbs 
 Upon this native rock : — for T have led thee. 
 For one so old and feeble, a long journey. 
 
 Oedipus. Seat me then down, and guard me, weak and blind. 
 
 Antigone. Long have I learnt to do this office for thee. 
 
 Oedipus. Canst thou inform me whither we have come ? 
 
 Antigone. I know, near Athens : but this spot I know not. 
 
 Oedipus. Each traveller told us this, as we came on. 
 
 Antigone. Shall 1 then go and ask, and bring thee word ? 
 
 Oedipus. Enquire, my child, — if any house be near. 
 
 Antigone. There is, — but stay, — it seems I need not go : 
 For there is now a man approaching us. 
 
 Oedipus. Approaching this same spot where now we are ? 
 
 Antigone. Yes, and ev'n now he's present; whatsoe'er 
 
 Thou hast to ask him, thou canst ask him now. 
 
 Oedipus. Stranger, hearing from her, who sees for me 
 And for herself, that thou hast come to us, 
 In fitting time to answer all our doubts, 
 
 Stranger. Before thou askest more, from that thy seat 
 Depart — the ground is not for thee to tread, 
 
 Oedipus. What is the place — what god possesses it ? 
 
 Stranger. Not to be touched nor built in. The dire Powers, 
 Daughters of Earth and Darkness, dwell in it. 
 
 Oedipus. What is their name, that I may pray to them ? 
 
 Stranger. The people here ('tis various otherwhere) 
 Call the all-seeing Powers, Eumenides. 
 
 * It had been announced to CEdipus that when he should come to the gi-ove hallowed 
 to the Furies, his life should end. Under this presentiment (though not yet knowing 
 the place) he speaks. 
 
150 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Oedipus. Dread goddesses, receive your suppliant, * 
 
 For I will quit no more this spot of earth. 
 Stranger. What raay this mean ? 
 Oedipus. A symbol of ray fate. 
 
 Stranger. I may not move thee, tillp know the will 
 
 Of those that govern here, and have my orders. 
 
 To his furth.er enquiries the stranger repHes, acquainting 
 him with the circumstances of the place and country. He 
 requests that the king Theseus may be sent for. The stranger 
 is amazed. 'Why should he come to a blind old beggar?' 
 'Leave that to me,' replies CEdipus, 'I know what I say. 
 Let him come, he shall gain much.' The stranger goes, to 
 confer with his fellow \dllagers, who are to determine what is 
 to be done. CEdipus and his daughter are alone. 
 
 Oedipus. My child, is the man gone ? 
 
 Antigone. He is, my father : 
 
 So that thou now can'st speak to me alone. 
 
 Oedipus. Ye venerable Goddesses,— 'tis well 
 
 That on your ground I have first placed myself 
 In this new land ; — be ye not then averse 
 From me, nor from the Prophet god, who first 
 When he denounced the sorrows of my life. 
 Declared, that after long years they should cease. 
 When I should come and seat me in your precincts ; 
 That the point and crisis of my life should be 
 At that same time : — and I should bring rich gain 
 To them with whom I died, but bane and loss 
 To those of my own land, who thrust me forth : 
 And that some sign should come in proof of this, 
 Earthquake, or thunder, or the flash from heaven. 
 I know, I feel it, that some Jiappy omen 
 Hath brought me to this grove, — sent by yourselves. 
 For otherwise I should not have approached 
 You first in this my journej, in fit state 
 For sacrifice, and sat me down as here : 
 Wherefore, dread Powers, according to the word 
 
 * The rights of a suppliant were strictlj' revered in Ancient G-reece — once at the altar 
 or on the spot sacred to the god to whom he fled, it was considered sacrilege forcibly to 
 remove him. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 351 
 
 Prophetic, grant me now some turning point, 
 
 Some jictssage of mj life, unless I seem 
 
 To have too little tasted of the cup 
 
 Of bitter sorrow : I, who feed and serve 
 
 The deepest pangs that mortal breast can feel. 
 
 Come, blessed progeny of Darkness old, 
 
 Come, thou fair city, honoured with the name 
 
 Of great Athena, i)ity the poor shade 
 
 Of CEdipus — 1 am not M'hat I was. 
 
 But we forget that we must not translate the whole play ; 
 and we have yet some long passages which will not bear mere 
 reporting. Our readers will thank us for quoting from the 
 same source as above, the following notice of this appearance 
 of Qidipus : 
 
 " In the first scene the appearance of CEdipus presents a complete 
 reverse of that which we witnessed at the opening of the preceding 
 play. We now see him stript of all that then seemed to render his 
 lot so enviable, and suffering the worst miseries to which human 
 nature is liable. He is blind, old, destitute: an outcast from his 
 home, an exile from his country, a wanderer ^n a foreign land : 
 reduced to depend on the guidance and support of his daughter, who 
 herself needs protection, and to subsist on the scanty pittance afforded 
 him by the compassion of strangers, who, whenever they recognize 
 him, view him with horror. But a change has likewise taken place 
 within him, which compensates even for his load of affliction. In 
 the school of adversity he has learnt patience, resignation, and con- 
 tent. The storm of passion has subsided, and has left him calm and 
 firm. The cloud has rolled away from his mental vision, and nothing 
 disturbs the clearness and serenity of his views. He not only con- 
 templates the past in the light of truth, but feels himself instinct with 
 prophetic powers. He is conscious of a charmed life, safe from the 
 malice of man and the accidents of nature, and reserved by the gods 
 for the accomplishment of high purposes. The first incident that 
 occurs to him marks in the most signal manner the elevation to 
 which he has been raised by his apparent fall, and the privilege he 
 has gained by the calamity which separates him from the rest of 
 mankind. He has been driven out of Thebes as a wretch polluted, 
 and polluting the land. -Yet he finds a resting place in the sanctuary 
 of the awful goddesses, the avengers of crime, whose unutterable 
 name fills every heart with horror, whose ground is too holy for any 
 
152 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 human foot to tread. For him there is do terror in the thought of 
 them : he shrinks not from their presence, but greets them as friends 
 and ministers of blessing. He is, as he describes himself, not only a 
 pious but a sacred person." * 
 
 Now the Chorus enters, being composed of the inhabitants 
 of the village or district. Much conversation ensues, in v\^hich 
 CEdipus makes himself known to them on their earnest 
 enquiries. They are horror-stricken, and wish to thrust him 
 out of the land. Antigone intercedes, and ffidipus in a 
 beautiful speech reproaches them vdth being unworthy of the 
 great name of Athens, for protecting the stranger and friendless. 
 They are content to refer the matter to the judgment of the 
 king, when he shall arrive. And now a new person comes 
 on the stage ; his other daughter, Ismene. The sons come 
 not and care not for him. They are ruling at home, or fight- 
 ing for the rule. After the Egyptian custom, the daughters 
 endure toil and wait on their aged father, while their brothers 
 are idle or worse. 
 
 But why comes Ismene ? she has been to consult the oracles 
 on her father's future destiny. What say they? why, that 
 the land in which OEdipus shall die, shall be happy and 
 victorious ; that therefore the Thebans who before cast him 
 out, were now most anxious to have him back, and that 
 Creon was coming for that very purpose, to fetch him that he 
 may die in his own land. To this proposal he gives an in- 
 dignant and stem refusal, and pronounces a solemn curse upon 
 his rebellious sons, which he will not mitigate even on the 
 personal request of Polynices the younger, backed by the 
 entreaties of his own Antigone. 
 
 There follows a strife between Theseus and Creon for the 
 possession of the illustrious exile, in which Creon, after 
 attempting to give ffidipus pain by taking away his daughter 
 is finally dismissed in no favourable fight. We have hurried 
 over this part of the play to come to its sublime and awful 
 catastrophe ; but in doing so we muSt not forget that it 
 
 * 287 tJ/cco yap lephs evff€^i)s re. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 153 
 
 contains the very Chorus of which we have twice spoken, and 
 which is heyond dispute, the most heautiful and perfect piece 
 of choric poetry in the Greek language. There is none of the 
 wUd inspiration of the Chorus in the Agamemnon (see chap, 
 vii.) nor, as we shall hereafter see, is there the deep pathos of 
 the choric songs of Eui'ipides ; but in luxury of beauty, and 
 all thait pleases and delights the poetic mind, it surpasses them 
 both. No poet but Sophocles ever could have written it. 
 After such praise, how shall we translate it ? Its subject 
 may be called ' the glories of Athens.' 
 
 Stranger, thou hast bent thy way 
 To the region favoured most 
 Of all this Attic coast; 
 To Colonos' sunny hill, 
 Where the nightingale doth trill 
 Her thick notes on every spray : 
 Building in the deep green dells 
 'Midst the purple ivy-bells ; 
 Or beneath the leafy vine, 
 
 Glorious with its pendant fruit, 
 Which no wind doth stir, nor heat 
 On its branches fiercely beat, 
 But 'tis sacred, branch and root, 
 To the jolly god of wine. 
 Here each day its clusters fair 
 The narcissus brings to light, 
 Nursed by soft dews at night; 
 Ancient crown of these dread powers ; 
 Here the gold-bright crocus flowers ; 
 Nor doth clear Cepbissus spare 
 Bubbling waters, without rest 
 Oozing from the damp earth's breast, 
 Trickling o'er the verdant plain, 
 Fed with showers of purest rain. 
 
 Not the Muses' happj band 
 Hate the spot : nor she above 
 
 With her golden-reined hand, 
 Queen of Beauty and of Love. 
 
 Here there is, what Asia's soil 
 
 Bears not, nor the neighbouring land 
 
154 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 OfPelops; springing without toil, 
 
 Feared by every hostile band, 
 The grey -leaved, fruitful olive-tree ; 
 Not the fierce invader king 
 To its leaves could mischief bring; 
 For the eye of mighty Jove 
 Looks upon it from above ; 
 And our grey-eyed patroness * 
 With her care its fruit doth bless. 
 
 Yet is due another meed 
 
 Of just praise, to this our land. 
 Its chief boast, the warlike steed, 
 
 And the ships that crown our strand. 
 'Twas thy gift, thou ocean king. 
 With the rein the horse to guide : — 
 Smooth and swift thy vessels glide 
 O'er the wave, propelled along 
 By the crew with oarage strong ;| 
 Bearing graceful company 
 To the nymphs that rove the sea. 
 
 Such is the poet's tribute to his far-famed country. — But 
 the play proceeds. The time is now drawing near when 
 (Edipus must die. The crisis of his fate is at hand. But no 
 common death awaits him. While he is talking a loud thun- 
 der-clap is heard. 
 
 Oedipus. My children, is there here a messenger 
 
 Who may fetch hither the illustrious Theseus ? 
 Antigone. What is the cause for which thou callest him ? 
 Oedipus. This winged thunder soon will drive me hence 
 
 Into the shades below. Send quickly for him. 
 Chorus. Hark the thunder sharp and clear 
 
 Crashes through the middle air; 
 
 Terror lifts my very hair ; 
 
 All my courage faints with fear. 
 
 There again ! the forked flame 
 
 Shot across the upper sky; 
 
 * Athena, The legend was that Athena and Poseidon the sea-god, vied with each 
 other in giving gifts to the city. He gave the war-horse and the ship ; she the olive. 
 Two invaders of Athens are aUuded to : Xerxes, who cut down the sacred olives, but 
 they sprung again miraculously; and Archidamus, king of Sparta, who spared them. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 155 
 
 Some calamity is nigh ; 
 
 For nought such tempest never came. 
 
 The thunderings continue, and shortly Theseus arrives. 
 CEdipus tells him that these signs from heaven indicate the 
 end of his life to he at hand. He then proceeds : 
 
 I, son of iEgeus, will inform thee now 
 What great advantage, never to be lost, 
 Shall fall to this thy city. I will go. 
 Without a leader, and myself point out 
 The spot where I must die, and be entombed. 
 This spot do thou keep secret ; tell to none 
 Its actual site, nor near what part it lies ; 
 That it may ever give thee strength, more sure 
 Than hanks of shields, or mercenary spear. 
 The things which may not now be spoken forth, 
 Thyself shall know, when thither we arrive ; 
 For I will tell them to no human ear, — 
 Not to my daughters here, dear though they be. 
 Keep thou thyself the secret, and when near 
 Thine end, disclose it to the worthiest man, 
 To him alone : and let from time to time 
 Each from the other learn it. Thus shall ye 
 Live in fair victory, from the Thehans safe. 
 ****** 
 
 Let us now go, and seek the fated spot; 
 
 The signs from heaven are hastening me away. 
 
 My children, follow : I am now your leader, 
 
 Even as ye have been mine ; advance with me, 
 
 But touch me not — myself will find the place 
 
 Where I am destined to be laid in earth. 
 
 This way, this way : Hermes, the guide of the dead,* 
 
 Beckons me hither, — and the infernal goddess. 
 
 Light, to me no light, once thoti wert mine ; 
 Now thou shalt touch my sightless eyes no more. 
 
 1 am descending to the shades of death. 
 
 Fare well, thou generous stranger, and fare well 
 This land of thine, and these thy citizens. 
 Fare well, and prosper; and in fortune's noon, 
 Forget not me, though dead, — but thankful be. 
 
 * It was believed that Hermes convej'ed the spirits of the departed down to the shades. 
 
I 
 
 156 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Death of 
 ffidipus. 
 
 CEdipus, the king, Antigone and Ismene are gone; the 
 blind old man leading the way by divine impulse to the spot 
 of his death. There follows an interval of awful suspense, 
 during which the chorus prays for a safe and an easy dismissal 
 for the man of many and deep Avoes. 
 
 Soon a messenger arrives, announcing that CEdipus is dead. 
 
 Chorus. Was it by some Heaven-sent and easy death ? 
 
 Messenger. 'Twas wondrous all. Just as he went from here, 
 (Thou sawest him,) even so, with none to lead him, 
 He called us on, and pointed us the way. 
 But when he reached yon threshold steep, built up 
 With brazen steps, where many ways divide, 
 On one of these he stood, near to the vase 
 Where lie the pledges of eternal fi'iendship 
 Of Theseus and Peirithous; between which 
 And the Thorycian rock, stopping midway. 
 Beside the hollow fig-tree and the tomb, 
 He sat him down, and loosed his beggar's garb. 
 And called his daughters, bidding them to bring 
 Ewers of pure spring water, both to wash, 
 And pour libations. They to a hill in sight. 
 Sacred to green Demeter,* went forthwith. 
 And washed him, and adorned him, as he bid. 
 This service done, and nothing wanting now 
 Of all that he desired, — the god below 
 Spoke forth in thunder j the two virgins trembled, 
 Falling and weeping at their father's feet, 
 Beating their breasts, and shrieking loud and shrill. 
 He, when he heard their long and bitter cries. 
 Folding his arms around them, said, ' My children, 
 ' From this day forth your father is no more. 
 ' My life is at an end ; no more hard service 
 ' Shall I require from you ; I know 'twas hard — 
 ' But there was that ■which recompensed it all — 
 ' For none could love ye better, than he whom 
 ' This day shall snatch away, and leave you orphans.' 
 Embracing thus, they wept — and when their tears 
 Were spent, there was short silence; when a voice, 
 Sudden and dreadful, called for CEdipus, 
 
 * Ceres, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. IX. 157 
 
 So that our hair stood up for very terror. 
 
 ' CEdipus, CEdipus, why tarry we ? 
 
 ' Too LONG DOST THOU DELAY.' He, when he heard 
 
 The god, called out for Theseus : ' Best of friends,' 
 
 He cried, ' give me thy hand in pledge, and ye, 
 
 ' My children, give to him ; and promise here 
 
 ' That thou wilt never leave them, but wilt do 
 
 ' All that is fitting for their future good.' 
 
 He, nobly firm, made promise with an oath. 
 
 Then ffidipus, for both his children feeling. 
 
 Touched them, and said : ' Bear up — for ye must go 
 
 ' And leave me now, contented not to see 
 
 ' Nor hear, forbidden things. Leave us alone, 
 
 ' King Theseus, and myself: for he must know 
 
 ' What shall be done.' We heard, and with the virgins 
 
 Retreated weeping. Soon we saw approach. 
 
 Not CEdipus, for he was seen no more, — 
 
 But the affrighted king, his shadowing hand 
 
 Holding before his eyes, as if some sight 
 
 Dazzling and dreadful had bewildered them. 
 
 And then we saw him fall upon the ground 
 
 And worship earth and heaven in the same prayer. 
 
 But by what death HE perished, none can know 
 
 Except the king alone. Not fiery bolt 
 
 Hath scorched him, nor fierce whirlwind borne away ; 
 
 But 'ttvas some heavenly escort rapt him hence, 
 
 Or some gulf opened in the kindly ground, 
 
 And earth received him, calm, without a pang. 
 
 He is not to be mourned, — for he died not 
 
 As others, by disease : but marvellous 
 
 And glorious was his end beyond exam25le. 
 
 The play finishes with the lamentation of Antigone and 
 Ismene, thus deprived of the venerable object of their pious 
 care. 
 
 And yve must also conclude this our chapter, which in our 
 desire to lay these wonderful master-pieces complete before 
 our readers^ has, we fear, out-run all reasonable length. 
 
 May we be permitted to transcribe here a sonnet elsewhere 
 published, but apposite to our present subject ? 
 
158 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Colonos ! can it be that thou hast still 
 
 Thy laurel, and thine olire, and thy vine ? 
 
 Do thy close-feathered nightingales yet trill 
 
 Their warbles of thick sobbed song divine? 
 
 Does the gold sheen o' the crocus o'er thee shine, 
 
 And dew-fed clusters of the daffodil. 
 
 And round thy flowery knots Cephisus twine, 
 
 Aye oozing up with many a bubbling rill ? 
 
 O might I stand beside thy leafy knoll 
 
 In sight of the far city-towers, and see 
 
 The faithful-hearted, pure Antigonfe 
 
 To the dread precinct leading sad and slow 
 
 That awful temple of a kingly soul 
 
 Lifted to heaven by unexamjjled woe ! 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 EURIPIDES.— THE ALCESTIS. 
 
 * * * * the repeated air 
 Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
 To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 
 
 Milton. Sonnets, 
 
 As Greece is wonderful among nations, so Athens was wonder- 
 ful in Greece. In poetical, philosophical, oratorical eminence, 
 that city far outshone all its riyals in arts and arms. There 
 the universal ear was ready tuned to high and cunning 
 melodies, which elsewhere are lost in forgetfulness before they 
 reach the slow and callous perceptions of their hearers. There 
 Providence had prepared the highest order of human intellect 
 to take the lead in every department of mental excellence ; 
 and the highest order of subject material for it to work upon. 
 In no more striking particular are these remarks exemplified 
 than in the co-existence and almost co-equality of the three 
 great tragedians, iEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Of 
 these, the two former have already been brought before our 
 readers. They have gazed upon the abrupt and superhuman 
 grandeur of ^schylus; have admired the consummate skill 
 and artist-power of Sophocles ; and now they will have a poet 
 brought before them, deficient in both the excellences of the 
 other two, but clothed in a peculiar manner with an excellence 
 entirely his own. Euripides is the poet of the sympathies of 
 the human heart — the mighty master of hope and fear and 
 tender affection. He is, of the three great masters, un- 
 questionably the greatest Dram ails f, in the modern sense of 
 
160 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 the word. He is also of the three, the greatest lijric poet ; 
 his choral songs being perfect poems, and abounding in 
 gorgeous imagery and melody of diction, more than is the case 
 either in the plays of ^schylus or Sophocles. Still Euripides 
 has his faults; and they are great ones. He was much 
 derided by the critics and the wits of his day for degrading 
 poetry into a household thing, and introducing into the high 
 intercourse of gods and heroes the petty cares of every-day 
 life. Certainly, considering the lofty structure of ancient 
 Tragedy, the accusation was not unjust. There was in 
 Euripides a yearning after the reaUties of human feeling, 
 incongruous with the entirely artificial casting of the Attic 
 drama. He was also charged with a leaning towards the 
 obscure and mystical ; an imputation which the poets of the 
 human heart have been compelled to bear, from his time to 
 the present ; and a bias to Avhich, from the very depth of that 
 wonderful science which they handle, they must ever be in 
 some measure prone. Euripides had studied under Anaxa- 
 goras the philosopher, whose unfettered speculations in matters 
 held sacred at Athens had procured for him persecution and 
 banishment. To him, doubtless, we owe many of the ' guesses 
 at truth ' which occur in the poetry of Euripides, and they, it 
 must be confessed, are tinged with the same free-thinking 
 spirit. It was also objected to him that his plots were 
 deficient in moral tendency, resting frequently on incidents 
 which the decencies of society forbade to bring forward into 
 prominence. The charge can hardly be denied, while at the 
 same time it must be insisted on, that Em-ipides is not an 
 impure poet ; and that these his transgressions are rather the 
 blunders of a weak judgment, than the tokens of a depraved 
 moral sense. In the very plays in which they occur, the 
 handling of the plot, and the dialogue throughout, is purity 
 itself; and after all, we must remember that the awfal crimes 
 of CEdipus, and the matricide of Orestes, were subjects 
 treated alike by the three. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 161 
 
 Out of the three most beautiful plays of our author,* we 
 have selected as a specimen of his peculiar powers, that entitled 
 the Alcestis. We are strongly tempted, instead of following 
 our usual plan, to give our readers an almost entire translation 
 of this beautiful play ; avoiding if possible, on the one hand, 
 the stiffness of a literal version, and on the other, the fault of 
 clothing what is essentially Grecian poetry in a dress adapted 
 to English and modem habits. 
 
 It should be premised, that neither according to oiu" own 
 notions, nor to those of the ancients, is this play a perfect 
 tragedy. In its latter part a comic tendency prevails, and a 
 melodramatic interest is given by the introduction into the house 
 of mourning of a boisterous and apparently annoying personage, 
 but through whose agency the happy event is brought about. 
 
 But now to the play. Euripides has a custom of introducing 
 a prologue telling the whole story of the plot, which will save 
 us the trouble, t 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Admetus, king of PhercB in Thessalt/ 
 
 Pheres, father of Admetus. 
 
 Eumelus, son of Admetus. 
 
 A servant. 
 
 The god Apollo. 
 
 Hercules, not yet deified. 
 
 Death. 
 
 Alcestis, wife to Admetus. 
 
 A maidservant. 
 
 Chorus of inhabitants of Pheree. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 Before the Palace of Admetus at Pherw. 
 
 Enter Apollo. 
 
 Apollo. Hail, palace of Admetus, in which I, 
 Although a god, once suffered servitude. 
 
 * No one will dispute the preeminence of the Ion, the Iphigeneia in Aulis, and the 
 Alcestis. 
 
 + Some liberties of omission have been taken, especially where the short choric strains 
 of which the music formed the charm, would be wearisome and tautological to the 
 modern reader, 
 
 2 A 
 
162 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Zeus was the cause : who having killed my son, 
 Asclepius,* with his transfixing bolt, 
 Provoked my vengeance, so that I destroyed 
 The Cyclops, forgers of his fiery darts. 
 For this th' almighty Father sentenced me 
 To be a slave beneath a mortal master. 
 Into this land I came, and tended herds; 
 Blameless myself, a master free from blame 
 Fell to my lot; in gratitude to whom 
 Up to this day his welfare is my care. 
 This man, Admetus, I have even now 
 Rescued from death : having deceived the Fates 
 To grant me, that if other can be found 
 To die instead, Admetus may live on. 
 This knowing, and the circle of his friends 
 Beseeching, none is found among them all. 
 Not his grey mother, nor his aged sire, 
 None, — save his wife alone, willing to die. 
 And leave the light of heaven that he may live. 
 She at this moment, fainting in his arms. 
 Is near her end : this is her fated day. 
 Now let me stand aside, lest I incur 
 Pollution from the dead : for here I see 
 Death, the highpriest of the infernal gods. 
 Coming to fetch from earth his yielded prey r 
 Well hath he guarded the appointed day. 
 
 Enter Death. 
 
 Death. Out and alas ! 
 
 What makest thou, Apollo, 
 About these walls ? why tarriest thou 
 Near to the palace ? are the gods 
 Who rule the dead, a second time 
 To be defrauded of their rights ? 
 And did it not suffice that thou 
 Shouldst have deprived them of Admetus, 
 Cheating the fates by craft, but now 
 Again thou keepest armed watch 
 Over the queen, who hath devoted 
 Herself, to save her lord from death ? 
 
 * Better known as ^sculapius. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP, X. 
 
 163 
 
 Apollo. Fear not : for I am just, and mean no ill. 
 
 Death. If just, what need to carry this thy bow ? 
 
 dpoUo. It is my practice, thus to arm myself. 
 
 Death. Yea, and to give this house unjust assistance. 
 
 Apollo. I sorrow with the sorrows of my friend. 
 
 Death. Wilt thou then steal from me this second victim ? 
 
 Apollo. No plundering hand deprived thee of the first. 
 
 Death. How then doth he still live, and hath not died ? 
 
 Apollo. By yielding her, for whom thou now art come. 
 
 Death. True, and will bear her down below the earth. 
 
 Apollo. Take her, and go : thou wilt not be advised. — 
 
 Death. Advised, to kill her ? 'tis the end I came for. 
 
 Apollo. No, but to strike those who await thy stroke. 
 
 Death. I catch thy meaning, and thy wish is clear. 
 
 Jpollo. May then Alcestis live, and reach old age ? 
 
 Death. She may not : I too, love to have my way. 
 
 Apollo. Take whom thou wilt, only one life is thine. 
 
 Death. Yes, but the death o' th' young brings me more glory 
 
 Jpollo. Well — and if she die old, her burial's rich. 
 
 Death. Ha, ha ! you are no friend to heirs, I see. 
 
 Apollo. What sayest ? is ev'n Death become a sophist ? 
 
 Death. Let those who may die old, rejoice in it. 
 
 Apollo. You will not then this favour grant to me. 
 
 Death. No, truly : you should know my ways too well. 
 
 Apollo. I know that gods and men alike detest them. 
 
 Death. Thou canst not have all things in spite of justice. 
 
 Apollo. There is shall conquer thee, fierce as thou art. 
 A hero is e'en now approaching hither, 
 To fetch Eurystheus, from the wintry clime 
 Of Thrace, the steeds he coveteth, who, lodged 
 Beneath this roof, shall wrench from thee thy victim : 
 And then thou wilt deserve no thanks from me, 
 But yielding my request, be hated still. 
 
 Death. Thou talkest much, but gainest none the more ; 
 This woman passes to the realms below. 
 Even now I go for her, and will begin 
 The sacrifice with this my sword : for he 
 Is the devoted to the gods beneath, 
 Whose locks of severed hair this blade halh hallowed. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
164 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETKY 
 
 Enter the Chorus singing mournfully in parts. 
 
 1st part. Why is all hushed within ? 
 Why is deep silence reigning 
 Through Admetus' house? 
 
 2nd part. No friend is near, to tell, 
 Whether 'tis ours to mourn 
 
 Our queen as dead, or she. 
 The flower of loving wives, 
 Yet sees the light of day. 
 
 \st part. Hear ye sad groans within, 
 
 Or blows of anguished hands. 
 As after death are heard ? 
 
 2nd part. No, nor dotli any come 
 
 Forth from the palace gates .- 
 Oh that thou wouldst appear 
 Thou god of healing power, 
 To turn the tide of woe ! 
 
 \st part. There would not be this hush 
 If she were gone : she is not yet 
 Departed from their sight. 
 
 2nd part. Nor doth any urn appear 
 Of pure water, as is wont. 
 At the gates where lie the dead r 
 Nor the locks in mourning shori^ 
 Lie before the palace door : 
 Nor the female hands resound 
 Wringing for untimely death. 
 
 \st part. Yet this is the fated day, — 
 
 2nd part. Why remind us of our grief? 
 
 \st part. When she must depart beneath. 
 
 2nd part. You have touched the springs of woe. 
 
 Chorus. But see, a servant from the house approaching. 
 Weeping sad tears : what tidings shall we hear? 
 To weep when misery happens to our masters, 
 Is pardonable weakness:— hath the queen 
 Yielded her breath, or is she yet alive ? 
 
 Servant. Both dead and living ye may reckon her. 
 
 Chorus, How can the same be living and be dead ? 
 
 Servant. Already faint and gasping she is laid. 
 
 Chorus. O wretched king ! how good a pair are parted ! 
 
 Servant. He will not know her worth till he have lost her. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 165 
 
 Chorus. Is there no hope her life may yet be saved ? 
 
 Servant. No, for the fated day hurries her off. 
 
 Chorus. Are the accustomed rites prepared for her ' 
 
 Servant. Yea, and the dress in -which she shall be buried. 
 
 Chorus. Let her know then, her death is glorious, 
 And she the noblest of all mortal wives. 
 
 Servant. Who will oppose her claim ? how bright must be 
 That wife in virtue, who shall her excel ! 
 What stronger proof of service to her lord. 
 Than for his safety to lay down her life ? 
 Throughout the city this her deed is known : 
 But marvel now at what she did within. 
 When she was 'ware the fated day was come. 
 She laved her snowy limbs in fountain water. 
 Then from their cedar chests her choicest robes 
 She took, and being carefully arrayed, 
 Standing before the hearth, she prayed, and said : 
 ' Goddess, — for T am passing to the shades, — 
 Receive my last prostration, my last prayer; 
 Take up my motherless children : and appoint 
 A loving consort for my son ; a husband 
 Of birth and valour for my orphan'd girl. 
 Let not my children die, like me their mother, 
 Untimely, but in high prosperity 
 Fulfil at home a life of peace and joy.' 
 This said, she sought the altars in the palace. 
 And crowned them, and renewed her parting prayers, 
 Stripping the scented leaves from myrtle boughs ; 
 No tear she shed, no murmuring sigh she heaved ; 
 Nor did the coming evil blanch her cheek. 
 Then, entering in her chamber, and her bed, 
 At length she wept, and uttered a sad speech : 
 ' O couch, where I resigned my virgin charms 
 To him for whom I die, — farewell, and prosper : 
 I blame not thee : — one victim thou hast slain. 
 One only : for my faith to him and thee 
 Has brought me to my death. Some other wife 
 Shall share thee with him, not more chaste than I, 
 But blessed, it may be, with a happier fate.' 
 Then falling on the bed she kissed it oft, 
 And bathed it v/ith abundant floods of tears. 
 When she had wept full long, she rose, and often 
 
166 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Before she left the chamber, turned again, 
 And cast herself afresh upon the couch. 
 Meanwhile her children hung upon her robes. 
 And wept; now one, and now the other taking. 
 She clasped and kissed them, as it were the last. 
 We servants all shed tears — which she perceiving. 
 Gave each her hand — none of us was too mean 
 For her to bid farewell, and hear it bid. 
 Such are the sorrows in Admetus' house : — 
 If he had died, his course would have been run ; 
 But by escape from death he hath entailed 
 On all his future years unceasing woe. 
 
 Chorus. Surely he bears his pari of tears and sighs. 
 Being about to lose so good a wife. 
 
 Servant. Yea, and he fondly holds her in his arms, 
 Praying her not to leave him — but his prayer 
 May not be heard, for she is wasting fast. 
 And faints between his arms, a drooping weight. 
 Still, though she hath but slender hold of life. 
 She loves to look upon the sun's bright light. 
 Saying that she shall ne'er behold it more. 
 But I will go, and give note of your presence : 
 Not all so loyal are to those in power. 
 As to draw near and solace their misfortunes ; 
 But of long years your friendship hath been tried. 
 
 Chorus. O thou who rulest earth and heaven, 
 Can no escape be given 
 From this sad fate ? or must we shear 
 
 Our votive hair. 
 And the dark robes of sorrow wear ? 
 
 Alas ! it is too clear : 
 Yet on the gods above we call ; 
 Their might can order all. 
 
 Thou king Apollo, find some way 
 For our sad prince this day — 
 
 Be thou his friend — in former years 
 Thou didst dry up the tears 
 
 Which in this palace flowed : and now 
 
 His bright deliverer be Thou. 
 
 But see they come — the dying wife 
 And her sad husband — mourn, O land, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 367 
 
 Thy queen, the best of queens, thus snatched 
 Untimely to her grave. 
 
 Enter Admetus supporting Alcestis — with them their two children. 
 
 Alcestis. Oh sun ! oh liglit of "Hay ! 
 
 Oh heavenly courses of the fleeting clouds ! 
 Admetus, They look on thee and me, two wretched ones, 
 
 Nought erring against Heaven to cause thy death. 
 Alcestis. Oh earth ! oh palace halls. 
 
 My happy childhood's home, my bridal chambers ! 
 Admetus. Look up, poor victim — do not leave me thus : 
 
 Pray the almighty gods to pity thee. 
 Alcestis. I see, I see the two-oared bark- — 
 
 Th' infernal ferryman is calling. 
 
 His hand upon the pole — 'Why tarriest ? 
 
 Be speedy — thou art hindering our passage.' 
 Admetus- Oh bitter, bitter voyage ! woe, woe, woe ! 
 Alcestis. One draws me with him — see you not ? 
 
 A winged messenger of hell. 
 
 Dark scowling under withering glances, — 
 
 Ah! loose me! down what dismal road 
 
 Wouldst thou be dragging me ? 
 Admetus. Dismal indeed, to all that love thee — most 
 
 Of all, to me and to our children. 
 Alcestis. There — hold me up no longer — lay me down : 
 
 I have no strength to stand — death is not far — 
 
 A dark mist creeps upon my field of sight. 
 
 children, children, ye have now no mother ! 
 Live on, dear children, bright and happy lives ! 
 
 Admetus. Ah me ! this farewell hath a dismal sound, 
 Sadder than death itself — oh, leave me not ! 
 By these thy children I conjure thee, whom 
 Thou wilt bereave — lift up thine eyes — • 
 
 1 can no longer live when thou art gone — 
 With thee it rests to save us or to kill, 
 For love is stronger than the cords of life. 
 
 Alcestis. Admetus, — for how 'tis with me thou seest, 
 Receive my last commands before I die. 
 Thee I have honoured — thee preferred, that thou 
 Shouldest live on, while uncompelled I die 
 On thy behalf. — 1 might have staid in life 
 And wedded whom I would, and reigned in state. 
 But that I counted it no worthy life 
 
68 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 To live deprived of thee, with these poor orphans ; 
 Nor have I spared my heauty nor my youth, 
 Nor all the fond delights of this my prime. 
 Thy father and thy mother have betrayed thee, 
 When it became them well to leave this earth, 
 And saving thee would glorify their end. 
 For thou wert all they had : nor was there hope. 
 When thou wert dead, of other issue from Ihem. 
 Then could I still have lived, and thou ; nor then 
 Wouldst thou have wept my loss, and these thy babes 
 Reared up in dreary orphanhood — but God 
 Hath ordered it, that so it should not be. 
 Well, be it so — only forget not this 
 My self devotion— equal sacrifice 
 T cannot ask thee — for nought is dear as life — 
 But what I ask is just, thou wilt confess : — 
 These children, if thou hast a father's heart. 
 Thou lovest, as I love : permit them then 
 To rise in life the masters of this house. 
 And graft not over them a steji-mother, 
 Who with unkindly jealousy, may lay 
 A heavy hand on these our mutual pledges. 
 Not thus remember me, I do conjure thee— 
 For such an one is ever ill in love 
 To former children — yea a very serpent : 
 My boy hath thee, his father, as a tower, — 
 But thou, poor girl, how shall thy maiden years 
 Be spent with fit repute ? how wilt thou find 
 Thy father's second consort act to thee ? 
 Well if she strike thee not with slander's tooth, 
 And crush thy fairest prospects in their bud ; 
 For thou wilt have no mother to betroth thee. 
 None, to stand by and soothe thy childbed pangs. 
 Then, when a mother's presence is most precious. 
 For I must die — and this, not with a respite 
 Of one nor two days ; — in a few short moments, 
 I shall be reckoned one of the departed. 
 Farewell then and be happy : thou, Admetus, 
 Boast of my wifely virtue : ye, my children, 
 Cherish the memory of the best of mothers. 
 Chorus. Fear not : my faith I give on his behalf; 
 He will obey thy wish, if he be wise. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 169 
 
 Admetus. Comfort thyself; it shall be thus, even thus: 
 Thou hast been mine in life, and now in death 
 None but thyself shall ever be my bride. 
 None is so noble, none so fair, as thou. 
 Name not our children more : I pray the gods 
 To give me joy of them, — more than of thee. 
 This mourning will I hold, not for one year, 
 But while my life shall last: and I will hate 
 Father and mother for thy sake, for they 
 Were friends in name, no further — while thou gavest 
 Thine own dear life to rescue me from death. 
 Should I not mourn, deprived of such a partner ? 
 All revels and all merriment shall cease, 
 All garlands, and all song, throughout this house. 
 For I will touch the merry lute no more. 
 Nor sing to Libyan pipe; all my delight 
 Is gone, when thou art fled. Some artist hand 
 Shall frame thy statue, which with vain regrets 
 I will enfold, embracing, and thy name 
 Call over it, and, in wild fancy's dreams, 
 Seem to possess thee, when I have thee not. 
 Cold comfort this, I know, but it will heliJ 
 To ease my load of grief: — and in my dreams 
 Visiting me, thou may'st rejoice my heart. 
 For sight of those we love, however short. 
 Delights us. — 
 
 Had I but the voice and song 
 Of Orpheus, that I might the dark queen charm 
 Who reigns below, or her unpitying lord. 
 And gain thee from their hands, I would descend 
 On the glad errand : not the infernal hound, 
 Nor the grim Charon with his freight of ghosts. 
 Should stay me, till I brought thee up to life. 
 This may not be — but there await my coming. 
 When I shall die, and make my dwelling ready : 
 For we will dwell together — I will order 
 My limbs to be composed beside thine own : 
 For never, even in death, may I be parted 
 From thee, in life my only faithful friend ! 
 
 Chorus. Thy grief for her, for she is worthy of it, 
 
 T, as a friend with friend, will bear with thee. 
 Alcestis. My children, ye have heard your father say 
 
 2 B 
 
 fl 
 
ITO 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 That lie will wed no wife but me alone, 
 
 To rule o'er you, and blot my lore away. 
 Admetus. Yea, and again I say it — and will do so. 
 Alcestis. Receive then these my children from my hanu. 
 Admetus. The giver and the gift alike are dear. 
 Alcestis. Be thou their mother in their lack of me. 
 Admetus. Nature will claim it of me, when thou'rt gone. 
 Alcestis. Children, my life is setting at its noon. 
 Admetus. Alas, what more am I, deprived of thee ? 
 Alcestis. Time will relax thy grief, — the dead are nought. 
 Admetus. Take me with thee — ah, what a loss is mine ! 
 Alcestis. Even now mine eyes are weighed upon with darkness. 
 Admetus. I perish, if thou leavest me alone. 
 Alcestis. Speak of me as one dead, my time is come. 
 Admetus. Look up again — leave not thy children thus, 
 Alcestis. Heaven knows, against my will ! farewell, dear children ! 
 Admetus. Look on them once again. 
 Alcestis. I am not able — 
 
 Admetus. Ah ! art thou going from us ? 
 Alcestis. Fare ye well. 
 
 [Dies. 
 Chorus. The last is over now — thy wife is dead. 
 Eumelus. Woe, woe is me ! 
 
 My father, she is dead ! 
 
 And we are orphans! 
 
 See, see her soulless eyes — 
 
 See, see her lifeless hands ! 
 
 Answer, dear mother, answer ! 
 
 Your own, your child is calling. 
 His lips to thine — oh, speak ! 
 Admetus. She hears thee not, nor sees — alas ! my children. 
 
 We three must bear a heavy load of grief ! 
 Eumelus. And thou, my sister, too, 
 
 Must mourn our common loss : 
 
 Both in our helpless youth 
 
 Left in the world alone 
 
 With no fond mother near — 
 
 Of no avail, my father. 
 
 Have been thy marriage ties — 
 
 With her, thine house hath died. 
 Chorus. Admetus, these are woes that must be borne; 
 
 Not first nor last of men has thou been reft 
 
 Of a dear wife — we all must bow to death. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 171 
 
 Admetus. I know it: nor did tins come suddenly, 
 I knew, and muurned in prospect long ago. 
 But now, for I will go and set in order 
 The matters that pertain to her interment, — 
 Remain ye here, and chant responsive hymns 
 To the inexorable god below. 
 And to all Thessaly do I proclaim, 
 To mourn for her, and shear sepulchral locks. 
 And wear the robes of woe ; and all who ride 
 In chariots, lop your coursers' flowing manes ; 
 And let not pipe nor lute throughout the city 
 Sound by the space of twelve revolving moons. 
 For never shall I bury one more dear, 
 Nor who has loved me more ; for she alone 
 Hath died for me : therefore I honour her. 
 
 The corpse is borne out. Exeunt Admetus, children, and attendants. 
 
 . The Chorus sing a song setting forth the virtues of Alcestis, and how 
 
 she shall be celebrated, in that she hath died for her husband when 
 
 none else would, not even his aged parents ; and pray that they wtay 
 
 have such wives, but not lose them thus. 
 
 Here we will pause awhile, and call upon the reader to notice 
 the entirely different character of the poetic power of Euripides 
 from that of his two great contemporaries. There is here no 
 interest summoned from the depths of human passion — no 
 iron chain of family destiny — no superhuman sufferings — the 
 very gods who appear in the play are levelled to human capa- 
 cities, and endowed with human feelings. We shall presently 
 see this more plainly still, in the passages which follow. But 
 we have been sitting at ease long enough : see, the chorus 
 have finished their song, and our fellow Athenians are all 
 attention. What can happen to interest us, in this desolation 
 and woe ? A heavy step is heard from the side scenes — wlio 
 can this he, with his strange dress and his club ? 
 
 Enter Here ides. 
 
 Hercules. Friends, my good fellows of the land of Phcr;c, 
 Say, shall I find Admetus in the palace ? 
 
172 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Chorus. The son of Pheres is within : but tell us, 
 
 What errand brings thee into Thessaly ! 
 Hercules. I have in hand a labour for Eurystheus. 
 Chorus. Where goest thou, and to accomplish what ? 
 Hercules. To fetch the horses of the Thracian king. 
 Chorus. How may that be — know'st thou the stranger chief? 
 Hercules. No : I was never in the land of Thrace. 
 Chorus, Thou wilt not get the steeds without a struggle. 
 Hercules. Be't so : I could but undertake the task. 
 Chorus. Thou wilt return then victor, or be slain. 
 Hercules, This conilict will not be the first I've tried. 
 Chorus. And when the king is killed, what art thou better? 
 Hercules. I take the horses back, as I am bidden. 
 Chorus. But 'tis no easy thing to bridle them. 
 Hercules. Surely, unless indeed they breathe forth fire. 
 Chorus. But they tear men in sunder with their jaws. 
 Hercules. You speak of mountain wolves, and not of horses. 
 Chorus. Their mangers you will see besmeared with blood. 
 Hercules. And whom has he that bred them for his sire ? 
 Chorus. Ares,* — and he is king of golden Thrace. 
 Hercules. This is a task then which beseems my fate, — 
 
 For it is ever pressing harder on me, — 
 
 If I must always fight with sons of Arfes ; — 
 
 Lyceon first I fought, then Cycnus, now 
 
 A third awaits me, and his horses too. 
 
 Still there is no man who shall ever see 
 
 Alcmena's son from any foe retreat. 
 Chorus. Behold the king Admctus coming forth. 
 
 Enter Ad met us. 
 
 Admetus. Hail, son of Zeus, by royal Perseus' line ! 
 
 Hercules. AH joy, Admetus, king of Thessal}' ! 
 
 jJdmetus. Would it were joy ! but thou wilt feel for me. 
 
 Hercules. How now ? what means this lock in mourning shorn ? 
 
 j^dmetus. I have a funeral in hand to-day. 
 
 Hercules. Ah me ! heaven grant your children be all well! 
 
 Admetus. My children are all living in the palace. 
 
 Hercules Yonr father's time was come, if he be dead. 
 
 Admetus. No, he is living, and my mother too. 
 
 Hercules. Surely your wife Alcestis is not dead ? 
 
 * Mars, the god of war. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 
 
 173 
 
 Hercules. 
 Admetus. 
 Hercules. 
 Admetus. 
 Hercules. 
 
 Admetus. 
 Hercules. 
 Admetus. 
 Hercules. 
 
 Admetus. 
 Hercules, 
 Admetus. 
 Hercules. 
 
 Admetus. A twofold history, I may say, is her's. • 
 Hercules. But is she dead or living ? tell me that. 
 Admetus. She is, and is not, and she grieveth me. 
 
 I know no more — you speak unmeaning words. 
 Knew you not what she undertook to do ? 
 Yea, she engaged to die on your behalf. 
 How then is she alive, if thus foredoomed ? 
 Pooh ! mourn her not — it will be time hereafter. 
 Admetus. The doomed is good as dead, the dead is gone. 
 Hercules. Still to be dead, or not, hath difference. 
 
 That is your judgment : mine is otherwise. 
 Why weepest thou ? who of thy friends is dead ? 
 A woman : 'twas a woman that we spoke of. f 
 One not akin to thee, or of thy blood ? 
 Not of my blood, but otherwise allied. 
 How then did she in this thy house depart ? 
 She lost her father, and took refuge here. 
 Alas ! 
 
 Would I had found thee otherwise than mourning ! 
 Admetus. Whither doth this thine exclamation tend ? 
 Hercules. Why, now I must go seek some other host. 
 Admetus. That may not be, let not such shame befall. 
 Hercules. A guest is troublesome to those in mourning. 
 Adm£tus. They who are dead, are dead. Come, pass within. 
 Hercules. 'Tis shame to eat and drink with weeping men. 
 Admetus. My guestchambers are separate : thither go. 
 Hercules. No : let me forward, and I'll thank thee much. 
 Admetus. It cannot be that thou shouldst seek elsewhere 
 The lodging I can give thee : do thou lead, 
 
 \To a Servant.^ 
 Open the guestchambers, and to those whose duty 
 Is to attend them, bid, to set on food 
 In plenty, and shut up the middle doors : 
 It is not decent that the entertainment 
 Of guests should be defiled by sound of mourning. 
 
 {^Hercules enters, preceded by a Servant.} 
 
 Chorus. What hast thou done, Admetus ? when such woe 
 Presses upon us, wouldst thou take in guests ? 
 
 * Admetus dare not tell Hercules the extent of his misfortune, in fear that hearing it 
 he may turn away and seek entertainment elsewhere. 
 + The Greek word yvyr} means both woman and wife : whence the ambiguity. 
 
174 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Admetus. Wouldst thou have blamed me less, if I had driven 
 
 My friend out of my palace and my city ? 
 
 Then would my own bereavement be no lighter, 
 
 And I should be inhospitable held. 
 
 This stranger is the best of friends to me, 
 
 Whene'er I visit Argos' thirsty land. 
 Chorus. Why then didst thou conceal thy present loss, 
 
 If this man is thy friend, as thou aver'st ? 
 Admetus. He ne'er would have set foot within my house, 
 
 Had he but known my real calamity. 
 
 And yet he will not praise me for my guile : 
 
 But 'tis consistent with my house's custom 
 
 Never to turn back nor dishonour guests. 
 
 Chorus. House! which fate hath al way given 
 
 To the liberal and the good, 
 Under thee a Son of Heaven 
 
 Bright Apollo once abode : 
 Nor did he disdain to keep 
 In thy fields the folded sheep, 
 O'er the hills and shrubby rocks 
 Piping to the straying flocks. 
 
 Touched with heavenly music's power, 
 
 Came the spotted lynxes then. 
 Lions grim, from brake and bower, 
 
 Charmed, forsook their mountain den : 
 And the fawn with skip and glance. 
 Round thy lute was seen to dance, 
 Bounding through the trunks of pine, 
 To enjoy the sound divine. 
 
 Therefore, house, thou boastest now 
 Thine abundance, and thy dwelling 
 
 Hast where Boebe's waters flow 
 
 From their crystal fountains welling, 
 
 Westward, the Molossian land 
 
 Bounds thy ploughed and pastured strand, 
 
 All the East, thou rulest o'er 
 
 Far as the iEgean shore. 
 
 Now thy master opening wide 
 Hospitable door, receives 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 175 
 
 His great guest : but sorrow's tide 
 Flows from him : he inly grieres 
 
 For his new-departed wife, 
 
 But his honour wins the strife : — 
 
 Hopeful, we can scarce forebode 
 
 Aught but weal for one so good. 
 
 Enter Admetus with attendants, hearing the corpse. 
 Admetus. Friendly assemblage of Pherasans, now 
 
 This corpse is being borne, all rites accomplished, 
 To the sad tomb and to the funeral pyre : 
 Speak to the dead, as it is customary. 
 Now she is going forth her latest journey. * 
 
 Chorus, Thou who hast dread danger dared. 
 Nor thy happy life hast spared, 
 
 Best of women, fare thee well ! 
 If after death the pious fare 
 Happier than others, be thy share 
 Brightest crown of bliss to wear ! 
 'Mongst the highly favoured there, 
 Blessed, blessed, may'st thou dwell ! 
 
 l^Exeunt.'] 
 
 Enter the Servant appointed to wait on Hercules. 
 
 Servant. Well, T have waited on full many strangers 
 Who from all parts have sought Admetus' house. 
 And given them to eat — but never yet 
 Received I worse guest than this present one. 
 Wretch, who first saw my master deep in woe. 
 And then dared enter — and next, having entered. 
 He did not modestly take what was offered. 
 Knowing our grief: but if we brought not aught, 
 He chid and bid us bring it ; then, upholding 
 An ivied goblet, drank of the dark liquor, 
 Till the wine's flame, within him mounting, fired 
 His brain : then crowning him with myrtle, brawled 
 Strains unmelodious : so there were two sounds ^ 
 He, singing, and not caring for the grief 
 
 * Here follows a long and angry discourse between Admetus and his father, who 
 accuses him of being his wife's murderer, and not having courage to die, and is in turn 
 reproached for not dying for his son, I have ventured to omit it. 
 
176 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Prevailing in the house • and we, lamenting 
 Our poor lost mistress : for we dared not shew 
 Our wet eyes to the stranger : 'twas our orders. 
 And now I have to feast this wretch within, 
 Doubtless some arrant knave or wandering thief: 
 While she is carried forth, unseen of me, 
 Unhailed, unhonoured, who to me, and all 
 Her servants, was a mother, softening down 
 Her husband's anger. Hate I not this stranger 
 Most justly, for intruding on our woes ? 
 
 Hercules. You there ! — why look so sullen and so grand ? 
 Servants should not present sour visages 
 Unto their guests, but should receive them affably. 
 But you, beholding here your master's friend, 
 Receive him with morose and wrinkled brow. 
 Because forsooth some neighbour hath dejjarted. 
 Sirrah, come here, and I will teach thee wisdom, 
 Know'st thou not mortal matters how they stand ? 
 No — how shouldst thou know anything? then learn. 
 To die, 's a debt that all mankind must pay, 
 And there is none among them that doth know, 
 Whether he shall but live the morrow through ; 
 For fortune's game is doubtful in its issue, 
 Nor can one learn, nor master it by art. 
 Now then that thou hast learnt thus much from me, 
 Enjoy thyself, drink deep, count to-day's life 
 Thine own, and all beyond commit to chance. 
 But, above all, the kindest of the gods, 
 Fair Venus, honour thou. All other things 
 Leave to their fate, and yield to my advice ; 
 Let thy huge grief alone, and enter in, 
 And crown thyself with flowers, and drink with me; 
 I'll warrant thee, the wine-stream's joyous sound 
 Filling the cup, shall soon relax thy brow. 
 Being mortals, we should feel as mortals ought ; 
 For to the sullen and sour-visaged crew 
 Life is not life, I hold, but misery. 
 
 Servant. All this we know — but now we're suffering 
 
 Woes which admit not of such joyous treatment. 
 
 Hercules. How so ? she was a neighbour that is dead ; 
 The rulers of this house yet live and prosper. 
 
 Servant. How, live and prosper ? thou know'st not our grief. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 177 
 
 Hercules. Yea, but I do, unless thy lord deceived me. 
 
 Servant. He is but too too friendly to his guests. 
 
 Hercules. Should he have stinted me, for a neighbour's death ? 
 
 Servant. Ah ! what a neighbour ! one within our doors. 
 
 Hercules. Is there then some mischance he did not mention ? 
 
 Servant. Enjoy thyself — our master's woes are ours. 
 
 Hercules. These last words speak not sorrow for a stranger. 
 
 Servant. No, or I should not have disturbed thy mirth. 
 
 Hercules. Have I been then deluded by mine host ? 
 
 Servant. Thou camest in an hour when 'twas not fitting 
 This palace should receive thee : and thou saw'st 
 Our grief, our shorn hair and our mourning garb. 
 
 Hercules. Who is the dead ? Is any of his children 
 Departed — hath his aged father died ? 
 
 Servant. Ah! more than this ! his wife is dead, O stranger. 
 
 Hercules. What sayest thou ? and ye have entertained nie. 
 
 Servant. Yes, for he feared to turn thee from his house. 
 
 Hercules. O, my poor friend, how great has been thy loss ! 
 
 Servant. Wv. all have perished, not our queen alone. 
 
 Hercules. I guessed at something wrong, when I perceived 
 His weeping eyes, his locks of severed hair, 
 His melancholy looks : but he assured me 
 'Twas but a neighbour he was mourning thus. 
 And, 'spite my better judgment, I came in, 
 I drank within the house-of this kind host, 
 When he was wrapt in grief, — I revelled there. 
 And crowned my head with flowers. But tell me now, 
 Such deep misfortune being on the house. 
 Where doth he lay her ? where may he be found ? 
 
 Servant. Beside the road that to Larissa leads, 
 
 Just past the suburbs you will see the tomb. 
 
 Hercules. O much enduring heart ! O soul of mine! 
 Now must thou shew, what progeny was born 
 Of queen Alcmena to the King of Heaven. * 
 Now must I save this woman lately dead, 
 And set her living in this house again. 
 I will lay wait, and watch Death's black rob'd King, 
 Where I am sure to find him, drinking blood 
 From the slain victims, near the recent tomb. 
 Then from mine ambush issuing, if I seize him, 
 
 * Alcmena was mother of Hercules by Zeus. 
 
 2 c 
 
178 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 And fold him in mine arms, there is not one 
 Who can unwind him from my painful pressure, 
 Till he hath given me the woman back. 
 But if I miss my aim, and he not come 
 To taste the bloody oiferings, I will go 
 The downward road, into the sunless halls 
 Of the dark Queen below, and there will plead ;- 
 And, (for my pleading shall prevail) will bring 
 Alcestis, and restore her to her husband ; 
 Who hath received me, being in deep grief, 
 And not refused me hospitable gifts. 
 But in his generous nature, hid from me 
 His cause of mourning. Who in Tbessaly 
 Can be a worthier host ? who in all Greece ? 
 Wherefore, himself thus noble, he shall never 
 Find me a friend unworthy of his love. 
 
 [Exit.;i 
 
 Enter Admetus and train, returning from the burial. 
 
 ^dmetus. O sad heart-sickening aspect 
 Of my widowed house ! 
 What home is left for me ? 
 Whither can I betake myself, 
 To what woe first give vent ? 
 I have no pleasure now 
 In the bright light of the sun, 
 I have no pleasure now 
 In my once joyous home : 
 I envy the departed — 
 Would I were one of them ! 
 I envy those who never 
 Tasted the marriage state, 
 And childless live : they have 
 One soul alone to grieve for ; 
 'Tis more than I can bear 
 To see my children's tears, 
 And my dear bridal couch 
 All widowed and forlorn, 
 When happy and alone 
 I might have spent my days. 
 Alas ! why kept ye me 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. ltd ^^ 
 
 From joining her 1 love i 
 
 In the deep tomb, and there 1 
 
 Beside that perfect piece 1 
 
 Of wifely virtue, lying ? ':ijSM 
 
 Chorus. Thy woe is huge indeed, ^H 
 
 But thy complaints help not 
 
 The dead ; nor first of men 
 
 Hast thou the loss deplored 
 
 Of a wife chaste and good. 
 
 I had a friend by blood, 
 
 Whose only child was taken, 
 
 A boy well worth his tears :— 
 
 But the old man bore up 
 
 Under the load of grief, 
 
 Greyhaired, and verging to the grave. 
 
 Admetus. well known shape and seeming 
 
 Of mine own home ! How shall I pass 
 
 Thy doors— how dwell in thee, 
 
 Now that my lot is changed ? ^^^ 
 
 Alas ! the difference to me ! flfl 
 
 Formerly, with glad torches, ^^| 
 
 And happy wedding songs, 1 
 
 I entered thee, and holding 
 
 The hand of her I loved — 
 
 The joyous multitude 
 
 Following with shout and song, 
 
 In loudest gratulations 
 
 Of her and me, proclaiming ^g^ 
 
 That we had brought together ^^i 
 
 Two streams of princely blood ; — 9 
 
 But now, sad counterpart ,,,«J 
 
 0( those glad sounds, the threne IsB 
 
 Of hopeless woe is uttered. 
 
 And the dark robes of mourning 
 
 Form my procession thither, 
 
 To my sad widowed couch. 
 
 Chorus. Thy fortune hath been blest, 
 
 And thou untried in grief, -^ 
 
 Therefore this stroke hath come 4[H 
 
 With stronger anguish fraught : J 
 
 But thou hast saved thy life, J 
 
 And livest by her death, m^ 
 
180 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Admetus. Friends, I esteem the lot of my lost partner 
 More blest than mine, although if seem not so : 
 For upon her no grief shall ever light, — 
 With glory hath she ceased from all her labours : — 
 But I, when it my duty was to die, 
 My fate o'erpassing, shall but lead a life 
 Of dreary sorrow : I perceive it now. 
 How can I bear to enter this my house ? 
 Whom hailing, or by whom addressed, can I 
 Meet kind reception ? Whither shall I turn ? — 
 Within, the desolation drives me out, 
 Seeing her well-known haunts deserted all, 
 Her couch, her seat — and missing her nice care 
 Of all things there : my children too will fall 
 About my knees, and weep : my servants moan 
 For their lost mistress, and her virtues praise. 
 Such are my woes within ; — from public life 
 The sight of others' wedded bliss will drive me. 
 And woman's voice, oft heard : for I can never 
 Endure to see the mates of my lost wife. 
 And all mine enemies will point, and say : 
 ' See the base man who did not dare to die, 
 ' But, his own spouse betraying, by his baseness 
 ' Escaped from death — hath he the heart of man ? 
 ' And hates his parents, who on his behalf 
 ' Refused to die, — himself the courage lacking.' 
 Such ill report will to my griefs be added : 
 How then am I the better for my life, 
 Both ill at ease, and ill reported also ? 
 
 Chorus. I too have been borne along 
 
 Through the airy realms of song. 
 I have searched historic page 
 Full of truths of every age : — 
 But no fetter can I find 
 Able Fate's strong course to bind : 
 Neither in the Thracian verse 
 Which sage Orpheus did rehearse. 
 Nor in what drugs, strong to save, 
 Phoebus to Asclepius gave. 
 Of the immortals only one, 
 Image hath she not, nor throne, 
 Sacrifices loves she none : 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 181 
 
 O revered in strenglh and state 
 Press not on me, mighty Fate, 
 With a power of woe too great ! 
 E'en the sire of men and gods, 
 After thy stern pleasure nods ; 
 E'en the edge of tempered steel 
 Shall thy prouder temper feel : 
 Nor doth thy cruel spirit know 
 Compassion for our human woe. 
 
 Thee, Admetus, in the bands 
 Of her stern unyielding hands, 
 Hath she taken : but resign 
 To her thy life — it is not thine 
 By thy weeping to restore 
 Those who look on light no more. 
 Even the bright sons of Heaven 
 To dimness and to death are given. 
 She was loved when she was here, 
 In death too we hold her dear ; 
 Let not her hallowed tomb be past 
 As where the common dead are cast ; 
 Let her have honour with the blest 
 Who dwell above ; her place of rest 
 When the traveller passeth by. 
 Let him say — ' Within doth lie 
 She who dared for love to die. 
 Thou who now in bliss dost dwell, 
 Hail, blest soul ! and speed us well.' 
 
 But here, as seemeth me, Alcmena's son 
 Is to thy palace hearth approaching near. 
 
 Enter Hercules, leading a woman veiled. 
 
 Hercules. One may speak freely to a friend, Admetus, 
 And not retain offence within one's bosom : — 
 I, then, had claim to be considered worthy 
 To know, and bear a part in these thy griefs : 
 But thou didst hide from me Alcestls' death. 
 And entertainedst me within thy house, 
 As if all this were for a neighbour's loss. 
 And I have crowned my head, and poured libations. 
 In thy sad dwelling. Trust me, I do blame thee : 
 
182 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Yea, to thy charge I lay it, that I did this : — 
 But I will cease, nor add rebuke to grief. 
 But why I came, returning from my course, 
 Was thus : — I beg of thee to take and keep 
 For me this woman, while I go and bring 
 The Thracian horses, having killed their master; 
 And if aught ill should chance, (which heaven avert) 
 Retain her as thy servant. With much toil 
 She came into my hands: — at certain games 
 Which I fell in with, she was the chief prize ; 
 And T (for base I held it to decline 
 Such contest) strove, and won her. But, again. 
 Take her, and keep her: ere long time hath past, 
 Thou wilt commend me. 
 Admetus. Not as dishonouring thee, or holding thee 
 Among the base did I conceal from thee 
 My wife's sad fortune : but grief unto grief 
 Would have been added, had I suffered thee 
 To seek another host : and grief was here 
 Sufficient. For this woman, 1 beseech thee 
 Some other put in charge with her, whose lot 
 Hath not been sad as mine, (many there are 
 In Pherse) nor remind me of my woes. 
 For I could not, beholding her, be free 
 From constant tears : add not to one heart-sick 
 Fresh cause of anguish : I have load enough. 
 Moreover, where should such a woman dwell. 
 Young as she is ? for by her gait and garment 
 She should be young ; — should it be with the men ? 
 How could she then escape pollution's touch ? 
 We cannot curb the young : I speak, my friend. 
 As pleading thine own cause. Shall she inhabit 
 The chamber of my lost one ? how can I 
 A stranger introduce there ? for I fear 
 Two-fold reproach — one from the people here. 
 Who will accuse me, having her betrayed 
 Who died for me, of taking a new wife ; 
 And from the dead, for she hath ample claim 
 To be remembered, and her memory honoured. 
 But, woman, whosoe'er thou art, know this. 
 Thy stature and thy gait doth much resemble 
 Mv lost Alcestis — woe is me — remove 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 
 
 183 
 
 This woman from my sight, lest she entrap me : 
 
 For I could think I see my very wife, 
 
 Looking on her : it doth stir up ray heart. 
 
 And fill mine eyes with tears : ah wretched me ! 
 
 How deep the bitter of this draught doth reach ! 
 Chorus. Thou art not prospering : but it behoves, 
 
 However suffering, not to send her from thee ; — 
 
 Take this deposit from the son of Jove. 
 Hercules. Would that I had such power, as to bring back 
 
 Thy wife into the light, from the dark realms 
 
 Below, and shew thee this surpassing favour ! 
 Admetus. I know thou wiliest it — but to what end ? 
 
 The dead can never see the light again. 
 Hercules. Be reasonable in thy grief, Admetus. 
 Admetus. ' Pis easier to advise than to endure. 
 Hercules. What profit will it be, always to mourn ? 
 Admetus. None, I know well : but my desire impeaches 
 
 My knowledge, and persuades me to lament. 
 Hercules. Love of the dead is that which starts thy tears. 
 Admetus. Oh, I am lost with her, beyond all utterance ! 
 Hercules. A faithful wife thou beyond doubt hast lost. 
 Admetus. Yea, so that life no more is joy to me. 
 Hercules. Time will wear out the anguish, now so strong. 
 Admetus. Yea it is true ; but death will be the time. 
 Hercules. A bride will staunch it, and another's love. 
 Admetus. Be silent, speak not thus ! for this I loflked not. 
 Hercules. What, will you be a widower all your life ? 
 Admetus. No other wife shall ever lie beside me. 
 Hercules. Will this be any profit to the dead ? 
 Admetus. Nay : but where'er she is, she shall be honoured. 
 Hercules. 'Tis well, 'tis well : but you'll be charged with folly. 
 Admetus, Thou never shalt call me a bridegroom more. 
 Hercules. I do commend thee for thy constant love. 
 Admetus. Then may I die, whene'er I shall betray her, 
 
 Though she be nothing. 
 Hercules. Take, I beg of thee, 
 
 This woman, and admit her to thine home. 
 Admetus. Nay, ask me not, by Zeus that did beget thee. 
 Hercules. Thou wilt err grievously not doing this. 
 Admetus. And, if I do it, grief will rend my heart. 
 Hercules. Be ruled — compliance may turn out your gain. 
 Admetus. O that thou never hadst obtained this prize ! 
 
]84 
 
 1 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Hercuks. 
 
 Now that I have, thou also hast o'ercome. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Have I ? then let this woman be removed. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Yes, if she must— but art thou doing right ? 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 I am — unless indeed thine ire be roused. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 I am thus eager, knowing more than thou. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Well, have thy way : but not my will consents. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Hereafter thou wilt praise me; only yield. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Take her within, if she must enter there. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 I will not loose her for thy slaves to take her. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Take her within then, if thou wilt, thyself. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Nay, I will place her in thine hands alone. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 I will not touch her— she may enter in. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Thine hand alone will I entrust with her. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Force me not, I beseech thee, to do this. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Take courage : reach thine hand and touch the stranger. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 As to a deadly Gorgon, I extend it. 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Thou hast her ? 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Yea. 
 
 Hercides. 
 
 Now keep her, and confess 
 
 The son of Zeus is no ungrateful guest. 
 
 Look now upon her, (unveiling her) if she seem to thee 
 
 Like thy departed wife — and change from mourning 
 
 Into great joy. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Oh heavens ! what do I see ! ■ 
 
 A sudden and unlooked for miracle ! m 
 
 I see indeed my very wife again. 1 
 
 Oi 
 
 doth some scornful vision from the gods, M 
 
 Delude me into joy ? f 
 
 Hcrctdes. 
 
 This is no vision : 
 
 It 
 
 is thy wife indeed. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Take heed it be no phantom from the shades. 
 
 Hercules, 
 
 I am no guider up and down of ghosts. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 Do I then see my wife whom I have buried ? 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 The same : distrust thy happiness no longer. 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 May I but touch and speak to her as living ? 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Speak to her : thou hast all thy soul did wish. mt 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 sight and person of my dearest wife, j^l 
 
 Unlooked for I possess thee — for my hopes ^^^^^| 
 
 Reached not to this. iHI 
 
 Hercules. 
 
 Thou hast her : may no grudge ■ 
 
 From the high Heaven be on thee ! | 
 
 Admetus. 
 
 thou illustrious son of greatest Zeus, 
 
 
 ■ 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 
 
 185 
 
 Blessed be thou, and may thy Sire divine 
 Have thee in his high keeping ! thou alone 
 Hast raised me up again. But tell me how 
 Thou hast procured her rescue from the grave ? 
 
 Hercules. By joining light with the dark king of death. 
 
 Admetus. Where did this struggle happen ? 
 
 Hercules. By the tomb 
 
 I seized him in my hands and bore her off. 
 
 Admetus. Why doth she stand so long bereft of speech ? 
 
 Hercules. She may not speak to thee, till all be done 
 In order due to appease the gods below, 
 And the third morning from this present, come. 
 Take her within : and as thou hast begun. 
 Continue to be generous to thy guests. 
 And now farewell : I go, my bidden labour 
 To finish, for the son of Sthenelus. 
 
 Admetus. Tarry with us, and be our guest awhile. 
 
 Hercules. Some time hereafter — now I must use haste. 
 
 Admetus. Good luck go with thee ! and return victorious ! 
 
 \_ETit Hercules.^ 
 
 To all my people I do now proclaim 
 To raise the dance at this my blessed fortune, 
 And load the altars with glad sacrifice. 
 For we have changed our former evil lot : 
 And thankfully confess our boundless joy. 
 
 Chorus. Manifold are the changes 
 
 Which Providence may bring : 
 
 Many unhoped for things 
 
 God's power hath brought about : 
 
 What seemeth, often hajjpeneth not, 
 
 And for unlikely things 
 
 God findeth out a way : 
 
 Thus hath this matter been. 
 
 l^Exeunt.^ 
 
 Presuming our readers to be weary of the length of this play 
 and chapter, we will add no farther remarks ; but will subjoin 
 two poems on the subject of the drama, from the loftiest of 
 our poets, and the sweetest of our poetesses. 
 
 The first of these is Milton's beautiful sonnet — and we are 
 
 2 D 
 
 n 
 
186 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 \\dlling to appeal to any of our readers, after our Chapter on 
 the Alcestis, against Dr. Johnson's judgement : * 
 
 ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
 
 Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave : 
 
 Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, 
 
 Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. 
 
 Mine, as whom washed from spot of childhood taint. 
 
 Purification in the old law did save, 
 
 And such, as yet once more I trust to have 
 
 Full sight of her in heaven without restraint, 
 
 Came vested all in white, pure as her mind : 
 
 Her face was veil'd : yet to my fancied sight 
 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined 
 
 So clear, as in no face with more delight. 
 
 But O ! as to embrace me she inclined, 
 
 I waked ; she fled ; and day brought back my night. 
 
 The other is from the sweetest of our Enghsh poetesses : need 
 we write, after saying this, FeUcia Hemans ! 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS, " 
 
 She came forth in her bridal robes arrayed, 
 And 'midst the graceful statues, round the hall 
 Shedding the calm of their celestial mien. 
 Stood pale, yet proudly beautiful, as they : 
 Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
 Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, 
 And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death ! 
 Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
 Of love, o'ermastering love^ which, till that hour, 
 Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
 Of its unutterable tenderness, 
 Had burden 'd her full soul. But now, oh ! now, 
 Its time was come — and from the spirit's depths, 
 The passion and the mighty melody 
 
 * ' He lost his wife and he has honoured her memory with a poor sonnet. (!)'— 
 
 Lives of the Poets, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. X. 1S7 
 
 Of its immortal voice, in triumph broke, 
 Like a strong rushing wind ! 
 
 The soft pure air, 
 Came floating through that hall; — the Grecian air, 
 Laden with music — flute-notes from the vales, 
 Echoes of song — the last sweet sounds of life ; 
 And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
 Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form, 
 The glorified of love ! But she — she look'd 
 Only on him for whom 't was joy to die. 
 Deep — deepest, holiest joy ! — or if a thought 
 Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, 
 And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide 
 Of her unswerving soul — 't was but a thought 
 That own'd the summer-loveliness of life 
 For him a worthy off"eiing ! — so she stood, 
 Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile, 
 Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
 With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, 
 As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
 Of inborn oracles ! — then flush'd her cheek, 
 And all the triumph, all the agony. 
 Borne on the battling waves of love and death, 
 All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 
 Burst like a fount of fire, 
 
 " I go, I go ! 
 
 Thou Sun, thou golden Sun, I go, 
 Far from thy light to dwell ; 
 
 Thou shall not find my place below. 
 Dim is that world — bright Sun of Greece, farewell 5 
 
 The Laurel and the glorious Rose 
 
 Thy glad beam yet may see, 
 But where no purple summer glows, 
 O'er the dark wave / haste from them and thee 
 
 Yet doth my spirit faint to part ? 
 
 — I mourn thee not, O Sun ! 
 Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart, 
 Sing me triumphal songs !— my crown is won ! 
 
 Let not a voice of weeping rise ! 
 My heart is girt with power! 
 
 1 
 
188 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Let the green earth and festal skies 
 Laugh as to grace a conqueror's closing hour ! 
 
 For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord, 
 
 Thee, ray soul's loved ! I die j 
 Thine is the torch of life restored, 
 Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory ! 
 
 Now may the boundless love, that lay 
 
 Unfathom'd still before, 
 In one consuming burst find way, 
 In one bright flood al], all its riches pour ? 
 
 Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now ! 
 
 Its glory and its might — 
 Are they not written on my brow ? 
 And will that image ever quit thy sight ? 
 
 No ! deathless in thy faithful breast. 
 
 There shall my memory keep 
 
 Its own bright altar-place of rest, 
 
 While o'er my grave the cypress branches weep. 
 
 —Oh ! the glad light !— the light is fair, 
 
 The soft breeze warm and free, 
 And rich notes fill the scented air. 
 And all are gifts — my love's last gifts to thee ! 
 
 Take me to thy warm heart once more ! 
 
 Night falls — my pulse beats low — 
 Seek not to quicken, to restore, 
 Joy is in every pang — I go! I go ! 
 
 I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 
 
 I meet thy fond look still ; 
 Keen is the strife of love and death ; 
 Plaint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 
 
 Yet swells the tide of rapture strong. 
 Though mists o'ershade mine eye: 
 — Sing, Psean! sing a conqueror's song ! 
 For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die ! " 
 
1 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE BIRDS OF ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 Often during our present labours liave we been assailed with Ancient 
 complaints of tbe heaviness of ancient lore. The intervals Comedy. 
 which separate the nations of antiquity from ourselves are not 
 overlooked and annihilated, save in the minds of the gifted 
 and few. Genius alone can hold commerce with genius : and 
 rolhng ocean, or intevening ages, form to such commerce no 
 barrier. But the majority of our readers are not men of 
 genius. The very names of these Greeks frighten them. 
 They imagine them musty old fellows with long beards, and 
 longer faces : philosophers, lawgivers, and the hke. Little 
 know they what laughters, loud and long, have shaken those 
 venerable cloak-enveloped sides : little do they imagine how 
 the staid and severe Athenian audience ' haw-hawed' (as Sam 
 Slick would say) ' i-ight out ' for hours together at the never- 
 equalled drolleries of their comic poets. 
 
 As in every other department of classic literature, so here 
 especially the ravages of Time must be deplored. A few plays 
 of Aristophanes, himself but one of a fine constellation of wits, ^^.j^^^ ,^.,, 
 are all that his hand has spared, except a few fragments scat- 
 tered up and down, in miscellaneous quotation. 
 
 The play with which we have headed this chapter, is per- 
 haps the chef dmivre of Aristophanes. For drollery of con- 
 ception, beauty of language, variety of interest, it stands 
 unrivalled in the Comedy of any age. 
 
 In presenting such a play to the English reader, much in- 
 dulgence must be allowed us. Many of the witticisms, 
 adapted to the circumstances of the times, and founded 
 
 nes. 
 
 ■ 
 
190 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 frequently on local puns, will carry no force with, them, when 
 rendered into another language and placed before men of ano- 
 ther age. It is only by an imaginary and unnatural state of 
 mind that the scholar can fully partake of the exquisite relish 
 of Attic humour ; and such an eifort we cannot expect the 
 common reader to make, even when in possession of the neces- 
 sary information. We shall therefore take great Kberties with 
 our author : our object being to please rather than to inform ; 
 and to entice rather than weary. 
 Argument. Two Athenians, (with hard names, which we will drop) 
 sick of the bustle and wrangling of their native city, have set 
 out on an expedition in search of an easy life. Their journey 
 is a strange one. They are going to the birds of the Air ! 
 A raven and a jackdaw are their guides. They are advancing 
 upwards, among the rocks and trees. Here we go up, up, up, 
 is the order of the day. Gravity, in both senses of the word, 
 is to them as nothing. They are ' righte merry fellows.' Still 
 up they clamber. ' I have no nails left on my fingers,' says 
 one, ' with following this brute of a jackdaw.' ' ^VTiere in the 
 world are we?' says the other. ' Och dare, och dare,' cries 
 the first, ' its we that have been cheated ! that spalpeen at tli' 
 gameshop sould us yon brace o' brutes to shew us th' way to 
 the king o' the birds, and they're o' no use at all at all — ther's a 
 far then gone for the jackdaw, and three for the raven. Look 
 at the fool of a bird pointing right on. It isn't I that's going 
 down over them clifis to plase you, my jewel ! ' 
 
 2nd Athenian. There's no path here. 
 
 \st Athenian. Doesn't your raven point us either way .? 
 
 2nd Athenian. No : she says nought but croak, cvoak, as before. 
 
 \st Athenian. Wliy, here's a hardship ! we two want to go 
 Straight to the crows, and have packed up our all, 
 And then can't find our way ! Why, there are many 
 Would give their eyes to be Athenians : 
 And we two, citizens by birth, have fled 
 On both our feet, not out of disrespect 
 To the old place, but to avoid the squabbles 
 Of law courts and the like, — and ta'en this journey, 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 191 
 
 With all our moveables, to th' king o' the birds, 
 
 To find some place where we may live at ease, 
 
 If such his Majesty knows. 
 2nd Athenian. Look, look ! 
 
 Vst Athenian. What now ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. Yon raven, croaking with its beak on end. 
 1st Athenian. The jackdaw too gapes upwards : 'tis a sign 
 
 That birds are dwelling somewhere hereabout. 
 
 Let's make some noise, and we shall ascertain. 
 2nd Athenian. You'd better kick the rock with both your feet. 
 \st Athenian. You with your head would make the hollower sound. 
 2nd Athenian. Take up a stone and knock. 
 1st Athenian. Well then, here goes, (knocks.) 
 
 Ho there, within ! 
 2nd Athenian. Don't shout so boisterously : 
 
 Remember, 'tis his Majesty you call. 
 \st Athenian. Your Majesty! Come out, your Majesty ! 
 
 Don't make me knock again, your Majesty ! 
 
 (A water bird called a Ruuner comes out, the servant of the 
 king of the birds.) 
 
 Runner. Who wants my master ? Who on earth are you ? 
 
 1st Athenian. Pre— sarve us, what a s?m/Zow / 
 
 Runner. Help ! help ! help ! 
 
 Two bird-catchers are come ! 
 1st Athenian. What art' afraid of? 
 
 Stand still and treat us civilly. 
 Runner. Pest upon ye ! 
 
 1st Athenian. He thinks we're men — my jewel, ive're not men. 
 Runner. What then ? 
 
 1st Athenian. I'm Thingumbob, a bird of Lybia. 
 
 Runner. And who's your friend ? What bird d'ye call your friend ? 
 2nd Athenian. I'm Cock o' wax, a bird o' the Pheasant tribe. 
 1st Athenian. And you — by all the pow'rs, what beast are you ? 
 Runner. I am a slave. 
 
 1st Athenian. Has some game cock subdued you ? 
 
 Runner. Me ? no — but when my master was transformed 
 
 Into a bird, he prayed that I might also 
 
 Become a bird, that I might be his servant. 
 1st Athenian. Do birds want servants then ? 
 Runner. Why, if he wishes, 
 
 Remembering old dayf, when he was man. 
 
192 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 A dish of fish, — T run and fetch it him : — 
 
 If he would have bean broth, I run and bruise them. 
 
 Is* Athenian. Well then, my Runner, call your master to us. 
 
 Runner. He is asleep, just having had his luncheon, 
 Some myrtleberries and a gnat or two. 
 
 \st Athenian. Cannot you wake him ? 
 
 Runner. He'll be mighty sulky : 
 
 Still, ii you rmsh it, I will go and wake him. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 2nd Athenian. Bad luck go with ye ! I'm half dead with fear. 
 
 1st Athenian. Woe's me, my jackdaw's taken fright, and fled. 
 
 2nd Athenian. You coward — 'twas your fright that let him go. 
 
 1st Athenian. Ha! and your raven, you've let him go too ! 
 
 2nd Athenian. Not I. 
 
 \st Athenian. Where is he then ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. He's fled. 
 
 Is* Athenian. Brave fellow ! 
 
 You tumbled down for funk, and he flew off. 
 
 Enter Hoopooe, the King of the Birds. 
 
 Hoopooe. Open the forest branches — give me way. 
 
 Is* Athenian. St. Pathrick — what a baste ! where did ye get 
 
 Your wings ? who set the fashion of your crest ? 
 Hoopooe. Who seeks me ? 
 Is* Athenian. May all the gods who dwell above, 
 
 De — (aside) — stroy your ugly phiz. 
 Hoopooe. Kind gentlemen, 
 
 I pray you mock me not : I know, my wings 
 
 Are somewhat funny : I was once a man. 
 Js* Athenian. It is not you we laugh at, noble sir. 
 Hoopooe. What then ? 
 Is* Athenian. Your beak has such a comical turn. 
 
 Are you a fowl, or a peacock ? 
 Hoopooe- I'm -a fowl. 
 
 Is* Athenian. Where are your feathers then ? 
 Hoopooe. They're fallen ofl^. 
 
 Is* Athenian. By some disease ? 
 Hoopooe. Oh no : we birds all moult 
 
 In winter time, and have new plumes in spring. 
 
 But who are you ? 
 \st Athenian. We? mortals. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 193 
 
 Hoopooe. On what errand 
 
 Are ye come hither ? 
 \st Athenian. Wishing to speak with thee. 
 
 Hoopooe. Concerning what ? 
 }st Athenian. Why, in the first place, 
 
 You have been once a man, as we are now : 
 
 And you have once owed debts, as we do now : 
 
 And have loved shirking them as we do now : 
 
 And then you took the nature of a bird. 
 
 And have been flying over land and sea, 
 
 With all the knowledge of both bird and man. 
 
 Wherefore we come to you as suppliants, 
 
 And beg of you, if you can, to point us out 
 
 Some nice soft place to live in, in whose comforts 
 
 One may enwrap one'sself, as in a blanket. 
 Hoopooe, Seek you a larger town than your own Athens ? 
 Ist Athenian. No, not a larger — one that suits us better. 
 Hoopooe. Oh ho ! you want an aristocracy ! 
 1st Athenian. Pah ! I abhor the very mention of it. 
 Hoopooe. What kind of city then are ye in search of? 
 1st Athenian. One where there is no more serious business 
 
 Than to receive one's neighbour in the morning 
 
 And hear him say : ' up and prepare yourselves, 
 
 You and your children: I have a wedding toward.' 
 Hoopooe. Just such a city lies upon the shore 
 
 Of the Red Sea. 
 1st Athenian. I will not live by the sea : 
 
 Those horrid galleys will be coming for us. 
 
 How should we live up here, among the birds ? 
 
 You've tried it, and can tell us. 
 Hoopooe. Passably : — 
 
 First, you must learn to live without a purse. 
 Is* Athenian. One nuisance then at least will be removed. 
 Hoopooe. And then our food is buckwheat in the gardens. 
 
 The myrtlebeiTy, poppyseed, and spearmint. 
 \st Athenian. Your life is a perpetual marriage feast. 
 2nd Athenian. Ha ! a thought strikes me : be advised by me ; 
 
 I have a scheme shall bring you wealth and power. 
 Hoopooe. What is it ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. Why, this : — ye now are flying 
 
 Hither and thither, ranging up and down, 
 
 2 E 
 
194 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Things of no purpose and no settled life. 
 
 Collect yourselves together : build one city. 
 Hoopooe. Where is the site to be ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. Idiot ! look downward. - 
 
 Hoopooe. Well — 
 
 2nd Atheniayi. Now look upward. 
 
 Hoopooe. Well — 
 
 2nd Athenian. And now turn round 
 
 Your head, and look about you on all sides. 
 Hoopooe. Thank you, — and twist my neck off. 
 2nd Athenian. Seest aught ? 
 
 Hoopooe. Yes — clouds and sky. 
 2nd Athenian. Well, are not these your city ? 
 
 Fortify these, and you may govern men, 
 
 And starve the gods out. 
 Hoopooe. How ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. Why thus : the air 
 
 Lies mid way between earth and heaven : well then, 
 
 Just as we ask a passage thro' Boeotia, 
 
 If we would go to Delphi, so, when men 
 
 Sacrifice to the gods, unless the latter 
 
 Pay you a toll, you stop the savoury smells 
 
 From passing through your city. 
 Hoopooe. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Why, by the earth and all its fowling nets, 
 
 I never heard a better thought than this : 
 
 I will establish this same city with you, 
 
 If all the other birds consent to it. 
 2nd Athenian. Who is to tell the matter to them ? 
 Hoopooe. You. 
 
 They were barbarians when I came to them, 
 
 But I have taught them language. 
 2nd Athenian. How will you summon them ? 
 Hoopooe. Most easily : 
 
 I will just hop into the bush close by, 
 
 And wake my love, the nightingale ; and we 
 
 Will call them ; — when they hear us they will come. 
 2nd Athenian. O, best of birds, let there be no delay; 
 
 Go to the bush and wake the nightingale. 
 
 Hoopooe. Come, companion, cease thy slumbers; 
 Sweetly pour thy holy numbers. 
 
 I 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 195 
 
 Mournful through thy passioned throat ; 
 Trilling liquid melodies 
 Through the sombre-branched trees, 
 
 Till the pure strain's echo float 
 Up among the halls above. 
 Where the god who song doth love 
 Shall respond with ivory lyre 
 From amid the blessed quire : 
 And from heavenly voices sent 
 Swell the high accompaniment. 
 
 [The nightingale sings.] 
 
 2nd Athenian. There was a voice ! It seemed to flood the thicket 
 
 With liquid honey. 
 1st Athenian. Canst thou not be silent? 
 
 Look, the Hoopooe prepares himself to sing. 
 
 Hoopooe. Epopoi, popopo, popoi, popoi. 
 Come my fellows of the wing, 
 Ye who chirp, and }'e who sing : 
 AH ye tribes devouring seed 
 On the glebe and in the mead, 
 All who watch the broken clod 
 When the ploughmen onward plod, 
 With your small pipes gently twitting, 
 Tio, tio, tio, tio, tio, tio, tio, tio : 
 And all ye in gardens sitting ; — 
 Ye who eat the mountain berries, 
 Ye who peck the crimson cherries, 
 Come, come, come : 
 Trioto, trioto, trioto, tobrix. 
 Ye who in the marshy mead 
 On the sharp mosquito feed. 
 Ye who run amid the dew 
 In the herbage crisp and new ;-^ 
 Ye who skim the ocean's breast, 
 Hither hasten with the rest : 
 Hither, all ye birds that be : 
 Come and listen, come and see. 
 Here's arrived a clever man 
 With a new and subtle plan : 
 Hither, all ye birds that be : 
 Come and listen, come and see. 
 
196 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Chorus. {Approaching.) 
 
 Torotorotorotorotorotinx. 
 
 Kikkabaw, kikkabavv. 
 Torotorotorotolililinx. 
 
 2nd Athenian. Are any birds in sight ? 
 Is* Athenian. Not that I see, 
 
 And yet I have been gaping up some time. 
 
 Enter a Flamingo. 
 
 Flamingo. Toro tinx, toro tinx. 
 
 2nd Athenian. Here comes a bird. 
 
 \st Athenian. By Jove he is a bird ! 
 
 What does he call himself? Is he a peacock ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. Our friend can tell us : — Sir, what bird is this ? 
 
 Hoopooe. Not one that you shall meet with every day : 
 He is a lake-bird. 
 
 2nd Athenian. He is bright and flaming. 
 
 Hoopooe. Likely enough : for he is called Flamingo. 
 
 \st Athenian. Look, don't you see what crowds of birds are coming ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. O king Apollo ! what a cloud of them ! 
 We cannot see the day-light for their wings. 
 
 Hoopooe. Here they are coming : let me introduce them ; 
 
 This is a partridge ; this a snipe ; these wild ducks ; 
 This is a halcyon. There you see an owl ; 
 And here come more : here is the screaming jay, 
 The turtledove, the lark, the finch, the pigeon, 
 The hawk, the stockdove, the redleg, and the cuckoo. 
 The firetail, and the screechcock, the ossifrage. 
 The robin, the butcher bird, and woodpecker. 
 
 1«^ Atlienian. M} , what a lot of birds, 
 
 My, what a pack of blackbirds ! 
 
 How they cry pip pip pip. 
 
 And hop about and chirp ! 
 
 Ah ! they are flying at us ! look, they are pecking 
 
 At you and me 
 
 2nd Athenian, I fancy so myself. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Popopopopopopopopoi. 
 Who wants me ? 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 197 
 
 Hoopooe. Here I am : 
 
 No where else. 
 Chorus. Tititititimprow ; 
 What have you 
 To say to me ? 
 Hoopooe. A capital thought, 
 A famous proposal ; 
 Here are two men 
 Clever and crafty. 
 Chorus. Where ? Where ? Men, did you say ? 
 Hoopooe. Yes — there are come two old ones from the men, 
 Bringing proposals of a glorious scheme. 
 
 The Chorus howeyer considers the whole race of men as 
 hostile, and commences an attack on the two Athenians, who 
 fall to abusing one another for having led them into the 
 scrape. However the Chorus at length decides that it is as 
 weU to hear what the men have to say before they set to work 
 to pluck and tear them. The proposal is expounded : the 
 Chorus lays aside its hostility : and the action of claws and 
 beaks is suspended. The Athenian than harangues the tribes 
 of birds. He apprises them that they once had the empire 
 over all things, but that the gods had taken it from them : 
 that they were once in high honour, but now every fowler 
 spreads snares for them, and every boy throws stones at them. 
 Those things must no longer be so — ^let them build a city in 
 the air, between heaven and earth : let them not permit any 
 thoroughfare from one to the other, either for gods or men 
 without tribute and leave granted : the advantages will be 
 innumerable. "We will give our readers a taste of this part of 
 the dialogue : — 
 
 Hoopooe. But how will men suppose that we are gods, 
 
 And not crows rather, while we wear these wings ? 
 1st Athenian. Pooh, pooh, why Hermes sports a set of wings, 
 
 And he's a god ; and there are more examples ; — 
 
 And Iris, — Homer says she's like a pigeon. 
 
 You've Victory, with golden wings, and Love too, — 
 Hoopooe. But will not Zeus send thunderbolts and smash us ? 
 }st Athenian. Well, then your way is clear : if they despise you, 
 
198 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 "And stick to their old gods, send a detachment 
 
 Of sparrows, and peck up their seed in autumn : 
 
 And then let the corn-goddess give them victuals. 
 2nd Athenian. Apologies she'll give them, but no victuals. 
 \st Athenian. And then let crows be sent, and let them dig 
 
 The eyes out of their farming stock, and sheep : 
 
 And let Apollo heal them : he's a doctor, 
 
 And a w^ell paid one, too. 
 2nd Athenian. Let no such thing 
 
 Be done, T pray you, till I've sold my oxen. 
 \st Athenian. Then, if they think you gods, and reverence you. 
 
 Give them all good things. 
 Hoopooe. Tell me one of them. 
 
 1st Athenian. Why first, the locusts shall not eat their grapes 
 
 When in the flower ; for you can send a guard 
 
 Of owls and screechcocks to devour the locusts. 
 
 Then worms and maggots shall not eat their figs, 
 
 For a few thrushes shall soon suck them down. 
 Hoopooe. Aye, but how give them wealth ? that's what they love. 
 \st Athenian. Why, don't you know, that, when one hears a secret, 
 
 One says, a little bird saw this or that ? 
 
 Well, just so you will tell them precious secrets. 
 
 And then again, seamen will never perish. 
 Hoopooe. How so ? 
 \st Athenian. Why you birds dwell aloft, and know 
 
 All sorts of weathers, and the signs of them ; 
 
 So you can say, now sail — now stay at home. 
 2nd Athenian. Ah ha ! I'll buy a boat, and not stay here. 
 \st Athenian. ~ And you can shew them treasures, which were hidden 
 
 In secret, when none saw but gods and birds. 
 2nd Athenian. Oh, oh ! I'll sell my boat and buy a spade, 
 
 And dig up pots of gold. 
 Hoopooe. But how shall we 
 
 Give them long life ? Old age is from the gods. 
 1st Athenian. How ? give them some of yours — your croaking raven 
 
 Lives out five lives of men. 
 2nd Athenian. I clearly see 
 
 Men will be better off than under Jove. 
 
 The Athenians have Avorked themselves into favour ; the 
 Chorus is mightily pleased: the speaker and his assenting 
 foolish friend are invited in, and treated handsomely. Then a 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 199 
 
 long piece follows from the Chorus, peculiar to the Attic 
 comedy, in which they turned and addressed the spectators, 
 and touched wittily on the scandal or politics of the day. 
 This present piece is full of beauty, and is one of the most 
 elegant pieces of refined wit, almost bordering on elegant 
 poetry, in our author. It begins (and we must content our- 
 selres with the beginning) 
 
 Come, ye race of mortal men, ye foliage of a year, 
 
 Ye little-doers, forms of clay, ye fleeting shadowy tribes, 
 
 Ye creatures of a day, whose life is but a dreamy tale, 
 
 Listen to us immortal ones, whose being has no end, 
 
 Who dwell in air, who grow not old, whose counsels ever last, 
 
 That yon may hear of lofty themes from us who know them all. 
 
 First there was Chaos, and black Night, and Hell's abysmal deep ; 
 No earth, nor air, nor sky. But first, in deepest Hell below, 
 Black-feathered Night brought forth an egg, the offspring of the wind, 
 Whence, in completion of the time, beautiful Love was born. 
 Glittering with golden wings, and swift as airy blast of Heaven. 
 He from old Chaos first begat our own immortal race. 
 
 And so they proceed, thinking evidently no small things of 
 themselves, detailing all the advantages which men gain from 
 them, and which would accrue to the spectators from being 
 birds likewise. But now prepare for the re-entrance of our 
 two Athenians. Ha ! here they are. But bless us, what 
 figures ! The Hoopooe has shewn them an herb, by eating 
 which they have grown wings, thinking they should get on 
 but badly among the birds without them. 
 
 1st Athenian. Thus be it then : — well, if I ever saw 
 
 So laughable a sight in all my life ! 
 2nd Athenian, What are you laughing at ? 
 1st Athenian. Why, at your wings ! 
 
 D'ye know what you are like ? For all the world 
 
 Like a goose drawn with chalk upon a door! 
 27id Athenian, And you are like a blackbird with his head shaved. 
 Hoopooe. Well, now to business. 
 1*^ Athenian. First we must agree 
 
 To give our city some name, great and sounding ; 
 
 Then we must sacrifice. 
 
200 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 2nd Athenian. I think so too, 
 
 Hoopooe. Well now, what name shall we adopt for the city ? 
 
 2nd Athenian. Let it be some great mouthy word, derived 
 
 From clouds, and other things up in the air. 
 Is* Athenian. What's your opinion of CLOUDCUCKOOVILLE ? 
 Hoopooe. Excellent! excellent! a splendid name ! 
 
 So the new city is christened accordingly. Then come a tribe 
 of needy people to pay their respects : first conies a Priest to 
 sacrifice to the gods : he, you may conceive, finds Httle favoiir : 
 then comes a ragged Poet with odes to the fame of Cloud- 
 cuckooville : among other strains, he takes up Edgar's in 
 Lear : 
 
 Poet. Tom's a-cold, Tom's a cold, 
 Over the snow he wanders, 
 Never a coat, never a coat. 
 You twig ? 
 \st Athenian. T see — he wants a coat. Here, slave, boy, strip : 
 Give him your jacket. There, now go away. 
 
 Then comes a Soothsayer, and delirers all sorts of oracles about 
 the city in pompous verses. 
 
 \st Athenian. Are all these oracles written in your book ? 
 Soothsayer. Here, take the book, and see. 
 \st Athenian. Well, now 'tis my turn to speak oracles. 
 They differ somewhat, but are just as true. 
 
 ' When uncalled, a quack shall come, 
 And disturb your sacrifices. 
 And shall hore you with his nonsense, 
 Thrash him soundly, spare him not.' 
 
 Soothsayer. This is no oracle. 
 
 \st Athenian. Here, take the book. 
 
 \^Beating him.'] 
 
 This settles him : but no sooner is he gone than a Sm-veyor ap- 
 pears, to measure the air for them : then follow an inspector of 
 Works, and a Clerk of the Law Courts with blank Acts of 
 Parliament, who are all treated no less unceremoniously. 
 
 Now (after another comic song by the Chorus) messengers 
 come, one to announce that the wall is built round the city — 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 201 
 
 that the birds have done it themselves : — the cranes bringing 
 the stones, the storks the bricks, the moorhens the water : the 
 herons the mortar: the pehcans were the carpenters: — and 
 now all is finished, and watch and ward is kept as in a city of 
 defence. Another messenger brings fearful news — that one 
 from the gods has just lighted down in the city, having escaped 
 the guards. On this pursuit is given, and the offender taken. 
 It proves to be Iris, the messenger of the gods and goddesses. 
 She is immediately taken before the authorities. We give a 
 part of the examination. 
 
 Is* Athenian. Who are you ? whence d'ye come ? 
 
 Iris. From the gods in heaven. 
 
 \st Athenian, What is your name ? 
 
 Iris. Iris the swift, the heavenly messenger. 
 
 }st Athenian. Have you a passport ? 
 
 Iris. Me a passport ' Are you mad ? 
 
 \st Athenian. I ask again — wliere is your passport ? 
 
 Iris. I have none, and I want none. 
 
 \st Athenian. Want none ! a cool proceeding this is truly, 
 
 To fly through foreign cities without passports ! 
 lirs. Why ? which way else should the gods fly to earth ? 
 \st Athenian. That's your aff'air. This way you go not : that's all. 
 
 You gods must learn to reverence your betters. 
 
 But tell me, whither fly ye, and for what ? 
 Iris. From Father Zeus down to the race of men, 
 
 To order them to ofl"er sacrifices 
 
 Such as are fitting to the gods above, 
 
 And send sweet savours up. 
 \st Athenian. What gods did you say ? 
 
 Iris. What gods ? why, us in heaven : what others aie there ? 
 \st Athenian. THE BIRDS are the GODS that mankind worship now, 
 
 To them they sacrifice, and not to you. 
 
 After a few more minutes dialogue, mixed with some choice 
 abuse, they part. The next scene presents to us various Athe- 
 nian scamps and outcasts, who finding life below uncomfortable, 
 come up to try that in Cloudcuckooville, and to have wings 
 given them. This gives rise to much Attic slang, highly amu- 
 sing to the auditors, and to those who are versed in such lore, 
 
 2 F 
 
202 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 but not likely to interest our readers. But who comes here ? 
 An old friend to the reader. 
 
 Enter Prometheus, muffled in a cloak. 
 
 Prometheus. Alas, alas, for Zeus will surely see me ! 
 
 1«< Athenian. Heigh ho, what's this! why do you cloak yourself? 
 
 Prometheus. Is any of the gods pursuing me ? 
 
 ist Athenian. No, not that I see : but who i' th' world are you ? 
 
 Prometheus. What time of day is it ? 
 
 \st Athenian. Just after noon. 
 
 But what are you ? 
 
 Prometheus. Is it near even-tide ? 
 
 \st Athenian. Bah ! what a bore ye are ! 
 
 Prometheus. What's Zeus about ? 
 
 Are his cloud-curtains drawn, or are they open ? 
 
 ]«f Athenian. Hang you. 
 
 Prometheus. Here, look at me, and see my face. — [Uncloa/cinff.'\ 
 
 } St Athenian. My dear Prometheus! 
 
 Prometheus. Hush, hush — not so loud. 
 
 You'll be a ruined man, if Zeus should hear you. 
 Here, take this umbrella, — hold it over me, 
 That the gods may not see — then we can talk. 
 
 1st Athenian. Ha, what a thought Promethean : here, get under : 
 Now chatter at your ease. 
 
 Prometheus. You mark me well — 
 
 \st Athenian. I'm listening — all attention. 
 
 Prometheus, (whispers in his ear) Zeds is ruined. 
 
 1st Athenian. Ha ! when did that take place ? 
 
 Prometheus. Why, ever since 
 
 You colonized the air. For no man now 
 Does sacrifice to Zeus, or to his gods : 
 Nor from that time does any savoury smell 
 Come up to heaven : 'tis fast day there, I tell ye. 
 And all the half-caste gods, shivering with hunger, 
 Come jabbering up to Zeus, and threaten him. 
 Unless he opens all the ports, and gives them 
 Their daily meals of knotlings and of tripe. 
 They'll no more bear it, but make war against him. 
 
 1st Athenian. What, are there half-caste gods, besides yourselves ? 
 
 Prometheus. Aye, to be sure : and one thing I will tell you, 
 An embassy is on the road to you 
 From Zeus, and from the half-castes, to make peace; 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XI. 203 
 
 But listen not to them, unless he offers 
 
 To give the sceptre back unto the Birds, 
 
 And for yourself, his Princess for a wife. 
 Is* Athenian. Who is this Princess ' 
 Prometheus, A most beautiful nymph, 
 
 Who kneads up thunderbolts for Zeus, and brews 
 
 All his designs. 
 1st Athenian. Why, she's his housekeeper then. 
 
 Prometheus. Exactly. If you get her, you get all : 
 
 To tell you this was why I ventured hither, 
 
 For I have always loved the race of men. 
 1st Athenian. Aye, I believe you smuggled fire in for us. 
 Prometheus. Yes, and 1 hate the whole race of the gods ; 
 
 I am a perfect Timon to the gods. 
 
 But give me my umbrella — I must go. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Tlie play closes with an embassy from the gods, terminating 
 in the result above contemplated: viz. the marriage of the Prin- 
 cess with the inventive Athenian, and the giving back of their 
 ancient power and prerogative to the birds. A messenger from 
 Zeus comes leading in the bride, and the Chorus concludes with 
 hymenseal songs. 
 
 1st Athenian. Come to the wedding, come, 
 All ye companion tribes, 
 Come to the genial feast; 
 Stretch thy fairest hands, my love, 
 Touch the tips of both my wings; — 
 Let us nimbly dance a lay. 
 
 [Ex-eunt dancing.'\ 
 
 Thus we have endeavoured to give our readers a specimen of 
 the broad humour of the old Comedy in a play, which for pure 
 comic power is certainly the masterpiece of Aristophanes. In 
 rendering this Athenian drollery into English, much must be 
 lost: many classic allusions dropped, on which frequently the 
 point of the witticism depends, and plays on words, which often 
 occur in the original, entirely omitted. For to modernize these 
 jokes is to parody, not to translate ; and to give you our own 
 
204 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 attempts, not the elegancies of Aristophanes. But we would 
 at the same time hope that enough remains even in a translation, 
 to prove the position which we undertook at the beginning of 
 this Chapter — ^that our ancient friends were not always the hea- 
 vy long-faced sages which Englishmen are apt to fancy them — 
 but that they did often relax, not into the decorous and classic 
 smile, but into the echoing horse-laugh, which their sides re- 
 membered the next day. Only imagine the grotesque effect of 
 a Chorus on the stage, composed of croAvs and owls and jack- 
 daws, and hoopooes and cranes and storks, hopping and twit- 
 tering and clattering each his imitation, and thrilling their 
 toro toro toro tore toro toro toro, 
 tilililililililinx, * 
 
 kikkabaw, kikkabaw, 
 and sidehng into all manner of absurd attitudes. And then the 
 ludicrous proposal for building a city in the air and starving 
 out the gods — the thousand odd things which happen in con- 
 sequence. —Prometheus with his umbrella — the embassy from 
 heaven, and the mongrel god who talks bad Greek — ^imagine 
 the effect of all this on an audience exquisitely sensitive to the 
 laughable and droll — and whose love of hearing new things was 
 gratified by continual allusion to the gossip of the day, in every 
 way travestied and made jest of, — and you may have some faint 
 idea of the pleasm-e of an Athenian assembly at the performance 
 of this play. 
 
 In some of the other plays of this author, he ndiciiles by 
 name, the political, philosophical, and poetical characters of 
 his day. Socrates the great and good, ^schylus the sublime, 
 Sophocles the exquisite artist in verse, Euripides the tender 
 master of passion, all in their turn are brought on the stage and 
 made the laugh of the audience. In one instance there is a con- 
 test between iEschylus and Euripides, and they pick faults in 
 each other's poetry, and most amusing it is. 
 
CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 THEOCRITUS AND THE PASTORAL POETS. 
 
 " Methinks it were a happy life, 
 
 To be no better than a homely swain ; 
 
 To sit upon a hill, as I do now. 
 
 To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 
 
 Thereby to see the minutes how they run : 
 
 How many make the hour full complete, 
 
 How many hours bring about the day, 
 
 How many days will finish up the year, 
 
 How many years a mortal man may live. 
 
 When this is known, then to divide the times : 
 
 So many hours must I tend my flock ; 
 
 So many hours must I take my rest ; 
 
 So many hours must I contemplate ; 
 
 So many hours must I sport myself; 
 
 So many days my ewes have been with young ; 
 
 So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 
 
 So many years ere I shall shear the fleece ; 
 
 So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, 
 
 Pass'd over to the end they were created. 
 
 Would bring white hairs mrto a quiet gi-ave. 
 
 Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! 
 
 Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade 
 
 To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, 
 
 Than doth a rich embroider' d canopy 
 
 To kings that fear their subjects' treachery ? 
 
 0, yes it doth : a thousand fold it doth. 
 
 And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds, 
 
 His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 
 
 His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, 
 
 AU which seciu-e and sweetly he enjoys, 
 
 Is far beyond a prince's delicates, 
 
 His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 
 
 His body couched in a curious bed, 
 
 When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him." 
 
 Shakspcarc. King Hen. VI, Part III- 
 
 Pastoral Poetry forms a department by itself, belonging 
 essentially to one age and one state of mind. It is engen- 
 dered by the action of elegant and civilized feelings, on tbe 
 
206 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 yet existing remnants of rtiral and simple life. It never could 
 be imagined by the people whom it describes : nor reahzed by 
 those who imagined and who take pleasure in it. It is the 
 homage which cultivated intellect pays to the pleasures of the 
 fields and woods, the valleys and brooks. And on the other 
 hand, it implies the need of the very cultivation which takes 
 men out of the country, to impart a zest to those delights. 
 So that it is necessarily, as far as actual realities are concerned, 
 a false kind of poetry : but not so, considered with reference 
 to the powers and yearnings of our common nature. 
 
 In no department of Poesy has so much trash been MTitten 
 as in this, and in none are the examples of excellence so few. 
 Among the perpetrators of the former we have to reckon some of 
 our own great names, and some of those of other ages and climes. 
 Of our own, Pope, Phillips, Lord Lyttelton, Wither, Shen- 
 stone, may be designated writers of pastoral trash, the sole 
 effect of which has been to degrade pastoral poetry, truly so 
 called. But we have had great names in this, as in every 
 other species of poetry ; Spencer was a pastoral poet of the 
 first order : so also were Browne, the author of Britannia's 
 Pastorals, and Drayton, the poet of the Polyolbron. ' Sweetest 
 Shakspeare, fancy's child, warbling his native wood-notes wild,' 
 must not be forgotten, though we have not much from him 
 directly pastoral : yet what can be more truly so than that 
 most beautiful play, ' As you like it ?' What, than parts of 
 the 'Midsummer Nights' Dream?' What, than the 'Tem- 
 pest?' Phineas Fletcher too, the author of 'The Purple 
 Island,' is a great pastoral poet. In modern times too, and 
 especially since the revival of our poetry, we have others : 
 Cowper shines in his pastoral descriptions : Keats has imbibed 
 the very spirit, not unmixed with much that is undesirable, 
 of the idyl writers of Greece : Alfred Tennyson has almost 
 out-done them, in his ' CEnone,' by far the most beautiful 
 classic poem of the present day. 
 
 These remarks may serve to raise the anxiety of our readers 
 to be acquainted with the idyls, or pastoral eclogues, of the 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 207 
 
 Greeks, which are, in this way of writing, the types of all 
 that have come after. The principal writer of these, Theo- 
 critus, was a SiciHan, and flourished about the beginning of 
 the third century before Christ ; some time, therefore, after 
 the great masters of Grecian song, Avith specimens of whose 
 works DUX readers have already been presented. 
 
 The eytant works of Theocritus form a considerable volume, 
 abounding with exquisite poetry, and unrivalled descriptions 
 of rural scenery and pursuits. We will give our readers 
 detached extracts, first premising that the volume consists of 
 many separate poems, entitled idyls, or, as the Latins called 
 them, eclogues : that these idyls are of a semi-dramatic form, 
 sometimes narrative, sometimes dialogue. We must further 
 state that many of the idyls contained in the usually received 
 volume were not composed by Theocritus : but that we shall, 
 not being now anxious about such matters, give to Theocritus 
 that which editors and the pubhc have usually assigned to 
 him. The most beautiful in the set are undoubtedly his. 
 Only one thing more remains to be stated : viz., that he wrote 
 in the Dorian dialect, one pecuUarly suited to his subjects, as 
 possessing a simplicity, and, at the same time, a richness 
 capable of enouncing words expressive, in the highest degree, 
 of natural beauty. 
 
 In the first idyl, a shepherd and a goatherd meet under a 
 whispering pine-tree, which responds to the gush of a little 
 stream. The shepherd is a poet, and one who knows many 
 ancient legends. The goatherd is desirous to hear him sing : 
 the subject is to be the lay of the woes of Daphnis, a youth 
 who pined away for love. Promises of gifts are made to 
 induce biTn to comply — a she-goat abundant in milk, and a 
 goblet, of which the following is the description : — 
 
 A wooden goblet too, with sweet wax polished, 
 
 New, and two-handled :— of the tool yet smelling. 
 
 All round its rim the supple ivy twineth, 
 
 With green and gold-bright leaves : between whose branches 
 
 Climbs amaranth, proud with its yellow clusters. 
 
208 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Within the cup, divinely carved, a woman 
 
 Is wrought, with robe and tiar : and by her standing, 
 
 Two youths with flowing hair contend to please her : 
 
 But she is nothing moved, smilingly looking 
 
 On each in turn, while they for love's vexation, 
 
 Straining each nerve, in vain their toil are spending. 
 
 Hard by, an ancient fisherman is plying 
 
 His trade on a steep rock, his net preparing 
 
 To cast into the sea : like one that labours 
 
 With all his might, he seems : the very sinews 
 
 All round about his neck are strained and swelling; — 
 
 His hair is gray, but his youth's strength is with him. 
 
 A little way beyond this old sea-farer, 
 
 A vineyard blushes with its purple branches : 
 
 The which a little knave is set to watch o'er. 
 
 Perched on the fence : and near him are two foxes ;— 
 
 One up and down the vineyard gnaws the vintage : 
 
 The other has her sly eye on his wallet, 
 
 And by her look she says she will not leave him 
 
 Till she has filched his dinner. He with footstalks 
 
 Of asphodel a cricket-trap is platting, 
 
 And tying it with rushes : nor for his wallet 
 
 Cares he, nor for the vine-plants, half so much as 
 
 The cunning of his hands that knave delighteth. 
 
 All round the cup, on every side, is winding 
 
 The lithe acanthus. A rare jiiece, I tell thee : 
 
 And thou wilt say it. Of a Calydonian 
 
 Who hither sailed, I bought it ; and I gave him 
 
 A bearded goat, and cake of white milk curded : — 
 
 Nor has it touched my lip, but I have kept it 
 
 Unsoiled. This goblet gladly will I give thee. 
 
 If thou wilt sing to me the song I bid thee. 
 
 The request is granted, and a very beautiful song it is. But 
 we can only pause on it, in our way to greater beauties, to 
 notice one passage, which, has furnished our Milton with some 
 exquisite lines in his Lycidas. 
 
 Where were ye, nymphs, where were ye, when young Daphnis 
 Was pining to his death ? In the fair valleys 
 Of Tempe, by Peneiis, or on Pindus ? 
 For ye were not by the Sicilian waters, 
 Nor Etna's top, nor Acis' sacred fountain. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 209 
 
 Thus Milton : 
 
 Where were ye, nyinphs, when the remorseless deep 
 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie: 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads ber wizard stream. 
 
 We should not omit to mention that the dirge for Lycidas is 
 conceived by Milton after this very song of Theocritus, and 
 contains many passages in common wdth it. 
 
 The seventh idyl is one of exceeding beauty. Three rustics idyi vir. 
 are going to the feast of harvest home in the island of Cos. 
 In the person of one of them the idyl is spoken. Two land 
 ovrners of noble family are giving the feast. The travellers 
 have not yet accomplished half their journey, when they meet 
 a friend, a keeper of goats, who is a singer of rural songs. 
 His address to them is too beautiful to be omitted : 
 
 Friends, whither fare ye in the burning midday, 
 
 When in the stone fence sleeps the weary lizard, 
 
 And from their flight the crested larks are resting ? 
 
 Are ye to some feast bid ? or do ye hasten 
 
 To tread some neighbour's wine press ? for your journey 
 
 Is heard afar, and every stricken pebble 
 
 Makes music on your sandals. 
 
 Then I answered : 
 My friend, all speak thee skilled in sweetest music : 
 They say that none among the boors or neatherds 
 Surpasseth thee : wherefore it gives me pleasure 
 To try my strength with thine : — our way thou askest , 
 
 Is to the harvest home ; our friends are holding 
 A feast to bounteous Ceres, and are offering 
 The first fruits of their store, which she hath lavished 
 In measure full into their barns. But hear me : 
 Since thou art going with us, let some ditty 
 Be sung by each, for each will hear delighted. 
 
 The proposal is accepted, and the songs are sung : but it is 
 to the passage following them that we would especially call 
 the attention of our readers : 
 
 2 G 
 
210 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 We sung, and parted; he the left road taking; 
 
 We making for the grounds of Phrasidamus : 
 
 There Eucritus and I, and fair Amyntas, 
 
 Reclined on branches of the fragrant lentisk, 
 
 And vine-leaves newly cut, our pleasure taking. 
 
 Above our heads elms and tall poplars rustled : 
 
 And a pure fount hard by of sacred water 
 
 Came trickling from its cave with soothing murmur. 
 
 In the thick boughs the shrill cicalas jinging 
 
 Plied their loud work : and from the distant thicket 
 
 The thrush piped loudly. Overhead the skylark 
 
 Sung, and the painted goldfinch : and the turtle 
 
 Plaintively coo'd : and yellow bees were humming 
 
 Hither and thither round the running water. 
 
 There was a goodly smell around, of summer 
 
 And her rich gifts that deck the golden autumn. 
 
 Ripe pears were at our feet, and blushing apples 
 
 Fell on each side: and with the bloomed plum bending 
 
 Thick branches swept the ground. 
 
 This description has never been surpassed in Pastoral Poetry ; 
 in the original the Hnes are the most musical that can he 
 imagined, and add, by their music, to the beauty of the pas- 
 sage, in a way which those cannot conceive who have not the 
 luxury of knowing that divine language. We shall now pass 
 on to the most dramatic of the idyls of Theocritus, entitled, 
 The ' The women celebrating the feast of Adonis.' The scene of 
 
 AdoniazusED. ... . 
 
 this idyl is at Alexandria : the time, during the reign of 
 Ptolemy PhUadelphus. At the feast of Adonis, it was cus- 
 tomary for matrons to dress and ornament his statue, and to 
 take it and wash it in the sea. The persons introduced are 
 
 Gorge. ) 
 
 \ two Sicilian tvomen, but now settled at Alexandria. 
 Praxtnoa. ) 
 
 An old woman. 
 
 A stranger. 
 
 Another stranger. 
 
 Scene. — Praxinoa's house in the suburbs of Alexandria. 
 
 Got (JO {withoat.) 
 
 At home, Praxinoa ? 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 211 
 
 Praxinoa. At home : why, gossip Gorgo, 
 
 How late you are — well, 'tis my only wonder 
 
 That you have come at all. Here, Eunoe, 
 
 Fetch yonder chair for the lady ; get a cushion 
 
 And place upon it. 
 Gorgo. Thanks ; it can't be better. 
 
 Praxinoa. Be seated then. 
 Gorgo. Ah ! what a spirit I have 
 
 For battling through all troubles ! scarcely could I reach 
 
 Your door in safety, for the mob and chariots : 
 
 Police and soldiers thronging every where ; — 
 
 'Tis a hard way— you live too far from me. 
 Praxinoa. And all because that fool, my lord and master, 
 
 Chose, at the end o' th' town, to buy this hole. 
 
 No house, Tm sure — that we might not be neighbours : 
 
 And I have quarrelled with him ever since. 
 Gorgo. Call not your husband Dinon such hard names 
 
 Before the child : see how he stares at you. 
 Praxinoa. So ; cheerly, boy ! 't was not papa we talked of. 
 Gorgo. He takes ! — the infant takes it. Nice papa .' 
 Praxinoa. That 'nice papa' the other day, (we call 
 
 All things 'the other day') went forth to buy 
 
 Nitre and rouge, to deck me for this day, 
 
 And brought me nought but salt — the gawky lout! 
 Gorgo. And mine's his very double : a mere pest 
 
 Of cash : five fleeces bought he for seven drachmas 
 
 But yesterday ; such things! mere hair of dogs. 
 
 Or pluckings of old bags, all waste, no profit. 
 
 But come, your cloak put on, and your brooched tunic; 
 
 Let us be off to Ptolemy's high palace, 
 
 To see this grand Adonis : for they say 
 
 The queen has noble doings to display. 
 Praxinoa. Aye, aye : the proverb says, ' grand men, grand things :' 
 
 What one has seen, hereafter one can tell. 
 Gorgo. It should be time to go : — you idle ones 
 
 Are ever keeping holiday. 
 Praxinoa. You, Eunoa, 
 
 Take up your wool, and take care how you leave it 
 
 Thus on the floor again. Cats will lie softly. 
 
 Come, stir thee, bring some water : first, some water 
 
 Is wanting ;— do but see her, how she brings it — 
 
 Give it me notwithstanding — not so much I 
 
212 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Pour not so fast — you've wetted all my tunic ! 
 
 Hold. Well — I've washed, as far as fate would let ine : — 
 
 Where is the large chest key ? bring it me here. 
 Gorgo. Praxinoa, how that folding tunic suits you ! 
 
 Tell me how much it cost you from the loom. 
 Praxinoa. Pray sjjeak not of it — for two silver minee 
 
 Would not have cleared it : and upon the work 
 
 I spent my very soul. 
 Gorgo. But it has paid your labour. 
 
 Praxinoa. Well ; now you praise it, 'tis a pretty tunic. 
 
 Bring me my cloak and parasol. Dispose it 
 
 In graceful folds about me. — No, child, no : 
 
 I won't take you : — bah bah ! horse bites ! Ah, cry 
 
 As you think proper, but you shan't be lamed. 
 
 Phrygia, play with the child ; — call in the dog, 
 
 Shut the hall door. 
 
 {The sce7ie changes to the public road near the torvn.'\ 
 
 Heav'ns ! what a crowd is here ! 
 
 How shall we pass them all, and when ? like ants, 
 
 There is no number, nor no end to them. 
 
 — Many good deeds, O Ptolemy, are thine : 
 
 Since to the gods thy father was reaioved, 
 
 No robbers, after Egypt's former fashion, 
 
 Deceive the traveller : but before, sly villains 
 
 Played their false games upon unwary men. 
 
 Ah ! dearest Gorgo, what will happen to us ? 
 
 Here are the chargers of the king. Good neighbour, 
 
 Don't trample me — yon bay one, how he rears! 
 
 How wild he is ! Eunoa, keep oif from him ! 
 
 He'll kill the man that leads him. I'm right glad 
 
 I left my child within. 
 Gorgo. Be comforted : 
 
 We are behind them now : they have past on. 
 Praxinva. Ah, now I feel myself again. Your horse, 
 
 And your cold snake, have ever frighted me, 
 
 Ev'n from a child. Come, let us hasten on : 
 
 What multitudes are pressing us behind ! 
 Gorgo. (addressing an old woman.) 
 
 Good mother, from the palace ? 
 Old Woman. Aye, my children. 
 
 Gorgo. Well, is it easy to get in ? 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 213 
 
 Old Woman. The Greeks 
 
 Got into Troy by trying. My good girls, 
 
 All things are done by trial. 
 
 \She ])asses them.'\ 
 Gorge. The old soul 
 
 Has left us with an oracle to solve. 
 Praxinoa. Women know all things — even what the gods 
 
 Say to each other. 
 Gorgo. Look, Praxinoa, 
 
 What thousands are about the palace doors ! 
 Praxinoa. Myriads! here, Gorgo, give your hand to me: 
 
 You, Eunoa, take Eutychis by the hand : 
 
 Look to her, lest you lose her : — let us enter 
 
 Thus all together; — Eunoa, keep close; — 
 
 Ah mei my cloak is rent ! My dearest man. 
 
 As you'd be happy, let alone my cloak. 
 Stranger. I cannot move — I'll save it, if I can. 
 Praxinoa. Faugh! what a crowd! they thrust and poke like swine. 
 Stranger. Be happy, ladies : we're in safety now. 
 Praxinoa. This year, and next, good neighbour, may you thrive, 
 
 For taking care of us. What a kind man ! 
 
 Our Eunoa is squeezed — come, force thy way ; 
 
 So — it is well : we're all in, as he said 
 
 Who shut his chamber door his bridal night. 
 Gorgo. Praxinoa, look here ! this work in colours, 
 
 How thin and beautiful ! the goddesses. 
 
 You'll say, themselves have wrought it. 
 Praxinoa. Athenaea! 
 
 What spinsters ever wrought the like of this ? 
 
 What painters ever painted these ? How true 
 
 The animals are standing ? How they seem 
 
 Even to move ! They must be living things, 
 
 Not woven work. Man is a clever thing ! 
 
 How beautiful Adonis lies, extended 
 
 On silver bed, his temples clothed around 
 
 With the first tresses of his youthful hair : 
 
 Thrice loved Adonis, lovely ev'a in death ! 
 Another Stranger. Cease with your clatter, women : you mar all 
 
 With your barbariau noise, * 
 
 * The stranger, being an Alexandrian, is offended with the Dorian dialect, wlJch 
 these good wives spoke in all its breadth. 
 
214 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Gorgo. Well, who are you ? 
 
 What business is't of yours, if we are chattering ? 
 
 I beg you'll rule your own : do you presume 
 
 Thus to lay down the law to Syracusans ? 
 
 I tell you we're Corinthians by descent,* 
 
 As was Bellerophon : and we talk, sir. 
 
 As Peloponnesians talk : I should imagine 
 
 Dorian women may in Dorian speak. 
 Praxinoa. Goddess of human births ! may never man 
 
 Be born who shall rule me : one does, indeed : 
 
 Well, 'tis no matter : for thou need'st not wipe 
 
 An empty dish for me. f 
 Gorgo. Silence, Praxinoa ; 
 
 The clever Argive singer is preparing 
 
 To sing the song in praise of young Adonis. 
 
 Sure, 't will be something clever : hark, already 
 
 She quavers up and down by way of prelude. 
 
 Here follows a song in praise of Adonis, exceeding sweet, but withal not 
 so delightsome for our readers as much which must be left out of this 
 Chapter, if it be iiiserted. The song ceases. 
 
 Gorgo. Praxinoa, what a clever thing ! How happy 
 Is she in knowing this ! and how thrice happy 
 For singing it so sweetly ! Well, 'tis time 
 For us to go : my husband wants his dinner : 
 And then he's vinegar's self. May you ne'er meet him 
 When he is hungry! Well — farewell, Adonis : 
 Be happy, thou and thine, beloved Adonis ! 
 
 This idyl will have furnished our readers with the most 
 faithful and amusing sketch on record of the domestic life of 
 the lower orders of Greeks. We wiU now pass to another 
 Idyl XXI ^^^^ of heauty. The twenty-first idyl is entitled ' The Fisher- 
 men,' and consists of a dialogue between Asphalion and his 
 partner,' prefaced by a description from the poet. 
 
 * Syracuse was a colony of Corinth. Bellerophon was son of Glaucus, king of 
 Corinth. 
 
 + In rendering this very difficult passage, I have supposed the one man to mean her 
 hasband : and the following Unes to imply that she cares not for his rule ; and prays 
 not to be delivered from it, the dish being already empty, so that wiping it is no object. 
 I do not say I am satisfied with this rendering : but it is a choice of evils. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 21.') 
 
 'Tis poverty alone that makes the arts : 
 'Tis she that teaches labour : for thick cares 
 Permit the working man not ev'n to sleep. 
 
 Two aged fishermen together lay, 
 On the dry seaweed, 'neath their hut of boughs, 
 Against the leafy wall : and near them lay 
 The labour of their hands : their lobster-pots. 
 Their rods, and hooks, and weedy baits oft-used ; 
 Old ropes, and eel-traps, mazes wrought of rush. 
 Lines, and two oars, and an old fishing-boat 
 Fixed on its stays ; and underneath their heads 
 Was a poor mat, and on it their few clothes. 
 And hats : this was the whole the fishers had, 
 These all their wealth : no drinking pot was theirs, 
 No measure for their corn : all such things seemed besi(!e 
 The toil by which they lived : and poverty 
 Was their best friend; no neighbour had they near : 
 But ever by their worn hut's side, the sea 
 Made murmur with its ripples gently heaving. 
 Nor yet the car-borne moon held half her course, 
 When their accustomed toil the fishers woke : 
 And waking, thus they one to other sang : — 
 
 Asphalion. They err, my friend, who tell us that the nights 
 
 Grow short in summer, when the days are long. 
 
 Already have I seen a thousand dreams, 
 
 And yet it is not day. Have I forgotten ? 
 
 Or have the nights in verity grown long ? 
 Partner. Blame you the i)leasant summer ? For the time 
 
 Glides not at its own will : care, which divides 
 
 Your sleep asunder, makes your nights seem long. 
 Asphalion. Can'st thou interpret dreams ? Mine have been good : 
 
 And I am loath to hide the vision from thee ; 
 
 For as our toil, so should we share our dreams. 
 
 Besides, just now there's leisure; for what else 
 
 Can occupy us, seeing that these leaves 
 
 Form not a couch inviting us to sleep, 
 
 And all the lamp we have to aid our toil 
 
 Is the town lantern in the public hall, 
 
 No other — that indeed is ever lit. 
 Partner, Tell me thy dreams, and open all thy care. 
 Asphalion. Well ; in the evening, when I fell asleep, 
 
216 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 (Not having over-supped, if you remember, 
 For our last meal was early, and we stinted 
 Our appetites) I seemed to see myself 
 Reclining on a rock: from whence I fished, 
 And from my rod shook the enticing bait. 
 One large fish took it; (for as dogs of meat, 
 We fishers dream of fishes) on the hook 
 He hung, and his blood flowed : my rod bent double. 
 With his fierce struggles. Straining both my hands, 
 I laboured much to laud the. monster fish 
 With tackle weak as mine-. Then, to remind him 
 Of the hook's place, I gently struck him ; then 
 Loosed line again, and when he fled not, pulled. 
 At length I drew him up : a fish of gold ! 
 All over yellow gold ! Dread seized on me, 
 For fear he were some sacred fish, by Neptune 
 Beloved, or azure Amphitrite, his spouse. 
 Gently I loosed him from the clinging hook, 
 Lest any gold should hang upon its barb. 
 Next in my landing net bearing him ofi', 
 I carried him to shore : and then I made 
 An oath that I would go to sea no more, 
 But keep ashore, and live upon my gold. 
 With this thought I awoke ; now tell me, friend, 
 Thy judgment : for I fear the oath I swore. 
 Partner. Be not afraid: you swore not: for you have not 
 The golden fish : both dreams were false alike. 
 But if in sober truth you fish that place, 
 Hoping from this your dream, — seek fish of flesh, 
 And fly from starving, though on dreams of gold. 
 
 One or two more beauties of Theocritus Avill detain us awhile 
 from the other pastoral poets. In an idyl entitled ' The Little 
 Hercules,' the following delightful description occurs : 
 
 Once on a time Alcmena in the ev'ning. 
 
 When Hercules was ten months old, and younger 
 
 But one night, little Iphicles his brother. 
 
 Having first washed them both, and from her fair breast 
 
 Filled them with milk, in the great buckler placed them, 
 
 The brazen buckler, which from Pterelaus 
 
 Her husband won in war. Then, the heads touching 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 217 
 
 Of both her babes, she spoke : ' Sleep, my sweet babies, 
 
 A soft and waking slumber. Sleep, my darlings, 
 
 Two brothers dear; — be your night-hours safe guarded — 
 
 Happy your slumbers be, your waking happy ! ' 
 
 This said, she rocked the shield, and sleep fell on them. 
 
 Now when the Bear at midnight to the westward 
 Is turned, and bright Orion shews his shoulder 
 Over against it, Hera,* in her treachery. 
 Sent to the threshold broad two mailed dragons. 
 Gleaming with azure folds : and when the doorposts 
 Leave space for entrance, into the dark chamber 
 She let them, urging them with threats, to make for 
 The infant Hercules, and there devour him. 
 They on the ground their spiry folds unrolling. 
 Glided with murderous speed : while from their eyeballs 
 Flashed lurid fire, and from their jaws dripped venom. 
 When near the infants they were now approaching, 
 Then (so great Zeus had ordered it) the children 
 Woke both together, and throughout the chamber 
 Shone a bright light. The one cried out in terror, 
 When he beheld the evil beasts above him. 
 Over the broad shield looking, and displaying 
 Their pitiless teeth ; and kicked the woolly blanket, 
 Striving to fly : but Hercules, the other 
 Springing upright, with both hands seized the monsters. 
 Under their throats, where lie their bags of poison. 
 Which even gods detest ; the tortured serpents "" 
 
 Wound their dark volumes round the boy, the suckling. 
 The lately-born, who knew not fear nor wailing : 
 But soon unwound again beneath the pressure 
 Of the hard grasp, in vain for lifebreath writhing. 
 
 Alcmena heard the crying and awoke first. 
 ' Amphitryon, rise: I am in sudden terror : 
 ' Hearest not how the younger of our children 
 ' Shrieks with alarm ? Rise, and do not tarry 
 ' To bind thy sandals. Dost thou perceive the chambers 
 ' Shine with bright light when yet it is not dawning ? 
 ' Some dreadful thing is in the house, dear husband.' 
 She spoke, and from the bed Amphitryon started : 
 And went for his great sword, which always ready 
 Hung on a nail above the cedar bedstead. 
 
 * Juno, the enemy of Hercules. 
 2 H 
 
218 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 First for the thong he felt, then the vast scabbard 
 He lifted with the other hand, and freed it : 
 For darkness now again had filled the chamber. 
 Therefore he called the servants, hoarsely breathing 
 In sleep around ; ' Bring light from oflF the hearthstone, 
 ' And open all the doors. Rise up, my servants : 
 ' The master calls.' Soon came with lights the household, 
 And filled the chamber, each one blithly hastening. 
 But when they saw young Hercules, the nursling, 
 Clasping the monsters in his tender fingers, 
 They all exclaimed, and smote their hands together; 
 But he held out the serpents to his father, 
 And leapt on high with infant joy triumphant, 
 Laughing, and throwing down before Amphitryon 
 The ghastly monsters, now in death relaxing. 
 Then fair Alcmena took to her own bosom 
 Iphicles, stifiF with fear and loudly shrieking : 
 The while Amphitryon in the lambswool blanket 
 Wrapped the young Hercules ; then back returning 
 To his own bed, betook himself to slumber. 
 
 One more, and that a morsel, from the Sicilian poet. It is a 
 small epigram, addressed to a friend on the loss of his goat : 
 the metre is that of the original : 
 
 Ah, thou poor Thyrsis, what boots it if thou in weeping 
 Ceaselessly night and day, floodest thine eyesight away ' 
 
 Gone past hope is thy kid, to the land where all must follow : 
 Wolf with his nails of horn thy beautiful darling hath torn. 
 
 The dogs bark after the thief, but not one limb can they rescue : 
 Thou hast not, to tempt thee to weep, even his ashes to keep. 
 
 The other principal pastoral poets of Greece, Bion and Mos- 
 chus, were contemporary with Theocritus, or nearly so. From 
 the first we shall translate but one short idyl, which is perhaps 
 the best specimen of his powers. 
 
 A fowler, yet a boy, among a grove of stately trees 
 Was catching birds, and saw young Love, the cruel little god, 
 Perching upon a box-tree spray : whom when he saw, right glad, 
 Thinking that he had found a bird far larger than the rest. 
 
 I 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 219 
 
 He fitted on his tackle well, and watched him as he hopped 
 Hither and thither. But at last, when hope was weary waxed, 
 He cast away his reeds, and to an ancient ploughman came 
 Who taught him all his art : to him he told the whole affair, 
 And shewed him Love, where he was perched. The old man shook 
 
 his head, 
 And smiling said, ' Give over chase, and come not near this bird : 
 ' Fly far away : it is an evil beast : and thou slialt be 
 ' Thrice happy, never catching him : for when thou growest up 
 * To man's estate, this bird, who flieth from thee now, 
 ' Shall come and perch upon thy head, an unexpected guest.' 
 
 , From the other, Moschus, our extracts will be more lengthy. 
 He was a disciple of Bion, and outdid his master : the follow- 
 ing beautifnl idyl, however, is disputed between them : 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Vesper, golden light of the lovely ocean queen, 
 
 Vesper, sacred glory of the dark blue night, 
 
 Fainter than the moon, as thou outshinest every star, 
 
 Hail, planet dear : and as T seek my love's abode, 
 
 Light me on the moon's behalf: who, only born to-day. 
 
 Hath early set ; I journey not for plunder, nor to stop 
 
 The nightly trav'ller on his way ; but I a lover am, 
 
 And it is meet that those who love should in return be loved. 
 
 This poet wrote the epitaph of his master, Bion. And of all 
 the pieces of Greek pastoral poetry, we must confess we think 
 this epitaph holds the highest place in point of sweetness of 
 versification, and tenderness of sentiment. The reader of 
 Shelley will at once recognize in it the type of the Adonais of 
 that Poet : which, beautiful though it be, must yet yield the 
 palm to Moschus. 
 
 THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 Dolefully sound, ye groves and Dorian waters, 
 Lament, ye rivers, our beloved Bion ; 
 Mourn, all ye plants, and whisper low, ye forests, 
 Ye flowers, breathe sadly from your drooping petals ; 
 
220 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Put on deep red, anemones and roses ; 
 Wail thine own letters, hyacinth, and ai ai 
 Write double on thy leaves for our sweet poet.* 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses, 
 Ye nightingales, in the thick leafage sobbing, 
 Tell the Sicilian streams of Arethusa 
 Bion is dead, the shepherd-boy, and with him 
 Song too is dead, and all the Dorian music. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Strymonian swans, sing sadly by your waters ; f 
 Warble a funeral elegy, in ditties 
 Such as he sung, the rival of your voices. 
 Tell the CEagrian Nymphs, and tell the damsels 
 That play in Thrace, dead is the Dorian Orpheus. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Our friend shall pipe beside his flocks no longer. 
 Nor sit and sing alone beneath the ilex; 
 But tunes oblivious strains to sullen Pluto. 
 Mute are the mountains, and the herd is straying 
 And will not feed, but wanders sadly lowing. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Thine early death lamented great Apollo, 
 Pan wept to miss thy singing, all the Naiads 
 Wept in their woods, and turned to tears their fountains ; 
 Echo is weeping that she must be silent, 
 Thy lips no longer mocking. At thy parting 
 Trees shed their fruits, and all the flowers were blighted ; 
 Milk failed the flocks, and in our hives the honey 
 Sunk mouldering in the wax ; for no more sweetness 
 Shall there be, now thy honey-song hath perished. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Not so beside the sea-beach wailed the dolphin. 
 Nor nightingale in shrubby rocks embowered. 
 Nor on the long green hills the piping swallow ; 
 
 * The hyacinth, which sprung from the blood of the youth Hyaointhus, was sup. 
 posed by the poets to be inscribed with ai ai, the Greek exclamation of sorrow. 
 
 + Strymon is a river separating Thrace from Macedonia. Orpheus was a Thracian, 
 and the son of CEagi'ius. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XII. 221 
 
 Not so his fond Alcyone wept Ceyx ;* 
 Nor Cerylus f along the dark-blue waters ; 
 Not so in Eastern dells the birds of Memnon 
 Wailed, flying round his tomb, the son of Ao,J 
 As all lamented for the death of Bion. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Shepherd, with thee the Muses' gifts have perished — 
 All beauty, and the joy of youthful lovers — 
 Sadly the Lovers round thy tomb are weeping ; 
 Cypris hath loved thee better than the memory 
 Of the last kiss she prest on pale Adonis, 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Thou tunefullest of streams, a second sorrow, 
 A second sorrow, Meles, hath befallen ; 
 Thy Homer died, sweet prophet of the Muses; 
 And then, they say, thy glorious son thou wailedst 
 Along thy shallows, and far into ocean 
 Carriedst the sound of grief: and now another 
 Must thou lament, and dry away for anguish. 
 Both were beloved by fountains : one was favoured 
 Of Hippocrene, and one of Arethusa; 
 One sung the lay of Tyndarus' fair daughter,§ 
 The son of Thetis, and the twin Atreidee ; 
 But ours no wars, nor tears — the god of shepherds 
 And herdsmen sung he, as his flock he tended, 
 And bound the syrinx, and milked the sweet-breathed heifers, 
 And spake of Love, and was dear to Aphrodita. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 All countries mourn for thee, all ancient cities : 
 Not so mourned Ascra for her shepherd -prophet; |] 
 Not so the castled Lesbos for Alcaeus; ^ 
 
 Nor Ceos her old songster; not so Paros 
 
 * Ceyx, king of Trachinia, being drowned, his widow Alcyone mourned for him till 
 both were changed into halcyons. 
 
 + The kingfisher. 
 
 t Memnon, king of Ethiopia, killed by Achilles in the Trojan war. A flight of birds 
 rose from his funeral pile and fought till many of them died. This conflict was sup- 
 posed to be renewed yearly over his tomb. He was the son of Ao or Eo, the morning. 
 ? Helen. il Hesiod. 
 
222 
 
 CHAPTERS ON POETRY. 
 
 Archilochus desires ; and leaving Sappho 
 Thy legend sings the widowed Mitylene. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Alas ! when mallows perish in the gardens, 
 The crisp-green parsley, and the hardy anise, 
 They live again, and grow another summer; 
 But we, the great and strong, the sons of wisdom, 
 When first we die, unknown in earthly hollow 
 Sleep a long boundless sleep, that hath no waking. 
 Thou shall be gathered to the dust in silence. 
 But sorry songsters live and sing for ever: 
 Well have the Muses ordered it, for better 
 Sing sweet and die, than be like them immortal. 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Poison hath touched thy mouth, a draught of poison ;- 
 How came it to thy lips and was not sweetened ? 
 What man so cruel that for thee could mingle, 
 Or offering it escaped uncharmed thj singing ? 
 
 Begin the grief, begin, Sicilian Muses. 
 Who now shall sound thy reed, beloved poet ? 
 Who is so bold that to his lips will bear it ? 
 To Pan I offer it ; but Pan refuses 
 To wake its melody, lest he in playing 
 Should miss thy skill, and be adjudged thy second. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 Proserpina, 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall 
 From Dis's waggon ! daffodils, 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty : violets, dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath : pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phcebus in his strength : bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial : lilies of all kinds, 
 The flower de luce being one : O, these I lack, 
 To make you garlands of. 
 
 Winter's Tale. Act IV. Sc. ITT. 
 
 Our concluding chapter will be somewhat similar to that in 
 which we gathered up the fragments of the lost Poets, except 
 that our present collection is not one of broken pieces, but of 
 short entire poems, which have in all ages been the depositories 
 of bright and sparkling thoughts. These hare been collected 
 for us in a volume entitled, very appropriately, ' The Antho- 
 logy :' this word importing ' a collection of flowers.' One of 
 the poets, whose small works are comprised in it, by name 
 Meleager, has been so particular as to assign to each poet or 
 poetess his or her particular blossom, as emblematical of cha- 
 racteristics found to exist in the poems collected. We shall 
 not however trouble our readers to follow Meleager through 
 his somewhat fanciful assignations, but shall proceed without 
 further delay to our selection from the Anthology : our 
 choicer and smaller bouquet, procured by untying and ex- 
 amining one by one the sprigs and blooms contained in the 
 larger garland. In our present task, names will import but 
 little to our readers, except where we present a blossom grown 
 
224 CHAPTERS ON POETBY 
 
 in some illustrious garden, well known for other fruits : it 
 will suffice to know that the authors, whose designations we 
 shall give in our margin, were scattered over the various ages 
 of Grecian lore, and the widely distant places where Grecian 
 ideas of the beautiful had taken root and bloomed. 
 
 We commence with a famous and hallowed name — that of 
 
 phitos°opher Pl^to himself. From a mind such as his, revelling in the 
 
 stores of one of the richest imaginations ever bestowed on 
 
 man, we might expect, and we have blooms of exquisite 
 
 beauty : — ^behold the first : 
 
 Thyself m«/ star, thou gazest up into the starry skies: 
 
 Would I wereHeav'n, to look on thee with all those myriad eyes. 
 
 This may be called a conceit : but it is one of those conceits, 
 which, the longer we think on it, presents to us deeper and 
 fresher beauty. Here is another : Lais, in her old age, dedi- 
 cates her mirror to Yenus : 
 
 I, Lais, whose proud doors were wont to be 
 The haunt of Greece, this mirror bring to thee : 
 Such as I am, I would not now be seen : 
 And I can view no longer what I've been.* 
 
 The following is on the statue of Venus by Praxiteles : 
 
 The Paphian goddess o'er the billows flew, 
 Her statue in her Cnidian fane to view : 
 And, while all round her bashful eyes she roli'd, 
 " Where did Praxiteles so much behold ? " 
 
 A traveller had been thirsty on his way, and being guided to 
 a clear spring by the voice of a frog, erects a bronze image of 
 his guide, to the local nymphs, with this inscription : 
 
 Me, the moist servant of the nymphs that dwell 
 Where I croak forth my song in fount or well 
 
 * We cannot omit Matthew Prior's neat rendering of this epigram : 
 Venus, take my votive glass : 
 Since I am not what I was, 
 What from this day I shall be, 
 Venus, let me never see. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XIII. 225 
 
 A traveller shaping here doth dedicate, 
 Well pleased the fever of his thirst to sate. 
 Beside his road this fountain I made known, 
 From my wet hiding-place with lucky tone : 
 My guiding voice he followed, and acquired 
 The sweet fresh water which his soul desired. 
 
 In another epigram Plato bears honourable testimony to the 
 high estimation in which Aristophanes was held by his con- 
 temporaries, and effectually silences the rumour of his enmity 
 to Socrates, of whom it is needless to say Plato was an ardent 
 and affectionate disciple : 
 
 The Graces, bent some lasting throne to find, 
 Found it in Aristophanes's mind. 
 
 He also bears testimony to Sappho : 
 
 Some call the Muses nine : but they forget — 
 A tenth, our Sappho, must be reckoned yet. 
 
 Our next is curious from its proving the extreme capability of 
 the Greek tongue for expressing much in few words : the 
 original, rendered into literal Enghsh, runs thus : 
 
 ' A man having found some gold, (took it away and) left a halter: 
 but the other not finding the gold which he had left, attached (to 
 his neck) the halter which he found.' 
 
 AU this is expressed in two lines,* containing sixteen words. 
 Coleridge, in his Kterary remains, (vol. i. p. 337) gives a 
 translation which he says, 'is a mere trial of comparative 
 brevity, wit and poetry quite out of the question : 
 
 Jack finding gold, left a rope on.the ground : 
 
 Bill, missing his gold, us'd the rope which he found. 
 
 We have tried another version : 
 
 One found some cash, and left a halter in its stead : 
 
 T'other missed his cash, and slipped the halter o'er his head. 
 
 * X9^^^^ ^''^P ^^P^^ eAiTre ^p6xoV ahrap 6 xpv(Th]/ 
 tu Kiirevovx evpa)V, ^^ev tv evpe fip6xoy. 
 
 2 I 
 
226 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Here is anotlier of comic import : 
 
 ON A STRIPPED CORPSE OF A SHIPWRECKED MARINER. 
 
 You see me here, a shipwrecked man • 
 
 Whom e'en the ocean spared : 
 Nor my poor limbs, in decency, 
 
 Of their last garment bared. 
 
 Man passing by, with shameless hands 
 
 My covering bore away, 
 Willing, for such small gain, such guilt 
 
 Upon his soul to lay. 
 
 I only wish that he my wear 
 
 My rags when life is gone ; 
 So that the judge i' th' shades below 
 
 May see him with them on. 
 
 We can only give one more from Plato, but it is rery beautiful : 
 
 Once, when in life, thou wert my morning star: 
 Thy rays in death now dim and west'ring are. 
 
 Speusippus. After these should come the Epigram of Speusippus the disciple 
 of Plato : 
 
 Earth in her bosom Plato's corse contains : 
 His soul amongst the blessed lives and reigns. 
 
 A SCENE BY THE SHORE. 
 
 Mnasalcus. Here let us stand, on the wave-washed shore, 
 
 In sight of yonder temple of the sea-born Queen of love : 
 And watch the gold bright halcyons, blithely skimming o'er 
 This fountain shaded round by poplars high above. 
 
 Nossis. Nossis was a Locrian Poetess, of whose remains the following 
 is the sweetest, on a statue of her daughter Melinna : 
 
 It is Melinna's self ! How blandly there 
 Her look salutes me, and her wonted air ! 
 How truly like her mother ! Happy we, 
 When in our oflspring we our image see ! 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XIII. 227 
 
 Another poetess follows : Anyte, of Tegea in Arcadia. Out Anyte. 
 of several pretty Epigrams of hers we select these : 
 
 ON A STATUE OF VENUS BY THE SEA, 
 
 The Cyprian goddess owns this spot : 
 
 For she doth alway love 
 To look upon the glittering sea 
 
 From the high cliffs above : 
 By her protection, sailors may 
 
 Their voyage steer aright : 
 For ocean round is still with awe, 
 
 Seeing her image bright. 
 
 AT THE MOUTH OF A CAVE. 
 
 Stranger, beneath this rock from toil repose ; 
 Here, mid green leaves, the winds make music sweet : 
 Drink of the cooling stream that by thee flows : 
 Such rest is pleasant in the noon-tide heat. 
 
 ON A DOLPHIN THROWN ASHORE. 
 
 No more, rejoicing in the watery ways, 
 Swift from the depths shall I my neck upraise : 
 Nor by embattled ship my spout upthrow, 
 Pleased with my image carved upon her prow : 
 The storm-cloud dark hath thrust me to the shore, 
 And the thin sand hath strewed my body o'er. 
 
 These parting words, around her father dear 
 Casting her arms, with many a woeful tear, 
 Spake Erato : my father, I'm no more : 
 Death holds his veil these darkening eyes before ! 
 
 A BEGGAR once 1 lived : Death laid me low : 
 The great Darius is my equal now. 
 
 Mourn for Antibia, for whose wisdom's fame. 
 And radiant beauty, numerous suitors came : 
 But envious Death before them all pressed in, 
 And crushed their hopes, this peerless prize to win. 
 
228 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Asoiepiades There were several writers of Epigrams named Asclepiades. 
 One of them was author of the following singularly beautiful 
 lines to Hesiod : 
 
 The Muses saw thee, Hesiod, on the rocks, 
 
 In the hot midday, shepherding thy flocks ; 
 
 And plucking from the laurel groves around 
 
 Their sacred twigs, thy favoured temples crowned ; 
 
 Then of that stream poetic on thee shed, 
 
 Which sprung beneath the winged courser's tread ; 
 
 Inspired with which, thy hallowed lays combine 
 
 Old heroes' works and praise, and Heav'n's illustrious line. 
 
 Leonidas of Leonidas of Tarentum has left us a hundred short pieces 
 
 Tarentum. 
 
 from which we have chosen the following : 
 
 ON A STATDE OF VENUS KISING FROM THE SEA. 
 
 Out from her mother's bosom just escaping. 
 
 Dripping with spray, Love's goddess by Apelles 
 Was seen — and he expressed her, not in fancy. 
 But as she lived and moved. Lightly her fingers 
 Pressed the sea-vpaters from her flowing tresses ; 
 Sweetly calm love shines out beneath her eyelids : 
 Fair, in ripe womanhood, her breast is swelling. 
 Athena and the queen of heaven must own her 
 Victorious in the strife of grace and beauty. 
 
 ON THE STATUE OF A COW BY MYRON. 
 
 He carved me not in stone : but from the herd 
 Driving, transformed to marble with a word; 
 
 ADDRESS TO SAILORS ON THE RETURN OF SPRING. 
 
 Favoured will your sailing be ; 
 
 The swallow's happy wings 
 Skim the tepid breezes 
 
 Where the rising Zephyrs sing : 
 Fair bloom the meadows now, 
 
 The Ocean's broil is done. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XIII. 229 
 
 Lightly fall the shadows now, 
 
 And brightly beams the sun j — 
 Haul ye up your anchors now, 
 
 Loose ye from the land — 
 And to the favouring breezes now 
 
 Each straining sail expand. 
 
 Stranger, if in winter thou be drunk, 
 
 Walk not forth by night : 
 If he who lies below had this observed, 
 
 He were not in this plight. 
 
 Nicias, a physician, occasionally addressed by Theocritus in Nicias. 
 his idyls, famishes the two following : 
 
 TO THE BEE. 
 
 Many coloured, sunshine-loving, spring-betokening Bee ! 
 Yellow Bee, so mad for love of early-blooming flow'rs ; 
 Till thy waxen cell be full, fair fall thy work and thee, 
 Buzzing round the sweetly-smelling orchard plots and bow'rs j 
 
 ON A CICADA CRUSHED BY A CHILD. 
 
 I shall never sing my pleasant ditty now, 
 Folded round by long leaves on the bough. 
 
 Under my shrilly-chirping wing : 
 For a child's hand seized me in a luckless hour, 
 Sitting on the petals of a flower, 
 
 Looking for no such evil thing.* 
 
 Diotimus, a schoolmaster, comes next in order, from whom Djotimus. 
 we have the following pleasing Epitaph : 
 
 Two aged matrons, daughters of one sire. 
 
 Lie in one tomb ; — twin buried and twin-born: 
 ^ano, the priestess of the Graces' quire, — 
 
 Anaxo, unto Ceres' service sworn. 
 
 * These two translations have been before published, having been contributed to 
 Merivale's edition of Bland's translations from the Anthology. 
 
230 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 Nine suns were wanting to our eightietli year : 
 We died together — who would covet more ? 
 
 We held our husbands and our children dear: 
 Nor death unkind, to which we sped before.* 
 
 Aratus. This very Diotimus is commiserated in the following Epigram 
 by Aratus, author of a lost poem on astronomy and signs of 
 weather : 
 
 I pity Diotimus, 'mid the rocks keeping school, 
 And dinning Alpha Beta into many a little fool. 
 
 Hegesippus. Hegcsippus gives us the following sharp but playful Epitaph : 
 
 ON TIMON THE MISANTHROPE. 
 
 Timo7i speaks. AU round this tomb with many a thorny spear 
 Acanthus bristles : if you draw too near, 
 You prick your feet : Timon's within : begone. 
 Passenger. Am I to curse thee ' 
 
 Timon. No : only pass on. 
 
 Caiiimachus. Here is Timon again : the author, Callimachus, well known 
 as the poet of many hymns, and who furnished to the Latin 
 poets their principal pattern. 
 
 Qu. Which hat'st thou most, the shades, or the upper air ? 
 Timon. The shades : for more than half mankind are there. 
 
 "He who to enjoy 
 Plato's elysium, leapt into the sea, 
 Cleombrotus." Milton. 
 
 Cleombrotus exclaimed, ' Farewell thou light,' 
 And leapt to Hades from a rampart's height ; 
 No evil suffering, worthy of such fate : 
 But rapt with Plato's visions of th' immortal state. 
 
 * Tliis translation, from the above work, is by my friend the Rev. C. Merivale 
 Being unable to better it, I have borrowed it. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XIII. 231 
 
 A mother's despair. 
 
 Three darling children a fond mother laid Menecrates 
 
 On the sad pile, in funeral garb arrayed : "^ Smyma. 
 
 Having a foui'th time borne maternal pains 
 No more for Hope's dim promise she remains : 
 But while upon the fire in anxious haste 
 Piled for the dead, the living babe she placed: 
 Thus cried : No more my bosom will I drain 
 For thee, stern Death : thus much relief I gain. 
 
 Here is a sharp cut on the Cappadocians, by one Demodocus : Demodocus. 
 
 A viper once a Cappadocian bit : 
 The viper died of it. 
 
 ON A STATDE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 
 
 Lysippus hath this mass of marble wrought, Archelaus 
 
 With all the conqueror's mien and daring fraught : 
 
 The statue seems to gaze aloft, and say, 
 
 Mine is the earth, O Jove : content thee with heavn's sway. 
 
 From Epigrams by uncertain authors, of which the Anthology uncertain 
 contains upwards of seren hundred, we have selected the fol- 
 lowing, some of which are among the most beautiful flowers 
 of our bouquet. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Brief is the life of the rose : 
 
 Pass but the spot where it grows, 
 
 And the branch which its bloom did adorn 
 
 Shall bear thee no rose, — but a thorn. 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 Were I some wandering breath of air, 
 
 That when thou art with heat opprest, 
 And dost thy glowing breast lay bare, 
 
 Thou might'st receive me to that breast ! 
 
 Were I some rose, whose crimson clear 
 
 Is laced with purple streaks below, 
 That thou might'st pluck, and place me near 
 
 The whiteness of thy bosom's snow ! 
 
232 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 ON A FAIR GIRL BATHING IN THE NILE. 
 
 Venus saw thee swimming there, 
 And exclaimed with frighted air : 
 " What ! hath Nile in envy sent 
 From its rival element 
 A new goddess bright and fair ?" 
 
 VAIN OFFERINGS. 
 
 Bring not your incense to my tomb, 
 
 Hang no fond garlands there ; 
 Court not the senseless stone with fire. 
 
 Your vain expences spare. 
 While yet I live, if ought you have, 
 
 Give it, and there's no waste : 
 Your wine may turn my dust to mud. 
 
 But dead men cannot taste. 
 
 THE COMPACT. 
 
 A doctor, and a handler of the spade. 
 
 For mutual gain a mutual compact made : 
 
 The sexton stole the dead men's drawers and shirts 
 
 And sent them to the leech to bind up hurts : 
 
 He in return might his good faith aver — 
 
 He sent the sexton patients to inter. 
 
 ON AN ARMED STATUE OF VENUS AT LACED^MON. 
 
 Pallas passing by, beheld 
 Venus harness'd for the field — 
 
 Says she, " will you fight ? " 
 " Why, if with my naked charms 
 I can conquer you, in arms 
 
 I should crush you quite." 
 
 ON A STATUE OF NIOBE BV PRAXITELES. 
 
 The gods me living into stone transformed : 
 Praxiteles the stone with life hath warmed. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP, XIII. 233 
 
 ON A CLEAR FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Either the radiant Queen of Love 
 
 Sprung from this crystal wave, 
 Or bathing here her limbs, to it 
 
 Her own sweet essence gave. 
 
 ON AN OLIVE TREE, ROUND WHICH CREPT A VINE. 
 
 The virgin Pallas is my patroness : 
 What do these Bacchic clusters there ? 
 
 Take them away : for drunkenness 
 Is not a viigin's care. 
 
 There is no married man who is not lost ; 
 All know it, — and all marry to their cost. 
 
 CRABBED AGE. 
 
 If in a cask of pleasant wine 
 
 A remnant small be left, 
 It soon to vinegar is turned — 
 
 Of all its sweetness reft. 
 Thus when the cask of time is drawn, 
 
 And o'er the dregs we brood, 
 The vinegar of life is found 
 
 In age's surly mood, 
 
 ON A SHE-GOAT SUCKLING A WOLF. 
 
 Yon wolf I suckle, which my will denies, 
 Forced by my shepherd's order strange : 
 
 For from me nourished, 'gainst me it will rise ; 
 So little Love can nature change. 
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 Once I was young, but poor : now rich, and old: 
 
 My pitiable lot in both was one : 
 Who when I could have used it, had not gold ; 
 
 And have abundance, now the power is gone, 
 
 2 K 
 
234 CHAPTERS ON POETRY 
 
 MISTAKEN NOTIONS. 
 
 All say that you are rich : I call you poor. 
 
 For he is rich who wealth's enjoyment shares : 
 The man who keeps his treasure for bis heirs 
 
 Is but spectator of another's store. 
 
 RICH AND POOR. 
 
 Diogenes the cynic, when at last 
 
 His life of dry philosophy was past, 
 
 Meeting rich Croesus in the realms below, 
 
 Did a benignant smile on him bestow; 
 
 And while bis threadbare cloak he did unfold 
 
 And lay beside the king of Lydian gold : 
 
 ' My station is the better now,' says he : 
 
 ' Thou hast lost all thy wealth: I've brought all mine with me.' 
 
 THE DEAD TO HIS MURDERER. 
 
 Ay, hide me as thou wilt, where none can see: 
 The eye of heaven beholdeth me and thee. 
 
 My eating it was small in life, my drinking it was small — 
 
 My physic, much ; death came at last. The foul fiend take ye all ! 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Fortune, and Hope, a long farewell ; — I have attained my port ; 
 Now, I have no concern with you: with my survivors sport. 
 
 ANOTHER. ON A FRIEND. 
 
 This stone, Sabinus, is a token small 
 Of our great love ; and I, whate'er befall, 
 For thee shalt ever mourn ; and thou, I pray. 
 Wash not in Lethe's stream our vows away. 
 
 ON ONE WHO BURIED HIMSELF BEFORE DEATH. 
 
 Worn out with age and penury, 
 Without a friend to give 
 
 The pittance whereby misery 
 Might cheer itself and live. 
 
AND POETS. CHAP. XIII. 235 
 
 With trembling limbs beneath this tomb, 
 
 Dragging myself, I gained 
 Fulfilment of one common doom, 
 
 Not without toil attained. 
 In me the law reversed is seen. 
 
 Which through the world is spread : 
 For dead and buried most have been, 
 
 I, buried, and then dead. 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 When 1 had now but tasted life, 
 
 God summoned me away : 
 Whether in mercy or in wrath, 
 
 I have not power to say. 
 
 We conclude our extracts Avith one of the most beautiful of 
 Greek epigrams, also without an owner, but which will be 
 remembered as long as Poetry shall live : 
 
 Prot6, thou hast not died, but thou art iled 
 Into some better land of joy and rest ; 
 Thou dwellest in the islands of the blest. 
 Where flowery plains elysian thou dost tread 
 In the glad dance ; where never tear is shed, 
 Nor wintry chill doth strike, nor heat infest. 
 Nor pain disturb the quiet of thy breast. 
 Nor raging thirst, nor hunger dost thou dread. 
 The life of men on earth thou enviest not : 
 Thou art supremely happy, nor hast cause 
 To blame the pure enjoyment of thy lot ; 
 Whose life its daily sweet contentment draws 
 From the effulgence, uncreate and clear, 
 Of Heaven's high firmament that shineth near. 
 
 Our meditations on Grecian lore are now ended. No more 
 of that glorious clime, where the spirit of man seems to have 
 drunk the warm rays of the god of gladness, and reflected 
 them forth upon the ages of time ; no more of game or con- 
 test, where the god-like forms of heroes were displayed to 
 wondering thousands, and the statues arose which have 
 
236 CHAPTEBS ON POETRY. 
 
 charmed the world ; no more of deep sweet strains, the very 
 soul of Poetry, each word instinct with light of thought, each 
 cadence falling on the dehghted ear and stirring inward tears. 
 No more of the lofty bearing of super-human beings grieving 
 their huge griefs, and jo3dng their awfiil joys ; no more of 
 that keen sense of corporeal and mental beauty, so fresh in 
 those old Poets, so unalloyed, so entire. The choral dance is 
 over ; the stately epic has ceased its march ; the pomp of the 
 tragedy has swept by : the shepherds have ceased their music, 
 and are sleeping on the green bank by the lake : the fragments 
 of the beautiful song which rung joyously over us erewhile, 
 now sound faint and whispery in the distance. 
 
 But if aught of divine Poesy have been awakened in the 
 breast of those who knew not these things before ; if, as some 
 few echoes of sympathy have told us, there be who love to 
 wander by the old poetic fountains with our guidance, we 
 have our best reward. Let our English hearts be roused — let 
 the great names and high thoughts of other days be ' the spur 
 which the clear spirit doth raise.' There is much yet to be 
 sung — much holy ground of Poesy yet untrodden. Creation, 
 History, the Mind of Man, all have their pleasant places 
 where the Poet may wander in ' thoughts that move harmo- 
 nious numbers.' If to such pilgrimages we might be accessary, 
 the pleasure which we have experienced in writing will be 
 forgotten, in joy over the fruit of our labours. 
 
 THE END. 
 
APPENDIX I. 
 
 GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF GREECE FOR THE 
 PURPOSES OF THIS WORK. 
 
 Ancient Greece was comprised between the 36th and 40th 
 degrees of north latitude, and comprehended rather more 
 than the present kingdom of Greece. Besides that part of 
 it on the European continent, there were various colonies 
 planted in the neighbouring islands and on the opposite 
 coast of Asia Minor, whose territories were reckoned part of 
 Greece. 
 
 European Greece consisted of J. the northern part, com- 
 prising the provinces of Thessaly, Epirus, Doris, Phocis, 
 Locris, Acamania, iEtoha, Boeotia, and Attica ; 2. the 
 southern part, divided from the former by a narrow Isthmus, 
 and called the Peloponnesus, or 'island of Pelops.' It was 
 divided into six provinces, Achaia, ArgoHs, Laconia, Messenia, 
 and Elis, round the coast, and Arcadia, central. 
 
 THE PRINCIPAL CITIES OF EUROPEAN GREECE WERE, 
 
 1. Athens; the capital of the province of Attica, situated 
 on a craggy and poor soil, near the sea, and on these 
 accounts in early times the refuge of those who had been 
 driven from more fertile settlements by neighbours too strong 
 for them. Hence Athens became populous ; and in pro- 
 cess of time absolute government having been overthrown, 
 its polity became democratical, Solon being the reputed 
 author of their laws, which were from time to time abro- 
 gated or altered by the popular assemblies. The rise of 
 the Athenians into power took place immediately after the 
 memorable invasion of Greece by the Persian monarch, 
 Xerxes, and they continued the chief people in Greece for 
 
238 APPENDIX I. 
 
 about eighty years. But it is in arts, not in arms, that we 
 must look for the great superiority of Athens. Here the 
 Grecian drama, tragic and comic, was brought to maturity 
 and beauty ; here the various schools of philosophy rose and 
 flourished ; here the divine art of Phidias breathed meaning 
 into senseless marble, and Pericles raised on earth a city fit 
 for gods to dwell in. Here Providence gave example of the 
 greatest perfection of the uninspired intellect of man ; and 
 God was pleased to shew how far human reason might 
 advance in search of himself. One city, and one only, has a 
 name and a fame more venerable ; and its streets were trodden 
 by the Divine Wisdom himself Of this pre-eminence the 
 Athenians themselves were wonderfidly aware. They thought, 
 they spoke, they ^vrote, for posterity. Their mob-harangues 
 are subtler than our books of philosophy; their wars and 
 poHcy were viewed as patterns for the world ; when they died 
 in glory, they looked for eternal memory in the minds of men, 
 and boasted that the whole earth would be their sepulchre. 
 The splendour of this city waned before the bright rising of 
 the Christian revelation ; and those to whom the glories of 
 the unseen world had been made known, might see in its 
 lingering schools and sophists, the remains of its giant intellect. 
 Yet all has not passed away : in its works of fiction and of 
 art, many principles of beauty are latent which Ave have not 
 yet evolved; and its two great philosophers, Plato and 
 Aristotle, will ever be unequalled, the one in the domain of 
 speculation and fancy, the other in the toil of patient observa- 
 tion and assiduous comparison. 
 
 2. Lacedcemon. This city was the capital of the province 
 of Laconia, already named as on the coast of Peloponnesus. 
 It was in every respect the counterpart of Athens. A con- 
 quering people, the Spartans, had taken possession of it, and 
 while they themselves were ruled by an ohgarchy under the 
 name of regal government, exercised over the subdued people 
 absolute, and in some cases unrelenting, power. The Spai-tans 
 were of the race of the Dorians, a people govei'ned wherever 
 
APPENDIX I. 239 
 
 they are found among the ancients, by laws peculiar to them- 
 selves. The character of these laws was to merge the 
 individual in the state, and to inculcate as the great principle 
 of life, DUTY. In such a system was involved the suppression 
 of the finer feelings — ^the nursing and bringing to perfection of 
 the most resolute and unflinching courage — the contempt of 
 death — and of life vdthout honour. In such an "atmosphere 
 arts could not flourish, but arms were everything. Till the 
 invasion of Greece by Xerxes, Sparta held the supremacy. 
 It was nobly vindicated by the resolute stand which her king, 
 Leonidas, made at Thermopylae with three hundred Spartans 
 and a few allies against the myriads of the East : but they 
 lost it shortly afterwards by the insolence which their com- 
 manders shewed to the allies. From this time the star of 
 Sparta began to sink. For although the issue of the war with 
 Athens was favourable to her, yet it was by intriguing with 
 Persia that she endeavoured to maintain her standing; and 
 while Athens rose in temporary splendour again, Lacedsemon 
 sunk under the power of tyrants, and was speedily blotted 
 out from the nations. A conquering people, unrenewed by 
 intermarriage with the conquered, proud and tyrannical, 
 could not but waste away and finally become extinct. 
 
 3. Thebes, the capital of Bceotia, was for a little time 
 elevated to the pre-eminence over Greece, during the Hfe of 
 her great generals, Pelopidas and Epaminondas — but her 
 history is a dark and disgraceful one. When Xerxes invaded 
 Greece the Thebans deserted the common cause and sided with 
 the Persians. Their conduct throughout the following wars was 
 a tissue of treachery and cowardice. This city and the district 
 in which it lay, were proverbial for the stupidity of their 
 inhabitants. Yet was Thebes the birthplace of the poet 
 Pindar. In earher times, tradition assigns to ^his city the 
 birth of Hercules. 
 
 4. Corinth, the capital of Achaia, situate on the isthmus 
 above mentioned, and from its situation commanding a vast 
 influx of commerce from both seas. In early times it was 
 
240 APPENDIX I. 
 
 called ' the wealthy Corinth ; ' and in latter times, so dissolute 
 and expensive were its pleasures, that there was an adage, 
 
 It is not every one can go to Corinth. 
 
 It was not fertile in great men, but had an illustrious colony, 
 Syracuse, from which sprung Theocritus and the pastoral 
 poets ; and whose kings were the great patrons of learning 
 and art. 
 
 Asiatic Greece was divided into the provinces of Ionia and 
 iEolia, with a small strip called after its mother country in 
 Europe, Doris. Its chief cities were Sm3rma, Miletus, and 
 Cnidus. In later times the Greeks spread more widely, and 
 other places sprung up, hardly known in the high and palmy 
 days of Greece. 
 
 The islands, which thickly stud the sea between Europe 
 and Asia, were peopled with Grecian colonies, mostly of that 
 race called JEolian.. They were with few exceptions, de- 
 pendencies of Athens. The most illustrious among them are 
 unquestionably, 
 
 1. Lesbos, with its chief town Mitylene, the birthplace of 
 Sappho and Alceeus. At one time the people of Mitylene 
 were on the point of being exterminated — having revolted 
 against Athens, and being condemned to death on their 
 re-capture. But a reversion of the decree was with difficulty 
 obtained : a second ship was sent out from Athens with all 
 haste; and just arrived in time — for the decree was being 
 read previously to being put in execution. Arion and 
 Terpander, poets of traditionary fame, were also natives of 
 Lesbos. 
 
 2. Chios, the reputed birthplace of Homer. In one of 
 the hymns ascribed to that poet, the following beautiful 
 passage occurs : 
 
 Farewell, ye Delian nymphs : in future years 
 Remember me, when some man shall enquire 
 Of you, and say : Ye nymphs, what man is here 
 The sweetest songster, and delights ye most ? 
 
APPENDIX I, 241 
 
 Then make ye answer all with one accord ; 
 
 A blind man — and he dwells in Chios' rocky isle. 
 
 3. Delos was a celebrated island as having been the 
 reputed birthplace of Apollo and Diana, the children of 
 Latona. The island was thence held sacred, and was never 
 pliindered in war. The Athenians more than once performed 
 a solemn purification of it by command of the oracle of Apollo 
 at Delphi. 
 
 1 
 
 MOST CELEBRATED MOUNTAINS OF GREECE WERE, 
 
 1. Olympus, the fabled heaven of the Greek deities, in 
 
 Thessaly. 
 
 2. Pelion and Ossa, which the giants were fabled to have 
 
 piled on one another in their wars with the gods, 
 also in Thessaly. 
 
 3. PiNDUS, on the frontier of Thessaly and Epirus. 
 
 4. CEta, which reaches the sea at Thermopylae, where the 
 
 Spartans opposed Xerxes. 
 
 5. Parnassus, the fabled seat of the Muses and of Bacchus, 
 
 in Phocis, overlooking the sacred city and oracle of 
 Delphi. 
 
 6. Helicon, also in Phocis, overlooking Ascra, the birth- 
 
 place of Hesiod. 
 
 7. CiTHiERON, on the frontier of Bceotia and Attica. 
 
 8. Taygetus, in the neighbourhood of Sparta. 
 
 THE MOST CELEBRATED RIVERS WERE, 
 
 1 . The Peneus, rising in Mount Pindus, and flowing 
 under Mount Ossa through the celebrated valley of 
 Tempe into the ^gean sea. 
 
 2 L 
 
242 
 
 APPENDIX I. 
 
 3. 
 
 The Cephissus, watering Boeotia and running into the 
 lake Copais, in the centre of that province. 
 
 Another of the same name, which, insignificant in size 
 though celehrated in song, irrigates, together with the 
 Ilissus, the plain of Athens. 
 
 4. Alpheus, which waters the valley of Elis, where were 
 
 held the Oljrmpian games. 
 
 5. EuROTAS, flowing by Sparta ; the bath of the Spartan 
 
 youths and virgins : and 
 
 6. AoHELous, rising in part of Mount Pindus, and flowing 
 
 through iEtolia into the "Western or Ionian sea. 
 
 The following is a list of the most celebrated poets of 
 Greece, with their birthplaces, dates, and the subjects on 
 which they wrote. 
 
 
 Born at 
 
 Before 1 
 Christ. f 
 
 Homer 
 
 Supposed Chios, 
 
 abt. 
 900 
 
 Wars of Troy; return of Odysseus; battle 
 
 
 but certainly in 
 
 of frogs and mice ; and hymns. 
 
 
 the islands or in 
 
 
 
 
 Asiatic Greece 
 
 
 
 Hesiod 
 
 Ascra in Bceotia 
 
 900 
 
 Husbandry ; the birth of the gods. 
 
 Archilochus 
 
 Island of Pares 
 
 690 
 
 Elegies and satires. 
 
 Tyrtffius 
 
 Athens, but sentto 
 Sparta 
 
 680 
 
 Warlike elt gies. 
 
 AloKusI 
 SapphoJ 
 
 Mitylene in Les- 
 bos 
 
 600 
 
 Lyrical poems and elegies. ' 
 
 Simonides 
 
 Island of Ceos 
 
 540 
 
 Elegies. 
 
 Pindar 
 
 Thebes 
 
 490 
 
 Odes. 
 
 ^schylus"! 
 Sophocles V 
 Euripides) 
 
 Athens 
 
 480 
 to 
 440 
 
 Tragedies, and tragicomedies, called satyric ' 
 dramas. ^91 
 
 Aristophanes 
 
 Athens 
 
 425 
 
 Comedies, satirizing public men and mea- ^^| 
 
 Menander 
 
 Athens 
 
 320 
 
 Comedies, in the general acceptation, ^^^^^| 
 
 Theocritus") 
 Bion I 
 Moschus 
 
 Syracuse 
 
 280 
 
 Pastoral poetry, '^^| 
 
APPENDIX I. 
 
 243 
 
 We have subjoined a list of the Grecian deities with their 
 offices, and corresponding Latin names, the latter being more 
 usually known, but the Greek names being used for the most 
 part in the foregoing chapters : 
 
 Ouranos) 
 Gaia j 
 
 Cronos 
 
 Zeus 
 
 Poseidon 
 
 Pluto 
 
 Apollo "4 
 
 also |- 
 
 PhcebusJ 
 
 Ares 
 Hera 
 Pallas 1 
 also y 
 Athena ) 
 
 Aphrodite '\ 
 also / 
 
 Cypris 
 and 
 
 Cytherea 
 
 Heracles 
 
 rea J 
 
 Artemis 
 Demeter 
 Persephone 
 
 Coelum) 
 Terra j 
 
 Satui-n 
 
 Jupiter 
 
 Neptune 
 
 Pluto 
 
 Apollo ^ 
 also >- 
 Phoebus) 
 Mars 
 Juno 
 
 Minerva 
 
 Venus 
 also 
 Cytherea 
 
 Diana 
 Ceres 
 Proserpina 
 
 Heaven and Earth; the most ancient gods, and 
 progenitors of the rest. 
 
 The ruler of the next dynasty of gods, and father 
 
 of that one which reigns in Grecian mythology. 
 
 The king of heaven. 
 
 Brother of Zeus and god of the sea. 
 
 Brother of Zeus and god of the infernal regions. 
 
 God of light. Son of Zeus by Leto or Latona. 
 
 God of war. Son of Zeus and Hera. 
 Sister and wife to Zeus. 
 
 Daughter of Zeus only, without a mother God- 
 dess of wisdom and warlike arts. 
 
 Sprung from the sea-foam, 
 and Beauty. 
 
 Goddess of Love 
 
 Son of Zeus by Alcmena, wife to Amphitryon of 
 Thebes. Not a god proper, but a man ex- 
 alted to a god — but usually ranked with the 
 gods 
 
 ApoUo's sister. The virgin goddess of hunting. 
 
 Daughter of Saturn and Vesta. Goddess of corn. 
 
 Daughter of Demeter by Zeus, was carried off 
 by Pluto, and became his queen. 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 POEMS FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS CONNECTED WITH 
 THE SUBJECTS OF THE FOREGOING CHAPTERS. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN S HOMEB. 
 JOHN KEATS, 
 
 " Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen : 
 Round many western Islands have 1 been 
 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud andjbold : 
 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
 
 Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darlin." 
 
 ATHENS. FROM PARADISE REGAINED. 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 " Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount, 
 Westward, much nearer by southwest, behold 
 Where on the ^gean shore a city stands 
 Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil, 
 Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts 
 And eloquence, native to famous wits 
 
APPENDIX II. 245 
 
 Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, 
 
 City or suburban, studious walks and shades; 
 
 See there the olive grove of Academe, 
 
 Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird 
 
 Trills her thick- warbled notes the summer long ; 
 
 There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound 
 
 Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites 
 
 To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls 
 
 His whisp'ring stream : within the walls then view 
 
 The schools of ancient sages : his who bred 
 
 Great Alexander to subdue the world, 
 
 Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next : 
 
 There shalt thou hear and learn the secret power 
 
 Of harmony in tones and numbers hit 
 
 By voice or hand, and various-measured verse, 
 
 ^olian charms and Dorian lyric odes, 
 
 And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, 
 
 Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd, 
 
 Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own. 
 
 Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught 
 
 In Chorus or Iambic, teachers best 
 
 Of moral prudence, with delight receiv'd 
 
 In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 
 
 Of fate, and chance, and change in human life ; 
 
 High actions, and high passions best describing ; 
 
 Thence to the famous orators repair, 
 
 Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 
 
 Wielded at will that fierce democratic, 
 
 Shook th' arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, 
 
 To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne : 
 
 To sage philosophy next lend thine ear. 
 
 From Heav'n descended to the low-rooft house 
 
 Of Socrates ; see there his tenement. 
 
 Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd 
 
 Wisest of men ; from whose mouth issued forth 
 
 Mellifluous streams that water'd all the schools 
 
 Of Academics old and new, with those 
 
 Sumam'd Peripatetics, and the sect 
 
 Epicurean, and the Stoic severe " 
 
246 APPENDIX II. 
 
 I HE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 " Happy insect ! what can be 
 
 In happiness compar'd to thee ? 
 
 Fed with nourishment divine, 
 
 The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
 
 Nature waits upon thee still, 
 
 And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
 
 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread. 
 
 Nature's self's thy Ganymede. 
 
 Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing. 
 
 Happier than the happiest king ! 
 
 All the fields which thou dost see, 
 
 All the plants, belong to thee ; 
 
 All that summer-hours produce. 
 
 Fertile made with early juice ; 
 
 Man for thee does sow and plow ; 
 
 Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 
 
 Thou dost innocently joy. 
 
 Nor does thy luxury destroy. 
 
 The shepherd gladly heareth thee, 
 
 More harmonious than he. 
 
 Thee country hinds with gladness hear, 
 
 Prophet of the ripened year ! 
 
 Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ! 
 
 Phoebus is himself thy sire. 
 
 To thee of all things upon earth, 
 
 Life is no longer than thy mirth. 
 
 Happy insect ! happy ! thou 
 
 Dost neither age nor winter know : 
 
 But when thou 'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung 
 
 Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, 
 
 (Voluptuous, and wise withal, 
 
 (Epicurean animal \) 
 
 Sated with thy summer feast, 
 
 Thou retir'st to endless rest." 
 
APPENDIX II. 247 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF GREECE. 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 '< The lively Grecian in a Land of hills, 
 Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores. 
 Under a cope of variegated sky, 
 Could find commodious place for every God, 
 Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
 From the surrounding Countries— at the choice 
 Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, , 
 
 As nicest observation furnished hints 
 For studious fancy, did his hand bestow 
 On fluent Operations a fixed shape : 
 Metal or Stone, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 Of Art, this palpable array of Sense, 
 On every side encountered ; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt 
 Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
 Amid the wrangling Schools — a spirit hung, 
 Beautiful Region ! o'er thy Towns and Farms, 
 Statues and Temples, and memorial Tombs j 
 And emanations were perceived j and acts 
 Of immortality in Nature's course. 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed 
 And armed Warrior ; and in every grove 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed. 
 When piety more awful had relaxed, 
 — ' Take, running river, take these Locks of mine'— 
 Thus would the Votary say — ' this severed hair, 
 ' My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 ' Thankful for my beloved Child's return. 
 ' Thy banks, Cephissus, he again hath trod, 
 ' Thy murmurs heard : and drunk the crystal lymph 
 ' With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 
 ' And moisten all day long these flowery fields !' 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
248 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired; 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
 To the blind walk of moral accident ; 
 From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
 While Man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 
 And countless generations of Mankind 
 Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod." 
 
 HELEN AND IPHIGENIA. 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 " At length I saw a lady within call. 
 
 Stiller than chiseled marble standing there, 
 
 A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
 And most divinely fair. 
 
 " Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 
 
 Froze my swift speech ; she turning on my face 
 
 The starlike sorrows of immortal eyes. 
 Spoke slowly in her place. 
 
 " ' I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : 
 No one can be more wise than destiny. 
 
 Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
 I brought calamity.' 
 
 " ' No marvel, sovran lady ! in fair field, 
 Myself for such a face had boldly died,' 
 
 I answered free, and turning I appealed 
 To one that stood beside. 
 
 " But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, 
 To her full height her stately statue draws ; 
 
 " My youth,' she said, ' was blasted with a curse : 
 This woman was the cause. 
 
 " ' I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 
 
 Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears : 
 
 My father held his hand upon his face ; 
 I, blinded with my tears, 
 
APPENDIX II. 249 
 
 " ' Still strove to speak — my voice was thick with sighs 
 
 As in a dream. Dimly T could descry 
 The stern blackbearded kings with wolfish eyes, 
 
 Waiting to see me die. 
 
 "' The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat, 
 The temples and the people and the shore; 
 
 One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat 
 Slowly,— and nothing more.' 
 
 " Whereto the other with a downward brow : 
 
 ' I would the white cold heavy -plunging foam, 
 
 Whirled by the wind, had rolled me deep below, 
 Then when I left my home.' " 
 
 MODERN GREECE. 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 " Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee most j 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
 Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 
 
 " When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood. 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
 When Athen's children are with hearts endued, 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
 Then may'st thou be restor'd ; but not till then. 
 A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
 An hour may lay it in the dust: and when 
 Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
 Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 
 
 " And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow. 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow. 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
 So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 
 
 " Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 
 
 2 M 
 
2.50 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
 Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
 While strangers only not regardless pass, 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh Alas I 
 
 " Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy iields. 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
 And still his honied wealth H)mettus yields; 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds. 
 The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 "Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground; 
 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly told. 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 " The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
 The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
 First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword. 
 As on the morn to distant Glory dear. 
 When Marathon became a magic word ; 
 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career, 
 
 " The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
 Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
 Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
 Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground. 
 
APPENDIX II. 251 
 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
 The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around. 
 
 " Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng j 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 " The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
 If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth j 
 He that is lonely hither let him roam, 
 And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
 Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth : 
 But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
 And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
 When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side. 
 Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 
 
 " Let such approach this consecrated land, 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
 But spare its relics— let no busy hand 
 Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
 Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
 Revere the remnants nations once revered ; 
 So may our country's name be undisgraced. 
 So may'st thon prosper where thy youth was rear'd 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear'd !'' 
 
 BEAUTY AND WEAKNESS OP THE GRECIAN MIND. 
 SCHOOL OF THE HEART. 
 
 " How beautiful was Greece — how marvellous 
 In polity, and chastened grace severe — 
 In nicely-balanced strains, and harmonies 
 Tnned to the varying passion ! flute or lyre 
 Not unaccompanied by solemn dance 
 In arms, or movement of well-ordered youths 
 
252 APPENDIX II. 
 
 And maids in Dorian tunic simply clad ; — 
 How rich in song, and artful dialogue, 
 Long-sighted irony, and half earnest guess 
 At deeply -pondered truth, 
 
 " But spirits pure, 
 Deep drinking at the fount of natural joy. 
 Grew sad and hopeless as the foot of Death 
 Crept onwards ; and beyond the deep-blue hills 
 And plains o'erflowed with light, and woody paths. 
 No safe abode of everduring joy 
 Lifted its promise to the sight of Man. 
 
 " * Farewell, farewell for ever — never more 
 Thy beautiful young form shall pass athwart 
 Our fond desiring vision ; — the great world 
 Moves on, and human accidents ; and Spring 
 New-clothes the forests, and the warm west wind 
 Awakes the nightingales; — but thou the while 
 A handful of dull earth, art not, and we, 
 Insatiable in woe, weep evermore 
 ' Around the marble where thine ashes lie ;' 
 
 Such sounds by pillared temple, or hill-side 
 Sweet with wild roses, or by sacred stream 
 Errant through mossy rocks, saddened the air. 
 Whether ripe virgin on the bier were borne. 
 Or youth untimely cropped ; or in still night 
 The moon shone full, and choir of maidens moved 
 Through glades distinct with shadow, bearing vows 
 Of choicest flowers and hair, — fearful the while 
 Of thwarting influence or uncautious word, 
 Till round the tomb they poured their votive wine 
 And moved in dance, or chanted liquid hymns 
 Soothing the rigid silence. ' Fare thee well; 
 A journey without end, a wakeless sleep, 
 Or some half-joyful place, where feeble ghosts 
 Wander in dreamy twilight, holds thee now ; 
 Thy joy is done ; and thine espousals kept 
 Down in the dark house of forgetfulness.' " 
 
APPENDIX 11. 258 
 
 (< 
 FROM THE CENONE. 
 
 ALFRED TESNVSON. 
 
 " There is a dale in Ida, lovelier 
 Than any in old Ionia, beautiful 
 With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean 
 Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn 
 A path thro' steepdown granite walls below 
 Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front 
 The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. 
 Far-seen, high over all the Godbuilt wall 
 And many a snowycolumned range divine, 
 Mounted with awful sculptures — men and Gods, 
 The work of Gods — bright on the darkblue sky 
 The windy citadel of Uion 
 Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came 
 Mournful (Enon^ wandering forlorn 
 Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck. 
 Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold. 
 Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. 
 She, leaning on a vine-entwined stone. 
 Sang to the stillness, till the mountain shadow 
 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliflF. 
 
 " ' O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, hearken ere T die. 
 The grasshopper is silent in the grass. 
 The lizard with his shadow on the stone 
 Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged 
 Cicala in the noonday leapeth not. 
 Along the water-rounded granite rock 
 The purple flower droops : the golden bee 
 Is lilycradled : i alone awake. 
 My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. 
 And I am all aweary of my life. 
 
 "' O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves 
 That house the cold crowned snake ! O mountain brooks, 
 I am the daughter of a River-God, 
 
254 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
 My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
 Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
 A cloud that gathered shape : for it may be 
 That, while I speak of it, a little while 
 My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 
 
 " ' O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, Tiearken ere I die. 
 Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark, 
 And dewydark aloft the mountain pine ; 
 Beautiful Paris, evilhearted Paris, 
 Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved. 
 Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 
 
 " ' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 I sat alone : the goldensandalled morn 
 Rosehued the scornful hills : I sate alone 
 With downdropt eyes : whitebreasted like a star 
 Fronting the dawn he came : a leopard skin 
 From his white shoulder drooped : his sunny hair 
 Clustered about his temples like a God's : 
 And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens 
 When the wind blows the foam; and I called out, 
 ' Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo, 
 Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo.' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 He, mildly smiling, in his milkwhite palm 
 Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright 
 With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of heaven 
 Ambrosially smelling. From his lip, 
 Curved crimson, the fuUflosving river of speech 
 Came down upon my heart. 
 
 " ' My own (Enone, 
 Beautifulbrowed CEnone, mine own soul, 
 Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingiav'n 
 ' For the most fair,' in aftertime may breed 
 Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sere 
 Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion ; 
 And all the colour of my afterlife 
 Will be the shadow of to-day. To-day 
 Herfe and Pallas and the floating grace 
 Of laughterloving Aphrodite meet 
 
APPENDIX II. 255 
 
 In manyfolded Ida to receive 
 This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand 
 Awards the palm. Within the green hillside, 
 Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
 Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar 
 And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein 
 Thou unbeholden may'st behold, unheard 
 Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 
 
 " ' Dear mother Ida, hearken here I die. 
 It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
 Had lost his way between the piney hills. 
 They came — all three — the Olympian goddesses : 
 Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower. 
 Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed 
 Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset, 
 Shadowed with singing pine ; and all the while, 
 Above, the overwandering ivy and vine 
 This way and that in many a wild festoon 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 
 On the treetops a golden glorious cloud 
 Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew. 
 How beautiful they were, too beautiful 
 To look upon ! but Paris was to me 
 More lovelier than all the world beside. 
 
 " ' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 First spake the imperial Olympian 
 With arched eyebrow smiling sovranly, 
 Fulleyfed Herfe. She to Paris made 
 Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
 Unquestioned, overflowing revenue 
 Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
 And riversundered chamj)aign clothed with corn, 
 Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine — 
 Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll. 
 From many an inland town and haven large. 
 Mast -thronged below her shadowing citadel 
 In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 
 
 " ' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 Still she spake on and still she spake of power 
 
 I 
 
256 APPENDIX II. 
 
 ' Which in all action is the end of all. 
 
 Power fitted to the season, measured by 
 
 The height of the general feeling, wisdomborn 
 
 And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns 
 
 Alliance and allegiance evermore. 
 
 Such boon from me Heaven's Queen to thee kingborn, 
 
 A shepherd all thy life and yet kingborn, 
 
 Should come most welcome, seeing men, in this 
 
 Only are likest gods, who have attained 
 
 Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
 
 Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
 
 In knowledge of their own supremacy ; 
 
 The changeless calm of undisputed right, 
 
 The highest height and topmost strength of power.' 
 
 " ' Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
 Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 
 Flattered his heart ; but Pallas where she stood 
 Somewhat apart, her clear and barfed limbs 
 O'erthwarted with the brazenheaded spear 
 Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
 The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
 Over her snowcold breast and angry cheek 
 Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 
 
 " ' Selfreverence, selfknowledge, selfcontrol 
 Are the three hinges of the gates of Life, 
 That open into power, everyway 
 Without horizon, bound or shadow or cloud, 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 Will come uncalled-for) but to live by law 
 Acting the law we live by without fear, 
 And, because right is right, to follow right 
 Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence. 
 (Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.) 
 Not as men value gold because it tricks 
 And blazons outward Life with ornament, 
 But rather as the miser, for itself. 
 Good for selfgood doth half destroy selfgood. 
 The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infect 
 Each other, bound in one with hateful love. 
 So both into the fountain and the stream 
 
APPENDIX II. 257 
 
 A drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me, 
 
 And look apon me and consider me. 
 
 So shalt thou find me fairest, so endurance, 
 
 Like to an athlete's arm, shall still become 
 Sinewed with motion, till thine active will 
 (As the dark body of the sun robed round 
 With his own erer-emanating- lights) 
 Be flooded o'er with her own effluences, 
 And thereby grow to freedom.' 
 
 " ' Here she ceased, 
 And Paris pondered. I cried out, ' Oh Paris, 
 Give it to Pallas !' but he heard me not, 
 Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 
 
 " ■ O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 IJalian Aphrodite oeeanborn, 
 Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells, 
 With rosy slender fingers upward drew 
 Froui her warm brow and bosom her dark hair 
 Fragrant and thick, anrl on her head upbound 
 In a purple band : below, her lucid neck 
 Shone ivorylike, and from the ground her foot 
 Gleamed rosywhite, and o'er her rounded form 
 Between the shadows of the vinebunclies 
 Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 
 
 " ' Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
 The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
 Half whispered in his ear, ' I promise thee 
 The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
 I only saw my Paris raise his arm : 
 I only saw great Herd's angry eyes. 
 As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 
 And I was left alone within the bower ; 
 And from that time to this I am alone, 
 And I shall be alone until I die.' " 
 
 2 N 
 
258 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 LORD CHIEF JUSTICE DENMAN. 
 
 " When the wind, resounding high, 
 Bluster'd from the northern sky, 
 When the waves, in stronger tide, 
 Dash'd against the vessel's side, 
 Her care-worn cheek with tears bedew'd, 
 Her sleeping infant Danae view'd ; 
 And trembling still with new alarms. 
 Around him cast a mother's arms. 
 ' My child ! what woes does Danae weep ! 
 But thy young limbs are wrapt in sleep. 
 In that poor nook all sad and dark, 
 While lightnings play around our bark. 
 Thy quiet bosom only knows 
 The heavy sigh of deep repose. 
 
 ' The howling wind, the raging sea. 
 No terror can excite in thee ; 
 The angry surges wake no care 
 That burst above thy long deep hair, 
 But couldst thou feel what I deplore. 
 Then would I bid thee sleep the more ! 
 Sleep on, sweet boy: still be the deep ! 
 Oh could I lull my woes to sleep ! 
 Jove, let thy mighty hand o'erthrow 
 The baffled malice of my foe ; 
 And may this child, in future years, 
 Avenge his mother's wrongs and tears !' " 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM ALCMAN. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 " The mountain summits sleep: glens, cliflFs, and caves, 
 Are silent — all the black earth's reptile brood — 
 The bees — the wild beasts of the mountain wood : 
 
 In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves 
 
 Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray 
 Each bird is hush'd that stretch 'd its pinions to the day. 
 
 * From Simonides. See p. 81. 
 
APPENDIX II. 259 
 
 MARTIAL ELEGY, FROM TYRTiBUS.* 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, 
 In front of battle for their native land 1 
 But oh ! what ills await the wretch that yields, 
 A recreant outcast from his country's fields ! 
 The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, 
 An aged father at his side shall roam ; 
 His little ones shall weeping with him go. 
 And a young wife participate his woe ; 
 While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face, 
 They pine for food, and beg from place to place. 
 
 Stain of his breed ! dishonouring manhood's form, 
 All ills shall cleave to him : — Affliction's storm 
 Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, 
 Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, 
 He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name, 
 And children, like himself, inured to shame. 
 
 But we will combat for our fathers' land, 
 And we will drain the life-blood where we stand 
 To save our children : — fight ye side by side, 
 And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, 
 Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost 
 Of life itself in glorious battle lost. 
 
 Leave not our sires to stem th' unequal fight. 
 Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might ; 
 Nor lagging backward, let the younger breast 
 Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd) 
 To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, 
 His hoary head dishevell'd in the dust, 
 And venerable bosom bleeding bare. 
 
 But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair. 
 And beautiful in death the boy appears, 
 
 * Tyrtseus was an Athenian schoolmaster, afflicted with lameness. The Spartans 
 in their second war with the Messenians were dii'ected by the oracles to apply to Athens 
 for a general. They were contemptuously treated, and Tyrtseus was sent to them. He 
 however succeeded in rousing the Spartan spirit by his martial verses, and victory 
 decided for them. 
 
 m- 
 
260 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 The hero boy, that dies in blooming years : 
 In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, 
 More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, 
 For having perish'd in the front of war. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF PINDAR. 
 
 HENRY ALFORD. 
 
 " Joy to the happy souls 
 
 Thrice purified on earth. 
 Thrice springing into birth; 
 Sing for the happy souls 
 Whom heavenly-handed Truth hath led, 
 Unruffled and unsullied, 
 Thrice springing iQio birth. 
 Thrice purified on earth. 
 
 For they have walked the road. 
 The palace-iined road, 
 
 In the narrow distance turreted 
 With the thousand tbousaud spires 
 Aod the calmly waving fires 
 Of Hesperian cities bright 
 Mellowed in their rich sunlight. 
 By blissful crowds inhabited. 
 Where the ocean breezes lightly breathing 
 Round the happy island 
 Geiitly ever blow : 
 Where the golden flowers are warmly blooming 
 On the thymy highland, 
 In the mead below, 
 From the sacred trees fortJi budding brightly, 
 Or adown the streams rich glowing, 
 
 The streams of the happy island, 
 Pearly-bedded, mildly-flowing. 
 
 By the woods they walk in beauty. 
 
 Kissed by ocean breezes lightly breathing ; 
 
 By the streams they sing in beauty. 
 
 Golden flowers in golden garlands ever wreathing 
 
 Sing for the happy souls 
 Thrice purified on earth, 
 
APPENDIX II. Wl 
 
 Thrice springiTig into birth ; 
 Joy to the happy souls 
 
 Whom heavenly-handed Truth hath led. 
 Unruffled and unsullied, 
 
 Thrice springing into birth, 
 
 Thrice purified on earth." 
 
 THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED. 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 " ScHWiNDELND tragt cr dich fort auf rastlos stromenden wogen : 
 Hinter dir siehst du, du siehst vor dir nur Himmel und meer." 
 
 THE SAME IN ENGLISH. 
 SAMUEL TAYLOft COLEillDGE. 
 
 " Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, 
 Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the Ocean," 
 
 CATULLIAN HGNDECASYLLABLES. 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story ! — 
 High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels, 
 Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland j 
 In the dim distance amid the skiey billows 
 Rose a fair island ; the god of flocks had plac'd it. 
 From the far shores of the bleak resounding island, 
 Oft by the moonlighl. a little boat came floating, 
 Came to ihe sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, 
 Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
 Up to the groves of tlie high embosom'd temple. 
 There in a thicket of dedicated roses, 
 Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision. 
 Pouring her soul to the son of Cy therea, 
 Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat, 
 And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
 Over the dusk wave, until the mighty sailor 
 Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom. 
 
262 
 
 APPENDIX 11. 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 " ' The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho lo?'d and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 " ' The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further West 
 
 Than your sires' Islands of the Blest. 
 
 " ' Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these ; 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He serv'd — but serv'd Polycrates — 
 A tyrant — but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 " ' Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 '" Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 — Dash down your cup of Samian wine I ' " 
 
APPENDIX II. 263 
 
 FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, 
 
 " While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, 
 And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, 
 See, to the last, last verge her infant steels ! 
 O fly — ye stir not, speak not, lest it fall. 
 
 Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare. 
 And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.'' 
 
 FROM EURIPIDES. 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 " There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. 
 The village-girls, singing wild madrigals. 
 Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, 
 And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her. 
 Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire, 
 'Twas heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice, 
 As tuneable as harp of many strings, 
 At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul !" 
 
 " Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ; 
 And all, who know it, come and come again. 
 The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon, 
 Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers. 
 As in the shining grass she sate conceal'd, 
 Sing to herself." ****** 
 
1 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 82, line 5, for wave, read warm. 
 
 91, line 16, for crowded, read crowned. 
 100, line 4 from bottom, for and sapient, read and a sapient. 
 120, title, for Orestead, read Orestea. 
 
 f Plays of Sopho- "j f Plays of Sophocles 
 
 135, margin, /or ^ cles: or the \read ^ on the 
 
 (^ tale of CEdipus, j (. tale of (Edipus. 
 
 ] 40, line 4,/or advise read advice. 
 149, line 5 from bottom,/or built, read dwelt. 
 186, line 5 of Sonnet, after taint, dele full stop. 
 190, line 10 from bottom, for oh ! oh ! read oh ho ! 
 203, line 9 from bottom,/or a lay, read along. 
 206, line 19,/or Spencer, read Spenser, 
 217, line 10,/or when, read where. 
 Ibid, line 35, for rise, read arise. 
 
 220, last line,/or (Eagrius, read (Eagrus. 
 
 221, line 9, for Lovers round, read Loves around. 
 230, line 3 from end,/or accessary, read accessory. 
 
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