Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with Other Poems ::

Dear friend, who by Corstorphine's bosky bower,
From the shrill strife of wrangling law remote,
Reapest the mellow fruits of quiet thought,
Receive in Jeffrey's quaint and ivied tower
This little book. Though from the grand parade
Of printed verdicts thou hast long been free,
The man who loved the Muse still found in Thee
A judge to value, and a friend to aid.
Thou, the nice student of fine-thoughted Keats,
May'st find my rhymes cast in too rough a mould
For thy keen sense, fed with essential sweets:
If so, speak free; I'll take thy blame for gold,
And count their coin for brass, with false fair phrase
Who blow the flattering trump before my Lays.

LAYS AND LEGENDS.

Ιδμεν ψευδεα πολλα λεγειν ετυμοισιν ομοια.:
ιδμεν δ',ευτ' εθελωμεν, αληθεα μυθησασθαι.
—Hesiod.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

Muse of old Hellas, wake again!
Thou wert not born to die—
And mingle sweet the Classic strain
With Gothic minstrelsy!
I feel a tingling in my veins,
My heart is beating strong;
Let novel-writers count their gains,
I'll pipe my Doric song.
The wood has warblers great and small;
God scatters free; let carpers cavil!

There's room in Helicon for all
That swell the tuneful revel.
High in the clouds strong Shelley soars
On wings of pure desire;
Deep as Jove's thunder Byron roars,
And flashes sudden fire;
Lone in far mountains Wordsworth strolls
And hums a thoughtful lay,
As a deep river slowly rolls
Through beds of fruitful clay.
Like a fair country stretching wide
With woods on woods in leafy pride
And fields of golden grain,
And moors with purple heath that glow,
Where free the healthful breezes blow,
Spreads Scott his vast domain.
Not I with these may dare to vie;
Nor with thy learned lay,
Kehama's bard! nor prophesy,
With deep oracular bay,
Like him who sate on Highgate hill
And taught, with mystic care,
The suckling priests who owned his skill
To syllogize their prayer.

Far from such eagle-flight be mine!
But while I feel the thrill divine,
I will not clip my wing;
The beetle, 'neath its horny case,
Hath gauzy pinions that with grace
Uplift the creeping thing.
Though sober friends forbid the verse,
My old Greek rhyme I will rehearse,
Like a lone wandering bee
On a hill-side, that sips sweet dew
From fragrant blooms of purple hue,
And drones low minstrelsy.
The modest lay be slow to blame,
Piped more for pleasure than for fame:
Music to harmless souls belongs,—
Cold worldly hearts are scant of songs.

II.

The old Greek men, the old Greek men,
No blinking fools were they;
But with a free and broad-eyed ken
Looked forth on glorious day.

They looked on the Sun in their cloudless sky,
And they saw that his light was fair;
And they said that the round full-beaming eye
Of a blazing god was there.
They looked on the vast spread Earth, and saw
The various fashioned forms with awe
Of green and creeping life,
And said—“In every moving form
With buoyant breath and pulses warm,
In flowery crowns, and veined leaves,
A goddess dwells, whose bosom heaves
With organizing strife.”
They looked and saw the billowy Sea,
With its boundless rush of waters free,
Belting the firm earth, far and wide,
With the flow of its deep untainted tide;
And wondering viewed in its clear blue flood
A quick and scaly-glancing brood,
Sporting innumerous in the deep,
With dart, and plunge, and airy leap;
And said—“Full sure a god doth reign
King of this watery wide domain,
And rides in a car of cerulean hue
O'er bounding billows of green and blue;

And in one hand a three-pronged spear
He holds, the sceptre of his fear,
And with the other shakes the reins
Of his steeds, with foamy flowing manes,
And courses o'er the brine;
And when he lifts his trident mace,
Broad Ocean crisps his darkling face,
And mutters wrath divine;
The big waves rush with hissing crest,
And beat the shore with ample breast,
And shake the toppling cliff;
A wrathful god hath roused the wave,—
Vain is all pilot's skill to save,
And lo! a deep black-throated grave
Engulphs the reeling skiff.
Anon, the flood less fiercely flows,
The rifted cloud blue ether shows,
The windy buffets cease;
Poseidon chafes his heart no more,
His voice constrains the billowy roar,
And men may sail in peace.”
Thus every power that zones the sphere
With forms of beauty and of fear,
In starry sky, on grassy ground,
And in the fishy brine profound,

Were to the hoar Pelasgic men
That peopled erst each Grecian glen,
Gods, or the actions of a god.
Gods were in every sight and sound,
And every spot was hallowed ground
Where these far-wandering patriarchs trod.
In the old oak a Dryad dwelt,
The fingers of a nymph were felt
In the fine-rippled flood;
At drowsy noon, when all is still,
Faunus lay sleeping on the hill,
And strange and bright-eyed gamesome creatures
With hairy limbs, and goat-like features,
Peered from the prickly wood.
Nor less within that mystic realm
Where passions swell and thoughts o'erwhelm,
Strong-ruling powers divine
Were worshipped. All-controlling Jove
With clear-discerning eye did prove
Each human heart. The thoughts that move
To pity of the houseless poor,
The open hospitable door,
Obeyed his law benign.

But when unreined wild Passion flew,
And evil Hate sharp daggers drew,
And deathful blows were given,
Dream not that he who fled from man
Escaped the sleepless eyes that scan
All sinful deeds in Heaven.
Far from the fell avengers' tread
The blood-bedaggled murderer fled;
O'er many a blasted heath he sped,
The dewy sky his curtain made,
No sleep might close his eyes;
For, when he fain would rest, a crew
Of murky-mantled maids from Hell,
Snuffing his blood, his track pursue
And pierce his ears with baleful yell,
That blissful slumber flies:
Haggard he lives a little space,
No fatness rounds his eyes;
The Furies' mark is on his face;
Grim leaders of the airy chase
Perplex his path from place to place,
Till stumbling with a blinded fall,
With never a god to hear his call,
The wasted murderer dies.

III.

Old fables these and fancies old!
But not, with hasty pride,
Let Logic cold and Reason bold
Cast these old dreams aside.
Dreams are not false in all their scope;
Oft from the sleepy lair
Start giant-shapes of fear and hope
That, aptly read, declare
Our deepest nature. God in dreams
Hath spoken to the wise;
And in a people's mythic themes
A people's wisdom lies.
O'er the brown moor some love to roam,
And with the hammer's dint
To strike from its old chalky home
The curious-rounded flint;
Or they with brightening eye will bring,
From bed of dingy clay,
Some bony frame of a scaly thing
Unused to garish day,
Lizard or crocodile or snake,
Or mingled of the three;

Creatures of huge unwieldy make
That in the primal sea
Paddled, or through the marsh did stalk
With round and staring eyes,
Before the Tempter learned to talk
With Eve in Paradise.
Others there be that love to soar
Sublime in starry realms,
Mid seas of worlds without a shore,
Where vasty space o'erwhelms
Man's shrinking soul. From star to star
With glass in hand at leisure
They wander, and can tell how far
The blue highway doth measure
From Earth to Phœbus, and from him
To the star that wears a belt,
And to our System's extreme rim
Where never a ray was felt
Of throbbing heat. These men can write
The Moon's authentic history,
And of its mass, here dark, there bright,
Expound the motley mystery;
How like an apple by the fire
It swells and cracks, and bubbles,

That no live creature can aspire
Mid its volcanic troubles
To breathe; it hath no atmosphere
For men or salamanders,
But with obedient pale career
Through old grey Space it wanders
To lamp our Earth. I cannot say
If this be true or no;
But in a far-diverging way
My best-loved fancies go.
Man is my theme; Earth is my sphere!
The struggling fates pursuing
Of earth-born men, I would not hear
What Sun and Moon are doing.
Give me a tale of human passion,
Of oldest or of newest fashion,
Hard facts, or fictions that contain
Deep-pondered truth's clear-running well,
Like mysteries hid from ken profane
In evangelic parable;
Hoariest oracles that linger
Round Parnassus' rifted hollow,
Where the pale tripod-seated singer
Raved out thy mystic will, Apollo;

Ballad or song, or plaintive ditty
Chaunted through the drizzly night,
Amid the hum of peopled city,
By some maimed and woe-worn wight.
Tell me how erst the Lydian king,
Whom Pelops called his father,
Was borne sublime on eagle's wing
Where gods immortal gather
To eat ambrosia, and to quaff
The nectared cup at leisure:
There sate the king at jovial board,
With heaven's dark-locked high-thundering lord,
And shared Olympian jest and laugh,
And blew dull care away like chaff,
And sipped the deathless pleasure.
O Tantalus! thou wert a man
More blest than all, since Earth began
Its weary round to travel;
But placed in Paradise, like Eve,
Thine own damnation thou didst weave,
Without help from the Devil.
Alas! I fear thy tale to tell,
Thou'rt in the deepest pool of Hell,
And shalt be there for ever.

For why?—When thou on lofty seat
Didst sit, and eat immortal meat
With Jove, the bounteous Giver,
The gods before thee loosed their tongue,
And many a mirthful ballad sung,
And all their secrets open flung
Into thy mortal ear.
And thou didst know what no man knows,
How gossip in Olympus goes,
When radiant glasses circle round,
And tinkling Muses beat the ground,
And gods to music's thrilling sound
Relax their brows severe.
Then Hermes spins his finest fibs,
And grinning Momus splits his ribs,
And Phœbus bright recounts his loves
On grassy slopes, in laurel-groves.
Thou saw'st, when awful Jove unbent
O'er sparkling cups, I ween,
And on the rounded shoulder leant
Of Juno, white-armed queen;
But she, with jealous reprobation,
Rated his partial conversation
With Thetis, not unseen;

Which, when he heard, the Olympian Sire
Gathered his brows in anger dire,
And straight was hushed the festive lyre;
No sound of mirth now shook the hall,
And all the nectar turned to gall.
And thou didst see how every god
Quailed at the wrathful father's nod;
But sooty Vulcan then,
With cup in hand and napkin white,
Tired like a waiting knave,
On that divine assembly bright
Such rare attendance gave,
And limped with such quaint grace, that they
With peals of unextinguished laughter
Shook the wide welkin's beaming rafter;
Nor frowned again, while all were gay,
The king of gods and men.
All this, and of the heavenly place,
More secrets rare were known
Of mortal men, by Jove's high grace,
To Tantalus alone.
But witless he such grace to prize;
And with licentious babble,

He blazed the secrets of the skies
Through all the human rabble,
And fed the greed of tattlers vain
With high celestial scandal,
And lent to every eager brain
And wanton tongue a handle
Against the gods. For which great sin,
By righteous Jove's command,
In Hell's black pool, up to the chin,
The thirsty king doth stand;
With parched throat, he longs to drink,—
But, when he bends to sip,
The envious waves receding sink,
And cheat his pining lip.
Such tales delight me roaming free,
At dusky eve o'er heathy common;
And such I've rhymed—a few—for thee,
Of kindred fancy, man or woman.
There's labour in a learned life
And many a tome with dulness rife
The patient scholar reads;
But here I've cropped the bloom for thee;
Accept these old Greek flowers, free
From thorns and hateful weeds.

PANDORA.

Ονομηνε δε τηνδε γυναικα.
Πανδωρην, οτι παντες, Ολυμπια δωματ' εχοντες δωρον εδωρησαν, πημ' ανδρασιν αλφηστησιν.
—Hesiod .

I.

Prometheus was a famous moulder
In the old Greek time,
Ere the blind Smyrnéan minstrel

Homer.— Of all the cities which contended for the honour of having given birth to the great Epic singer of Greece, Smyrna has the best claims. See Müller's History of Greek Literature; Lauer's Homerische Poesie; or my article Homer, in the new edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica.

Wove his pictured rhyme.
Sprung from oldest Earth and Heaven's
Titan progeny,
Hardy-limbed, and sturdy labour's
Primal type was he.
One day, 'neath the slanting chariot
Of the cooler sun,
He did sweat, his task to finish
Ere the day was done.

With the finely plastic finger's
Soft-subduing sway,
He did shape the breathing feature
From the senseless clay,
Like a god; and therefore jealous
Of such god-like skill,
Mighty Jove the purpose nursed
To break his hardy will.
Vainly: for Jove's fire the Titan
In a smoking reed,
From the glowing empyrean
Drew with furtive speed;
And by might of all-subduing
Chymick fire had taught
Arts to crudest-witted mortals
From wild wanderings brought.
Him and them the harsh Olympian,
From his throne sublime,
Feared, lest they with strong invention
To the stars should climb
And mar his new dominion. Wherefore
He to daze the sight
Of the Titan wise prepares,
With sensuous splendour bright.

With Apollo's slanting chariot,
And the cooler ray,
He hath sent his minion Hermes,
Winged with speed to-day,
Shod with guile to where the Titan
Kneads the pliant clay.
Lo! he comes, the nimble-sandalled
Airy-footed god,
And with softly-soothing motion
Waves his golden rod.
Nor comes alone: behind him breathing
Rosy beauty warm,
Veiled with glory iridescent,
Floats a gentle form.
O, she is fair beyond compare!
Her the thunderer high
With all beauty's bravery pranked
To trick the Titan's eye.
Her thy forging wit, Hephæstus,
Cunningly did frame;
Every god his virtue gave
To make a perfect dame.
With soft-swelling smoothness Venus
Rounded every limb,

And her full deep eye cerulean
Dashed with wanton whim.
Round her chiselled mouth the Graces
Wove their wreathings rare,
All his sunny radiance Phœbus
Showered upon her hair.
Juno gave the lofty stature
That beseems the queen,
Dian the light-footed grace
That trips the springy green.
Tuned her throat the grace of Muses
To the perfect bird;
Hermes from her tongue sweet-suasive
Winged the witching word.
With a various-pictured vesture,
Woven thin and fine,
From her loom celestial Pallas
Clad the shape divine.
Thus with gifts well-dowered, Pandora,
Now by Hermes led,
With a sudden beauty glorious,
Floods the sober shed
Where the patient Titan labours;
Him in wonder lost

Thus with glib address Jove's courier
Smartly doth accost:
“Son of Themis, lofty-counselled,
This from Hermes know,
Jove the patient cunning honouring
Of his whilom foe,
Sends, to soothe thy lonesome toil,
And cheer thy thought sedate,
Gift of gods this glory-garnished
Beauty-breathing mate.
Shake the dust from off thy vesture;
Pleasure after pain,
The just meed that virtue merits,
Clears the cloudy brain.”
Thus the god; but wise Prometheus
Turns his face away,
And with cool deep-thoughted patience
Kneads the yielding clay:
Nay, quoth Hermes, surely madness
Makes the wise her own,
Or he to stony labour used
Himself is grown a stone!
Charm his ear attendant Muses,
With quick rapture thrill

Every life-string! mighty Music
Tames the stoutest will.
Spake the god; and like bright wavelets
Of the sounding sea
Filled the Titan's ear a gentle
Rush of melody;
Sounds as when the quire of Phoebus
Trip with tinkling feet
Round thy fair fount, Aganippe,
Singing clear and sweet;
Sounds as when goat-footed Faunus
In a mossy nook
Pipes his drowsy reed at noon-day
To the murmuring brook;
Sounds so rare as Jove Olympian
Drinks with ravished ears
When he hears the beat canorous
Of the travelling spheres;
Every sound that voiceful April
Lends the floating breeze,
Laden with the fragrant burden
From the fresh-tipt trees:
With such sweet assailing voices
Cunning Hermes plied

Wise Prometheus; but the Titan
The strong spell defied.
Eye and ear from soft seducement
He did turn away,
Till his faithful hand had ended
With its task the day.

II.

On a grassy slope extended,
Epimetheus lies;
Epimetheus, witless brother
Of Prometheus wise.
In the pleasant sun he basketh,
And with dreamy eyes,
Weeting half, and half unweeting,
Follows, as it flies,
Every shade that sweeps the meadow;
And with cradled ear,
The mingled hum of summer voices
Drowsily doth hear.
Thus at ease supine he lieth,
Nursing fancies vain,

Every frothy thought that bubbles
From an idle brain,
Every wish that fond credulity
Shapes into a creed,
Every aspiration beautiful,
That begets no deed,
Thoughts of light and cloudy tissue,
Thoughts of sun-beams wove,
Thoughts of rapture more than earthly,
Thoughts of rosy love.
Him thus in luxurious musing
Cunning Hermes found,
From his airy pathway lighting
With a nimble bound,
And with him the fair Pandora;
By the wise rejected,
On the witless now she beams
With beauty unexpected,
And veiled in rosy splendour glorious.
Epimetheus gazes
On the fair with blank emotion;
While with smooth-trimmed phrases,
Thus the courier speaks—“Brave Titan,
This from Hermes know,

Jove, whom thy proud brother vainly
Deems the Titan's foe,
Sends me here on blissful mission,
Gracious to impart
Fruitage to the fairest dreams
That stir thy lofty heart.
Earth-born thou, but not for earthy
Plodding wert thou born,
With axe and spade to drudge inglorious
From the mist-wreathed morn
To the grey-veiled eve; thy spirit's
Climate is the sky;
Traitor to himself who feareth
Where it points to fly.
Flesh and blood with bread he feedeth,
But immortal Jove
Feeds the soul that pants for beauty
With immortal love.
Lo! thy heart's divinely-thirsting
Fever to abate,
He hath sent this glory-garnished,
Beauty-breathing, mate.”
Mute the spell-struck Epimetheus
Eyed the wonder rare,

Heedless of what wiles Kronion
Screened beneath the fair.
And in tranceful adoration
Kiss'd his knees the ground;
While from rapture-glowing breast
He poured the vow profound—
“Bless thee, bless thee, gentle Hermes!
Once I sinned and strove
Vainly, with my haughty brother,
'Gainst Olympian Jove.
Now my doubts his love hath vanquished;
Evil knows not he
Whose free-streaming grace prepared
Such gift of gods for me.
Henceforth I and fair Pandora,
Joined in holy love,
Only one in Heaven will worship—
Cloud-compelling Jove.”
Thus he; and from the god received
The glorious gift of Jove,
And with fond embracement clasped her,
Thrilled by potent love;
And in loving dalliance with her
Lived from day to day,

While her bounteous smiles diffusive
Scared pale care away.
By the mountain, by the river,
'Neath the shaggy pine,
By the cool and grassy fountain
Where clear waters shine,
He with her did lightly stray
Or softly did recline,
Drinking sweet intoxication
From that form divine.
One day when the moon had wheeled
Four honeyed weeks away,
From her chamber came Pandora
Decked with trappings gay,
And before fond Epimetheus
Fondly she did stand,
A box all bright with lucid opal
Holding in her hand.
Dainty box! cried Epimetheus,
Dainty well may 't be,
Quoth Pandora, —curious Vulcan
Framed it cunningly;
Jove bestowed it in my dowry:
Like bright Phœbus' ray,

It shines without; within what wealth
I know not to this day.
Let me see, quoth Epimetheus,
What my touch can do!
And swiftly to his finger's call
The box wide open flew;
O heaven! O hell! what Pandemonium
In the pouncet dwells!
How it quakes, and how it quivers!
How it seethes and swells!
Misty steams from it upwreathing,
Wave on wave is spread!
Like a charnel-vault 'tis breathing
Vapours of the dead!
Fumes on fumes as from a throat
Of sooty Vulcan rise,
Clouds of red and blue and yellow
Blotting the fair skies.
And the air with noisome stenches,
As from things that rot,
Chokes the breather, —exhalations
From the infernal pot.
And amid the thick-curled vapours
Ghastly shapes I see

Of dire diseases, Epimetheus,
Launched on Earth by thee;
A horrid crew! some lean and dwindled,
Some with boils and blains
Blistered, some with tumours swollen,
And water in the veins.
Some with purple blotches bloated,
Some with humours flowing
Putrid, some with creeping tetter
Like a lichen growing
O'er the dry skin scaly-crusted;
Some with twisted spine
Dwarfing low with torture slow
The human form divine:
Limping some, some limbless lying;
Fever with frantic air,
And pale consumption veiling death
With looks serenely fair.
All the troop of cureless evils
Rushing reinless forth
From thy damned box, Pandora,
Seize the tainted Earth;
And to lay the marshalled legions
Of our fiendish pains,

Hope alone, a sorry charmer,
In the box remains.
Epimetheus knew the dolours,
But he knew too late;
Jealous Jove himself now vainly
Would revoke the fate.
And he cursed the fair Pandora,
But he cursed in vain;
Still to fools the fleeting pleasure
Buys the lasting pain.

PROMETHEUS.

No character of primeval Greek tradition has been a greater favourite with modern poets than the hero of the well known play of Æschylus. The common conception of him, however, made fashionable by Shelley and Byron, as the representative of freedom in contest with despotism, is quite modern; and Gœthe is nearer the depth of the old myth, when, in his beautiful lyric, he represents the Titan as the impersonation of that indefatigable endurance in man, which conquers the earth by skilful labour, in opposition to and in despite of those terrible influences of the wild elemental powers of Nature, which, to the Greek imagination, were concentrated in the person of Jove. On the apparent impiety of the position of Prometheus, as against the Olympian, see my Essay in Classical Museum, Vol. v., p. l. 1848.

“Πασας τεχνας βροτοισιν εκ Προμηθεως.”
—Æschylus.

I

Blow blustering winds; loud thunders roll!
Swift lightnings rend the fervid pole
With frequent flash! his hurtling hail
Let Jove down-fling! hoarse Neptune flail
The stubborn rock, and give free reins
To his dark steeds with foamy manes
That paw the strand!—such wrathful fray
Touches not me, who, even as they,
Immortal tread this lowly sod,
Born of the gods a god.

II

Jove rules above; Fate willed it so.
'Tis well; Prometheus rules below.
Their gusty game let wild winds play,
And clouds on clouds in thick array
Muster dark armies in the sky;
Be mine a harsher trade to ply,
This solid Earth, this rocky frame
To mould, to conquer, and to tame;
And to achieve the toilsome plan,
My workman shall be MAN.

III

The Earth is young. Even with these eyes
I saw the molten mountains rise
From out the seething deep, while Earth
Shook at the portent of their birth.
I saw from out the primal mud
The reptiles crawl of dull cold blood,
While wingèd lizards with broad stare,
Peered through the raw and misty air.
Where then was Cretan Jove? where then
This king of gods and men?

IV

When naked from his mother Earth
Weak and defenceless, man crept forth,
And on mis-tempered solitude
Of unploughed field, and unclipt wood
Gazed rudely; when with brutes he fed
On acorns; and his stony bed
In dark unwholesome caverns found;
No skill was then to till the ground,
No help came then from him above
This tyrannous-blustering Jove.

V

The Earth is young. Her latest birth,
This weakling man, my craft shall girth
With cunning strength. Him I will take
And in stern arts my scholar make.
This smoking reed, in which I hold
The empyrean spark, shall mould
Rock and hard steel to use of man;
He shall be as a god to plan
And forge all things to his desire
By alchemy of fire.

VI

These jagged cliffs that flout the air,
Harsh granite blocks so rudely bare,
Wise Vulcan's art and mine shall own
To piles of shapeliest beauty grown.
The steam that snorts vain strength away
Shall serve the workman's curious sway
Like a wise child; as clouds that sail
White-wing'd before the summer gale,
The smoking chariot o'er the land
Shall roll, at his command.

VII

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! my home
Stands firm beneath Jove's rattling dome,
This stable Earth. Here let me work!
The busy spirits, that eager lurk
Within a thousand labouring breasts,
Here let me rouse; and whoso rests
From labour let him rest from life.
To live 's to strive; and in the strife
To move the rock, and stir the clod,
Man makes himself a god.

THE NAMING OF ATHENS.

The beautiful and significant local myth embodied in this ballad, conveys a grand lesson in political economy, to all nations who, in the pursuit of wealth by manufactures, commerce, or otherwise, may be tempted to neglect the fundamental interests of landed property, and the rights of the honest food-producing labourers who till the soil. It were well for modern Greece, at the present hour, if it could be brought to understand, and practically to strive after, the realization of this great principle. A people consisting of mere merchants, without any root in the native soil, can never become a nation. The contest between Pallas and Poseidon was represented on the posterior pediment of the Parthenon. Pausanias, i. 24, 5. To the English people, as the conservators of the Elgin marbles, the whole subject possesses a peculiar interest.

Παρθενοι ομβροφοροι
ελθωμεν λιπαραν χθονα Παλλαδος, ευανδρον γαν
Κεκροπος οψομεναι πολυηρατον.
—Aristophanes.

On the rock of Erectheus the ancient, the hoary,
That rises sublime from the far-stretching plain,
Sate Cecrops, the first in Athenian story
Who guided the fierce by the peace-loving rein.
Eastward away by the flowery Hymettus,
Westward where Salamis gleams in the bay,
To Parnes, beneath the high-peaked Lycabettus,
He numbered the towns that rejoiced in his sway.
Pleased was his eye with the muster, but rested
At length where he sate with an anxious love,
When he thought on the strife of the mighty broad-breasted
Poseidon, with Pallas, the daughter of Jove;

For the god of the earth-shaking ocean had sworn it,
The city of Cecrops should own him supreme,
Or the land and the people should ruefullest mourn it,
Swamped by the swell of his billowy stream.
Lo! from the North, as he doubtfully ponders,
A light shoots far-streaming; the welkin it fills;
Southward from Parnes bright-bearded it wanders,
Swift as the courier-fires from the hills.
Far in the flood of the winding Cephissus,
There gleams like the shape of a serpentine rod,
Shimmers the tide of the gentle Ilissus
With radiance from Hermes the messenger-god.
'Twas he; on the Earth with light touch he descended,
And struck the grey rock with his gold-gleaming rod,
While Cecrops with low-hushed devotion attended,
And reverent awe to the voice of the god.
“Noble autochthon! a message I bear thee,
From Jove in Olympus that regally sways;
Wise is the god the dark trouble to spare thee,
Blest is the heart that believes and obeys.
On the peaks of Olympus, the bright snowy-crested,
The gods are assembled in council to day;
The wrath of Poseidon, the mighty broad-breasted,
'Gainst Pallas, the spear-shaking maid, to allay;

And thus they decree—that Poseidon offended,
And Pallas shall bring forth a gift to the place;
On the hill of Erectheus the strife shall be ended,
When she with her spear, and the god with his mace,
Shall strike the quick rock; and the gods shall deliver
The sentence as Justice shall order; and thou
Shalt see thy loved city established for ever
With Jove for a judge, and the Styx for a vow.”
He spake; and, while Cecrops devoutly was bending,
To worship the knees of the herald of Jove,
Shone from the pole, in full glory descending,
The cloud-car that bore the bright gods from above,
Beautiful, glowing with many-hued splendour.
O what a kinship of godhead was there!
Juno the stately full-eyed, and the tender
Bland-beaming Venus, so rosily fair,
Dian the huntress, with arrow and quiver,
And airily tripping with light-footed grace,
Apollo, with radiance poured like a river
Diffusive o'er Earth, from his joy-giving face,
Bacchus the rubicund, and with fair tresses,
The bright-fruited Ceres, and Vesta the chaste,
And the god that delights in fair Venus' caresses,
Stout Mars, in his mail adamantine encased.

Then, while wild thunders innocuous gather
Round his brow, diademed green with the oak,
On the rock of Erectheus descended the Father,
And thus to good Cecrops serenely he spoke:—
“Kingly autochthon! the sorrow deep-rooted
That gnaweth thy heart, the Olympians know;
Too long with Poseidon hath Pallas disputed,
This day shall be peace, or great Jove is their foe.”
He spake; and a sound like the rushing of ocean,
From smooth-grained Pentelicus, seizes their ears;
From his home in Eubœa, with haughty commotion,
To the place of the judgment, the sea-monarch nears.
On the waves of the wind his blue car travelled proudly,
Proudly his locks to the breeze floated free,
Snorted his mane-tossing coursers, and loudly
Blew from the tortuous conch of the sea
Shrill Tritons the clear-throated blast undisputed,
That curleth the wild wave, and cresteth the main;
While Nereids around him, the fleet foamy-footed,
Floated, as floated his undulant rein.
Thus on the rock of Erectheus alighted
The god of the sea, and the rock with his mace
Smote; for he knew that the gods were invited
To judge of the gift that he gave to the place.

Lo! at the touch of his trident a wonder!
Virtue to Earth from his deity flows,
From the rift of the flinty rock cloven asunder,
A dark-watered fountain ebullient rose.
Inly elastic with airiest lightness
It leapt, till it cheated the eye-sight; and, lo!
It shewed in the sun, with a various brightness,
The fine-woven hues of the heavenly bow.
“Water is best!” cried the mighty broad-breasted
Poseidon; “O Cecrops, I offer to thee
To ride on the back of the steeds foamy-crested,
That toss their wild manes on the huge-heaving sea.
The globe thou shalt mete on the path of the waters,
To thy ships shall the ports of far ocean be free;
The isles of the sea shall be counted thy daughters,
The pearls of the East shall be gathered for thee!”
He spake; and the gods, with a high-sounding pæan,
Applauded; but Jove hushed the many-voiced tide;
“For now, with the lord of the briny Ægean,
Athena shall strive for the city,” he cried.
“See, where she comes!”—and she came, like Apollo,
Serene with the beauty ripe wisdom confers;
The clear-scanning eye, and the sure hand to follow
The mark of the far-sighted purpose, was hers.

Strong in the mail of her father she standeth,
And firmly she holds the strong spear in her hand;
But the wild hounds of war with calm power she commandeth,
And fights but to pledge surer peace to the land.
Chastely the blue-eyed approached, and, surveying
The council of wise-judging gods without fear,
The nod of her lofty-throned father obeying,
She struck the grey rock with her nice-tempered spear.
Lo! from the touch of the virgin a wonder!
Virtue to Earth from her deity flows;
From the rift of the flinty rock cloven asunder,
An olive-tree greenly luxuriant rose—
Green, but yet pale, like an eye-drooping maiden,
Gentle, from full-blooded lustihood far;
No broad-staring hues for rude pride to parade in,
No crimson to blazon the banners of war.
Mutely the gods, with a calm consultation,
Pondered the fountain, and pondered the tree;
And the heart of Poseidon, with high expectation,
Throbbed, till great Jove thus pronounced the decree:—

“Son of my father, thou mighty broad-breasted
Poseidon, the doom that I utter is true;
Great is the might of thy waves foamy-crested,
When they beat the white halls of the screaming sea-mew;
Great is the pride of the keel when it danceth,
Laden with wealth, o'er the light-heaving wave;
When the East to the West, gaily floated, advanceth,
With a word from the wise, and a help from the brave.
But Earth, solid Earth, is the home of the mortal,
That toileth to live, and that liveth to toil;
And the green olive-tree twines the wreath of his portal,
Who peacefully wins his sure bread from the soil.”
Thus Jove; and to heaven the council celestial
Rose, and the sea-god rolled back to the sea;
But Athena gave Athens her name, and terrestrial
Joy, from the oil of the green olive-tree.

BELLEROPHON.

This famous Corinthian legend has also become, in a manner, the property of the British nation, by the labours of Sir Charles Fellowes, and the existence of a “Xanthian Chamber” in the British Museum. Ephyre is the old name for Corinth. That Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, should appear as the special protector of a homicide, will appear strange to no thinker; for, in those wild days of imperfect and partial law, feuds were always arising, and murders everywhere committed, and Furies invoked and feared by persons of the most reputable character. The scenery of the pass of Tretus, as given in p. 42, will be found described in Colonel Mure's two admirable volumes, entitled a Tour in Greece. The purification from the guilt of manslaughter by blood of swine (p.43), is according to the well known tradition of the ancient poets. On Xanthus, its topography and antiquities, besides the works of Sir Charles Fellows, the reader may consult the two volumes of travels in Lycia, by the late Professor Edward Forbes, and Colonel Spratt.

“Ος τας οφιωδεος υιον ποτε Γοργονος
η πολλ' αμφι κρουνοις
Παγασον ζευξαι ποθεων επαθεν
Πριν γε οι χρυσαμπυκα κουρα χαλινον
Παλλας ηνεγκε.”
—Pindar.

“Αλλ οτε δη και κεινος απηχθετο πασι θεοισιν
ητοι ο καπ πεδιον το Αληιον οιος αλατο
ον θυμον κατεδων πατον ανθρωπων αλεεινων.”
—Homer.

I.

The sun shines bright on Ephyré's height,
And right and left, with billowy might,
Poseidon rules the sea;
But not the Sun that rules above,
Nor strong Poseidon, nor great Jove,
Can look with looks of favouring love,
Bellerophon, on thee.

There's blood upon thy hands; the hounds
Of hell pursue thy path;
Nor they within rich Corinth's bounds
Shall slack their vengeful wrath.
Black broods the sky above thy head,
The Earth breeds serpents at thy tread,
The Furies' foot hath found thee;
A baleful pest their presence brings,
A curse to peasants and to kings;
The horrid shadow of their wings
Turns day to darkness round thee.
Flee o'er the Argive hills, and there,
With suppliant branch and pious prayer,
Thou shalt not crave in vain
Some prince, whose hands not worthless hold
The sceptre of Phoroneus old,
To wash thee clean, and make thee bold
To look on men again.

II.

Darkly the Nemean forests frown,
Where Apesantian Jove

From his broad altar-seat looks down
On the Ogygian grove.
Fierce roars the lion from his den
In Tretus' long and narrow glen;
And many a lawless man
Here by the stony water-bed
Lists the lone traveller's errant tread,
And wakes the plundering clan.
Here be thy flight, Bellerophon,
But danger fear thou none;
For she, the warlike and the wise,
Jove's blue-eyed daughter from surprise
Secure shall lead thee on.
He flees: and, where the priestess bears
To Hera on the hill
The sacred keys, he pours his prayers,
And drinks the scanty rill.
He flees: and now before his eye,
With wall and gate and bulwark high,
And many a tower that fronts the sky,
And many a covered way,
Strong Tiryns stands, whose massy blocks
Were torn by Cyclops from the rocks,
And piled in vast array.

Here Prœtus reigns; and here, at length,
The suppliant flings his jaded strength,
Before a friendly door;
And now from hot pursuit secure,
And from blood-guiltiness made pure,
His heart shall fear no more.

III.

The princely Prœtus opes his gate,
And on the fugitive's dark fate
Smiles gracious; him from fear,
And terror of the scourge divine,
He purifies with blood of swine
And sprinkled water clear.
O blessed was the calm that now
Lulled his racked brain, and smoothed his brow!
Nor wildly now did roll
His sleepless eyes; from gracious Jove
Came down the gentle dew of love,
That soothed his wounded soul.
And grateful was the face of man
To heart now free from Furies' ban,
And sweet the festive lyre.

Fair was each sight that gorgeous day,
Spread forth in beautiful array,
To move the heart's desire.
Each manly sport and social game
Thrilled with new joy his re-strung frame,
And waked the living fire.
Antéa saw him poise the dart,
In the fleet race the foremost start,
And lawless Venus smote her heart—
She loved her lord no more:
As no chaste woman sues she sued,
Her guest the partial hostess wooed,
And lavished beauty's store
Of looks and smiles, and pleading tears,
And silvery words; but he reveres
The rights of hospitable Jove,
Chastely repels her perilous love,
Nor hears her parley more.

IV.

Who slights a woman's love cuts deep,
And wakes a brood of snakes that sleep
Beneath a bed of roses.

The lustful wife of Prœtus now
To earthly Venus vows a vow,
And in her heart proposes
A fiendish thing. She, with the pin
That bound her peplos, pierced the skin
Of her smooth-rounded arm;
And when the crimson stream began
To trickle down, she instant ran,
And with a feigned alarm
Roused all her maids, and in the ear
Of the fond Prœtus, quick to hear,
She poured the piteous lie,
That the false guest had sought to move
Her loyal-mated heart with love,
And with rude hands had dared assail
Her virtue, cased in surer mail
Than Dian's panoply:
Then, more to stir his wrathful mood,
She bared her arm that streamed with blood,
And scared his jealous eye.
Hot boiled his Argive heart; his eyes
Flash vengeance; but himself denies
The reins to his own spleen.
His public face in smiles is dressed,

He joins the banquet with the rest,
And tells the tale, and plies the jest,
With easy social mien;
And to his high Corinthian guest
Lets not a thought be seen.
“Take here,” quoth he, “thou high-souled knight,
To Iobates the Lycian wight,
The brother of my queen,
These tablets; he will honour thee
Even more than I; and thou shalt see
A famous and a fruitful land,
With all Apollo's beauty bland,
And various leafage green.”
Uprose the knight with willing feet,
His heart was light, his pace was fleet;
Girt for the road and venture bold,
He left the strong Tirynthian hold,
And gaily wends his way
O'er steep Arachne's ridge, till he
Passed Æsculapius' sacred fane,
That sendeth health, and healeth pain,
And reached, with foot untired, the sea
That beats with billows bounding free
The Epidaurian bay.

V.

Thoughtful a moment here he stood,
And watched the never-sleeping flood,
The ever-changing wave;
He knew no danger, feared no foes,
But from his heart a prayer uprose
To her that guards the brave.
Wise prayer; for scarce the words are gone
From thy free mouth, Bellerophon,
When, struck with holy awe,
Even at thy side, in light arrayed,
Serene with placid power displayed,
The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid
Thy wondering vision saw;
And in her hand—O strangest sight!—
A winged steed she led,
That bent the knee before the knight,
And bowed its lofty head.
“Fear not, thou son of Æolus' race,
Dear to the gods art thou;
This steed, by strong Poseidon's mace
That leapt to life, through airy space
Shall safely waft thee now.”

Thus spake the goddess, wise as fair;
And with the word, dissolved in air,
Was seen no more. The knight
Brushed from his eyes the dazzling glare,
And scarce believed his sight.
But, when he saw the steed was there,
He winged to Heaven a rapid prayer,
And for the airy flight
Buckled his purpose. Mounted now
With rapid wheel he soars,
O'er creek and crag, and rocky brow,
And swift-receding shores.
A lovely sight was there, I trow,
Where high on winged oars
He clove the pathless air. The sea,
With various-twinkling brilliancy,
Immense before him lay,
With many a coast far-stretching seen,
And many a high-cliffed isle between,
And many a winding bay.
High o'er Œnone's isle he sails,
Where Æacus' justest law prevails,
And masted armies ride;
O'er rocky Sunium's pillar'd steep,

Where Pallas guards the Attic deep,
He swept with airy pride.
Ceos and Syros wondering saw
His meteor-steed with humble awe;
And sacred Delos deemed
Apollo's self, the fervid god
His own etherial regions trod,
And with such brightness gleamed.
Swift o'er the Bacchic isle he glides,
Where music mingles with the tides
From many a Mænad throat.
And nigh to Caria's craggy shore,
Cos with her blushing winy store
His sweeping view can note.
Anon, sublime he soars above
Thy temple, Atabyrian Jove,
The lord of cloudless Rhodes,
Where Telchins wise, with busy clamour,
Who shape the steel beneath the hammer,
Possess their famed abodes:
And swiftly then he swoops, I ween,
Down on the steeps of Cragus green,
Into the pleasant plain,
Where Xanthus rolls his yellow stream,

And Phœbus lights with glorious gleam
The Patarean plain.
Here he alights. His heavenly steed,
With instant eye-out-stripping speed,
Scorning the earthly loam,
Wheels eastward far with vans sonorous,
And o'er the rosy peaks of Taurus
Sails to his starry home.

VI.

The Xanthian gate is wide and free;
The Xanthian towers are high;
The Xanthian streets are fair to see;
The knight, with wondering eye,
Beholds, and enters. To the king
A ready troop the stranger bring,
And scan him o'er and o'er;
Curious that one so bright and trim,
And with such light unwearied limb,
Had reached the Lycian shore.
With kindly heart the Xanthian lord
Opes his high hall and spreads his board,
And pours the Coan wine;

Nor question asked (for Jove gives free
To all a questless courtesy)
Till days were numbered nine.
His tablets then the knight presents;
The monarch scans their dire contents,
For here 'twas written plainly,
“If thou dost hate who works amiss,
Let not his hand that beareth this
Have sinned against me vainly;
Thy Prœtus.” Sore vexed was the king
That he must do a bloody thing,
Against so brave a guest;
But vows were strong, and family bonds;
Therefore, composed, he thus responds—
“Brave knight, a fearful pest
Afflicts this land: a monster dire,
With terror armed, and breathing fire,
In Cragus holds her den,
Chimera named: with savage jaw
She bites, and with voracious maw
Consumes both beasts and men.
This hideous form its birth did take
From hoar Echidna, virgin-snake;
She to that fiery blaster,

Typhon, Cilicia's curse of yore,
A triform goatish portent bore,
With serpent's sting and lion's roar,
This Lycian land's disaster.
Harmless at first, for sport 'twas bred
By Caria's thoughtless king,
And by his innocent children led
Obedient to a string.
Anon its hellish blood grew hot;
It breathed a breath of fire,
And tainted every household spot
With gouts of poison dire.
Full grown at length, and fierce and bold,
She ranges freely through each fold,
And licks the fleecy slaughter;
And, when her humour waxes wild,
No flesh she spares of man or child,
Echidna's gory daughter.
Now hear me, noble Glaucus' son,
Most valiant knight, Bellerophon;
Thou hast a face that seems to court
A dangerous business as a sport—
This thing I ask thee then;
Wilt thou go forth, and dare to tame

This murtherous monster breathing flame,
And win thyself a deathless name
Among the Xanthian men?”

VII.

Thus he—(for in his heart he thought
Such venture must with life be bought).
But brave Bellerophon
Guileless received the guileful plan,
And, as an eager-purposed man,
Buckled his armour on.
Alone he went: of such emprise
With this bold-breasted stranger
No one shall share, a herald cries,
The glory or the danger.
By Xanthus' stream he wends him then,
And leftward up the hollow glen,
Where Pandarus' city, like a tower,
Rises begirt with rocky power;
Then upward still he goes,
Where black-browed mountains round him lower,
And, 'neath chill winter's grisly bower,
The sunless water flows.

Upon a steep rock hoar with eld
A yawning cave his eye beheld,
High-perched; and to that cave no trace
Of road upon the mountain's face,
But, like an eagle's nest,
Sublime it hung. He looked again,
And from the cave a tawny mane
Shook o'er the rocky crest;
And now a lion's head forth came,
And now, O Heaven! long tongues of flame
Ran wreathing round the hill.
No fear the son of Glaucus knew,
But pricked his forward will,
The rock-perched monster to pursue:
On right, on left, he sought a clue
To thread that steep-faced hill;
Hour after hour no pause he knew;
When night came down with sable hue,
It found him searching still.
Hid in the tangled brakes around
Next morn a rugged chasm he found,
That oped into an archway wide,
Right through the hollow mountain side;
Here plunged the knight; and then

With eager foot emerging, speeds
Along a rocky ledge, that leads
To dire Chimera's den.
The monster hears his coming tread,
And with a hideous roar
Trails forth its length, and shows its head
And mouth that dripped with gore.
The brave knight drew his sword, and flew
Like lightning on the foe,
And on its hide of horny pride
Dealt ringing blow on blow.
In vain; that hide, Bellerophon,
Dipt in the flood of Acheron,
Is proof at every pore;
And where thy steel doth vainly hack,
A goat's head rising on its back
With living fire streams o'er;
And from behind, a serpent's tail,
With many mouths that hisses,
Rears round about thee like a flail,
To give thee poisoned kisses.
The flame, the smoke, the sulphurous breath
Doth choke thy mortal life;

Spare that dear life, for only death
Can grow from such a strife.
Backward the flame-scorched hero sped,
And as he went, upon his tread
The roaring Terror came.
Along the ridge, so sharp and jaggy,
Huge-limb'd it strode, horrid and shaggy,
And swathed with sevenfold flame.
Down through the archway opening wide,
Far through the hollow mountain-side,
It drove him wrathful on;
Then through the black jaws of the rock
It hurled him with a furious shock,
And heaved a huge sharp stone
Blocking the rift. There in the vale,
Scarcely with life, all scorched and pale,
Was left Bellerophon.

VIII.

The evening dew was clear and cold:
Upon the harsh ungrateful mould,
Lay stiff and stark the hero bold,
Thorough the dreamless night;

But when the face of peering day
Shot o'er the cliff its crimson ray,
With aching frame as low he lay,
Sleep seized the weary knight—
A blissful sleep; for, when the sense
Was bound with blindness most intense,
With sharp-eyed soul he saw,
Ev'n at his side, in light arrayed,
Serene with placid power displayed,
The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid,
And worshipped her with awe;
And in her hand—a well-known sight—
The winged steed she led,
That bent the knee before the knight,
And bowed its lofty head.
Raptured he woke; with sense now clear
He saw the heavenly maid,
And in her hand a massive spear,
Firm-planted, she displayed;
And thus she spoke:“Ephyrian knight,
Dear to the gods art thou,
Not vainly did thy prayer invite
My aid, to wing thy airy flight
To Cragus' rocky brow.

A friendly god is thy provider;
If thou hast wisely planned,
Fear not; the steed doth wait the rider,
The spear doth claim the hand.
That snake-born monster's horny hide,
That was not made to feel,
May never yield life's crimson tide
To sharpest Rhodian steel:
But with this spear from Vulcan's forge,
Right through the mouth in the deep gorge
If thou shalt pierce it, then
This dire Chimera breathing flame,
Thou with a hero's hand shalt tame,
And win thyself a glorious name,
Among the Xanthian men.”
Upstood the knight, with hope elate,
And felt the aching pain abate
From all his sore-bruised limbs;
The wingèd steed he straight bestrode,
And to Chimera's black abode
Through liquid air he swims.
The deep-mouthed Terror 'gan to bray,
The forky fire-tongues 'gan to play,
The fretful serpents hissed dismay

Round all the rocky wall;
But, with direct and eager speed,
The rider and the heavenly steed
Rushed to achieve the fearless deed,
At glorious danger's call.
The knight, with curious eye, did note
The centre of the roaring throat,
And while it gaped with gory jaws
To thunder fear around,
Forward he rode—nor any pause,
But right into Chimera's gorge
He drove the spear from Vulcan's forge,
And fixed it in the ground.
Up from the back the fell goat's head
Rose, rough with swelling ire,
And right and left long tongues were spread
Of forky-flaming fire;
But with immortal strength the steed
Flaps his huge vans around,
And straight the eager spires recede,
And harmless lick the ground.
Cowed lie the snakes, and, with quick eye,
A tender place the knight did spy,
Where the neck joined the back;

There with a fatal swoop he came,
And through the fount of living flame
He cuts with fierce attack.
Down dropt the goat's head in its gore,
And with a sharp and brazen roar
The writhing lion dies.
The palsied snakes, with stiffened fang,
Like lifeless leaves unconscious hang;
And belching rivers of black gore
Upon the clotted rocky floor
The smoking carcass lies.

IX.

A famous man was Glaucus' son
Then when Chimera died;
In Lycian land like him was none
In glory and in pride.
At public feast beside the king
He sate; him did the minstrel sing
With various-woven lays;
And old men in the halls were gay,

And maidens smiled, and mothers grey,
And eager boys would cease their play
To sound the hero's praise.
The Xanthian burghers, wealthy men,
Chose the best acres in the glen
Beside the fattening river—
Acres where best or corn would grow,
Or vines with clustered purple glow,
These, free from burden they bestow
On Glaucus' son for ever.
The Xanthian king, to Prœtus bound,
For other dangers looks around,
And finds, but finds in vain.
'Gainst the stout Solymi to fight
He sent the brave Ephyrian knight,
And hoped he might be slain;
But from the stiff embrace of Mars
He soon returned, and showed his scars,
To glad the Xanthian plain.
A Lycian army then he led
Against the maids unhusbanded,
Where surly Pontus roars.
Before his spear the Amazon yields;
The breastless host, with moonèd shields,

Far o'er Thermodon's famous fields
He drove to Colchian shores.
The Xanthian king despairs the strife—
“Let Prœtus fight for Prœtus' wife;
Not I will tempt the charméd life
Of valiant Glaucus' son!”
Nor more against the gods he strives,
But with free hand his daughter gives
To brave Bellerophon.

X.

A prosperous man was Glaucus' son
Then when the queenly maid he won,
The pride of Lycian land:
The Lycian lords obey his nod,
The people hail him as a god,
And own his high command.
Fearless he lived without annoy,
Plucking the bloom of every joy;
For still, to help his need,
Jove's blue-eyed daughter, when he prayed,
Was present with her heavenly aid,
And lent the wingèd steed.

His heart with pride was lifted high;
Beyond the bounds of earth to fly
Impious he weened, and scale the sky,
And sit with Jove sublime.
Upward and northward far he sails,
O'er Carian crags and Phrygian vales,
And blest Mæonia's clime.
The orient breezes round him blowing
He feels; with light the ether glowing;
And from the planets in their going
He lists the sphery chime.
Bursts far Olympus on his view
Snowy, with gleams of rosy hue;
And round the heavenly halls,
All radiant with immortal blue,
The golden battlements he knew,
And adamantine walls.
And on the walls, with dizzy awe,
Full many a shapely form he saw
Of stately grace divine:
The furious Mars with terror crested,
Poseidon's power the mighty-breasted,
That rules the billowy brine;
And, linked with golden Aphrodite,

The heavenly smith, in labour mighty,
Grace matched with skill he sees;
And one that in his airy hand
Displayed a serpent-twisted wand,
And floated on the breeze,
Both capped and shod with wings; and one
That lay in sumptuous ease
On pillowed clouds, fair Semele's son,
And quaffed the nectar'd bowl;
And one from whom the locks unshorn
Flowed like ripe fields of Autumn corn,
And beaming brightness, like the morn,
Shower'd radiance on the pole;
And matron Juno's awful face;
And Dian, mistress of the chase;
And Pallas, that with eye of blue
Now sternly meets the hero's view
Whom erst she met with love;
And, like a star of purer ray,
Apart, whom all the gods obey,
The thunder-launching Jove.
The ravishment of such fair sight
Thrilled sense and soul with quick delight
To bold Bellerophon;

Entranced he looked; his wingèd steed,
Struck with the brightness, checked its speed,
Nor more would venture on.
Deaf to the eager rider's call,
Who spurred to mount the Olympian wall,
It stood like lifeless stone
A moment-then, with sudden wheel,
And headlong plunge, it 'gan to reel;
For awful now were heard to peal
Sharp thunders from the pole,
And lightnings flashed, and darkly spread
O'er that rash rider's impious head
The sulphurous clouds did roll.
With rapid gust the fiery storm
Resistless whirled his quaking form
Down through the choking air.
Loud and more loud the thunders swell;
Him with blind speed the winds impel;
Three times three days and nights he fell
Down through the choking air.
At length, in mazy terror lost,
Him the celestial courser tossed
With fiercely-fretted mane;
And, by the close-involving blast

Impetuous hurried, he was cast
On the Aleian plain.

XI.

Senseless, but lifeless not, he lay.
The gods had mercy shown
If they had slain, on that black day,
The blasted Glaucus' son:
But all the gods conspired to hate
The man, with impious pride elate,
Who dared to scale the sky.
Year after year, from that black day,
He pined his meagre life away,
Weak as a cloud or vapour grey,
And vainly wished to die.
On a wide waste, without a tree,
The unfrequent traveller there might see
The once great Glaucus' son.
Far from the haunts and from the tread
Of men, a joyless life he led;
On folly's fruitage there he fed,
Dejected and alone.

Even as a witless boy at school,
Would sit and gaze into a pool
The blank Bellerophon;
Or to bring forth the blindworm red
That, creeping, loves a lightless bed,
Would turn the old grey stone.
And thus he lived, and thus he died,
And ended to the brute allied,
Who like a god began;
And he hath gained a mournful fame,
And marred immortal praise with blame,
And taught to whoso names his name,
Pride was not made for man!

IPHIGENIA.

This subject has been as great a favourite with modern poets as the Prometheus. Gœthe's play of this name is, by many, and for very good reasons, accounted his masterpiece. The sacrifice of the Argive princess, besides its general human interest, is a striking testimony to the fact, that even among the most cultivated people of the ancient world, human sacrifice prevailed at an early period of their history. There are certain principles in the human heart, which, at a certain stage of civilization, seem to make such a practice a sort of moral necessity. The idea of the substitution of the stag by Diana, in order to save the virgin's life, and the conveyance of the destined victim of a bloody devotion to the barbarous service of a grim idol in the Crimea, was an after-thought—one of those beautiful lies with which the legendary lore of old Hellas is replete. Æschylus, as is well known, in his sublime description of the sacrifice, in the opening chorus of the Agamemnon, altogether disregards the posterior fiction. How closely I have followed this great master in the closing stanzas of the ballad, will be obvious to the scholar.

Αιτας δε και κληδονας πατρωους
παρ' ουδεν αιωνα παρθενειον τ
εθεντο φιλομαχοι βραβης
φρασεν δ' αοζοις πατηρ μετ' ευχαν
δικαν χιμαιρας υπερθε βωμου
πεπλοισι περιπετη
παντι θυμω προνωπη
λαβειν αερδην στοματος τε καλλιπρωρου φυλακαν κατασχειν
φθογγον αραιον οικοις.
—Æschylus.

The ships are gathered in the bay,
A thousand-masted army,
All eager for the Trojan fray,
But the sky looks black and stormy.
From Strymon's shore, with surly roar,
The Thracian blasts are blowing;
With fretted breast, and foamy crest,
The adverse tide is flowing.

And Aulis shore, so bright before,
Is bleak, and grey, and dreary;
With dull delay, from day to day,
The seamen's hearts are weary.
Dire omen to their ears the roar
Of Jove's loud-rattling thunder;
The shivered sail, the shattered oar,
The cable snapt in sunder.

What man is he that stands apart,
In priestly guise long-vested,
Communing deep with his own heart,
By sombre thoughts infested?
He hath a laurel in his hand,
And on the dark storm gazing,
He broods, as he would understand
The secret of its raising.

'Tis Calchas, whose divining mind
The secret thought can follow
Of Jove, who shows to human kind
His counsel by Apollo.
And they who trust in prophet's skill,
On the lone rock have found him,

And throng, to learn the Supreme will,
In eager crowds around him.

He stands; he looks upon the ground;
He will nor see nor hear them;
But still they press, with swelling sound
Of battling voices, near him.
He goes; against a host in vain
He plants his single freedom;
And to the tent o' the king of men
With fretful haste they lead him.

The Atridan stood without his tent,
And scanned the welkin curiously,
If that the storm at length had spent
Its gusty burden furiously.
Small help got he from cloud or sky,
From sad thoughts that oppressed him;
But blithe was his eye, when the seer came nigh,
And thus the king addressed him: —

“O son of Thestor! thou art wise,
thou see'st what wintry weather

Scowls on our bright-faced enterprise,
And with a close-drawn tether
Detains us here against our will;
What cause doth so delay us?
Speak, sith thou hast a prophet's skill,
To me and Menelaus.”

The seer was dumb; his fixed eye read
The barren ground demurely;
“Nay, speak the truth,”the Atridan said,
“For thou dost know it surely.
Thou need'st not fear the strong man's arm—
The king of men doth swear it,
Even by this kingly staff—no harm
Shall touch thee, while I bear it!”

The seer was dumb; the king was wroth;
“Thou sellest dear thy prayers,
Thou sour-faced priest, and by my troth,
Like thee are all soothsayers.
A mouthing and a mumping crew,
With all things they will meddle;
And when they have made much ado,
They speak a two-faced riddle!”

The seer was dumb. “Nay, not for me,
Stiff priest, for love of Hellas,
If Jove hath shown the truth to thee,
Untie thy tongue and tell us.
If, in our sacred things, a vice
Some god hath sore offended,
Declare, and, at a tenfold price,
I vow it shall be mended.

If fault there be in me or mine,
Or in the chiefs the highest,
I will not swerve, but so incline
As Jove shall point, unbiassed.
My crown, my wealth, my blood, my all,
Myself and Menelaus,
Will give, if so we may recall
The blasts that now delay us.”

Then spake the prophet: —“King, not well
Apollo's priest thou chidest;
But I the unwelcome truth will tell,
And follow where thou guidest.
The best-loved stag of Dian thou
Hast slain with evil arrow;

Therefore this vengeful tempest now
Consumes the Argive marrow.

And thou, even thou, whose was the guilt,
Must work the due atoning;
When blood for blood is freely spilt,
To joy will turn thy moaning.
If thou wilt ferry thee and thine
Safe o'er the smooth-faced water,
Thou to the goddess must resign
Blood of thy blood, thy daughter.”

The monarch stood, and with his staff
He smote the ground in sorrow;
Nor spake; the cup that he must quaff
Burns to the inmost marrow.
No aid Laertes' son supplied,
Nestor, or Menelaus;
For he must stay the winds, they cried,
From Thrace, that so delay us.

And they have choked the father's prayer;
And this their general will is,

To bring the maid, with promise fair
To wed her to Achilles.
And they have sent a courier far
To Argos steed-delighting,
And Clytemnestra reins the car,
To answer their inviting.

And they have come in trim array,
The mother and the daughter,
As hasting to a bridal gay
Beside the briny water.
But, when they reach the Aulian strand,
No sight of gladness meets them;
Hushed lies the camp; with outstretched hand
No forward father greets them.

And she is led, the daughter fair,
By will that may not falter,
Where priests a sacrifice prepare
For Dian's gloomy altar;
Where Calchas stands with folded hands,
And dense beholders gather;
And with grief bent, on a plane-tree leant
With backward gaze, her father.

Ah, woe is me! and can it be,
That, with sharp knife, thou darest
Strike such a neck, and forceful break
This tenderest flower and fairest?
Will he not hear, her father dear,
When her shrill plaint she poureth;
Nor Jove above look down in love,
When guiltless youth imploreth?

She stretched her hands to the standers by,
And tenderly besought them;
With shafts of pity from her eye,
The lovely maiden smote them.
O! like a picture to be seen
Was she, so chaste and beautiful,
And to her father's will had been
In all so meek and dutiful.

How often, at his kingly board,
With filial heart devoted,
To grace the banquet, she had poured
The mellow lay, clear-throated!
But now that voice shall sing no more;
They gag her mouth, lest, dying,

A curse on Argos she should pour,
With evil-omened crying.

And as stern Calchas gives behest,
They with a cord have bound her;
And she hath wrapt her saffron vest
In decent folds around her.
And as a kid supine is laid,
They on the altar lay her;
As bleeds a kid, so bleeds the maid,
To the knife o' the priestly slayer.

But a weight is rolled from the heart of Greece,
And the clouds from the sky are driven;
And the sun looks down with an eye of peace
From the fresh blue face of heaven.
The westering breeze the seamen hailed,
That smoothed the Ægean water;
But with sad heart the monarch sailed,
For he had lost a daughter.

WAIL OF AN IDOL.

In this lyric I have endeavoured to represent the very stupid and comfortless doctrine of the Greeks, with regard to the state of human souls after death. The Greeks believed in a heaven and a hell; but only for the few: heaven for the very good, and hell for the very bad; but the shades of the millions of common mortals were left floating about in a lethargic inane sort of Limbo, not at all enviable. On this subject, there is an excellent essay by Archbishop Whately, in his discourses on some characteristic points of Christianity. The student may also consult my essay on the Theology of Homer, Proposition xix. Classical Museum, Vol. vii. 1850.

Μη δη μοι θανατον γε παραυδα, φαιδιμ' Οδυσσευ:
Βουλοιμην κ' επαρουρος εων θητευεμεν αλλω,
Ανδρι παρ' ακληρω, ω μη βιοτος πολυς ειη,
Η πασιν νεκυεσσι καταφθιμενοισιν ανασσειν.
—Homer.

O dreary, dreary shades!
O sad and sunless glades!
O yellow, yellow meads
Of asphodel!
Where the dream-like Idol strays,
On lone and haunted ways,
Through Hades' weary maze,
And sings his own sad knell.

O sullen, solemn, silent clime!
O lazy pace of noiseless time!
O where is the blythe and gamesome change
Of the many-nurturing earth?

The dance of joy, the flush of mirth,
Life's vast and varied range?

O dreary, dreary vales!
O heavy, heavy gales!
Fraught with the dreamy dew of sleep,
Over the joyless fields ye sweep;
O sullen, sullen, streaky sky,
Where the changeless moon, with a leaden eye,
Aloft hangs languidly,
And yellow vapours mount up high,
And flickering lights in a wild dance fly,
Like the last fleet flash when the strangled die,
Shooting across the darkling eye.

O sullen, sullen sky!
Where the brown bat wings,
And the lone bird sings
A chant like the chant of death;
While sad souls wake
The stagnant lake
With a sobbing, struggling breath.
O sad, O sad is the wail of the stream,
Mingling its sighs with the dead man's dream;

Winding, winding nine times round,
Weary wandering, 'scapeless bound!
And the black, black kine,
In lazy ranks,
Are cropping the sickly herb
From the reedy Stygian banks;
And hissing things,
With poisoned blood,
Are crawling through the slimy mud.
O sad, O sad is the endless row
Of poplars black; oh, sad and slow
Is the long-drawn train of the sons of woe,
The silent-marching ghosts!
And they share no more in the feast of glee,
And the dance, and the song, and the wine-cup free;
Where the bard divine, with mellow lays,
Is singing the gods' and the heroes' praise;
And they share no more
Loud laughter's roar,
The silent-marching ghosts!
I hear their cry,
As they flit swift by
On noiseless wing,

Hurrying through the wide out-spread
Gates that gape for the countless dead;
I hear the cry
Of the wailing ghosts;
Their voices small,
Like a drowning thing,
Drawn echoless along the long dark hall;
And some are whirled,
In the mighty void,
Like a leaf in the foamy tide;
And some are hurled,
With a gusty fit,
Into the deep Tartarean pit;
And some do sway,
Like a blind thing stray,
To and fro in the pathless air;
And some, whom chance less stormy rules,
Sit sipping the blood from crimson pools.

O sad is the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
Of the stern, relentless pair!
With gloom enveiled,

In judgment mailed,
A joyless sway they bear.
No circling years,
No sounding spheres,
No hopes and fears,
Are there;
They sit on the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
A stern relentless pair.
And beside them sits
A monster dire,
Watching the darkness with eyes of fire,
The dog of the triple head;
And his harsh bark splits,
Like thunder fits,
The realm of the silent dead.
Oh, sad is the throne,
Dark, drear, alone,
Of the stern, relentless pair!
O dreary, dreary shades!
O sad and sunless glades!
O yellow, yellow meads
Of asphodel!
O loveless, joyless homes!

O weary, starless domes!
Where the wind-swept idol roams,
And sighs his own sad knell.

O sullen, solemn, silent clime!
O lazy pace of noiseless time!
O where are the many-coloured joys of earth?
O where is the loud strong voice of mirth?
O where is the change
Of joy and woe?
The love of friend,
The hate of foe?
O where is the bustle of many-winged life,
And of man with man the many-mingling strife?
O Hermes! leader of the dead,
Thou winged god
Of the golden rod,
O lead me, lead me further still!
Lead me to Lethe's silent stream,
That I may drink, deep drink my fill,
And wash from my soul this long life-dream!
O lead me, lead me to Lethe's shore,
Where Memory lives no more!

ARIADNE.

This most beautiful legend of the Dionysiac series, embodies a principle more Christian than Hellenic, but which belongs so essentially to the moral nature of man, that it is not possible for any religious mythology altogether to exclude it: the principle that I mean may be called the consecration of sorrow. Christian legends containing this moral, of which the number is very great, always represent suffering as the road to glory, and the cave of despair as the propylaea of the temple of celestial bliss. The Hellenic legend has been a favourite subject with modern painters and sculptors; and the travelled reader will scarcely require to be told that the concluding part of this ballad (pp. 90, 91) is only a verbal paraphrase of the well known statue of Ariadne by Dannecker, exhibited as one of the lions of Frankfort.

“Χρυσοκομης δε Διωνυσος ξανθην Αριαδνην
κουρην Μινωος, θαλερην ποιησατ' ακοιτιν
την τε οι αθανατον και αγηρω θηκε Κρονιων.”
—Hesiod.

“Protinus adspicies venienti nocte coronam
Gnossida; Theseo crimine facta dea est.”—
Ovid.

I.

Ariadne, Ariadne,
Thou art left alone, alone!
And the son of Attic Aegeus,
Faithless Theseus, he is flown.
Ariadne, Ariadne,
In a sea-cave left she sleepeth:
In her dreams her bosom heaveth,
Through her dreams the maiden weepeth.

With an ugly dream she struggles;
In the bright and sunny weather,
O'er the meadows green and flowery,
She and Theseus walk together.
Suddenly there comes a change;
O'er a moor of old brown heather,
O'er a bare and treeless waste,
She and Theseus walk together.
Cold and loveless is the air,
Huge white mists are trailing near her;
And the fitful-swelling blast
Pipes with shrill note clear and clearer.
By a lonely tower she stands,
Where the wasted ruin crumbles;
Wandering by a lone black lake,
On an old grey stone she stumbles.
“Theseus! Theseus!”—to his arms
Close she clings; but like a trailing
Mist he flees; and o'er the waste
Echoes laughter to her wailing.
Dim confusion blinds her eye,
Through her veins the chilly horror
Creeps: she stands; she looks; she runs
O'er the moor with mazy error.

And she screams, with rending cries,
“Save me, Jove, save Ariadne!
Theseus, Theseus, in the waste
Hast thou left thy Ariadne?”
And the Spirits of the storm
Shout around her—“Ariadne!
Thou art left alone, alone,
In the waste, O Ariadne!”

II.

From the painful dream she wakes,
Starts, and looks, and feels for Theseus;
On the cold rock-floor her hand
Falls, and feels in vain for Theseus.
“Theseus, Theseus!”—he is gone;
Dost thou see that full sail swelling?
There he hies, with rapid keel,
Soon to find his Attic dwelling.
“Theseus! Theseus!”—she doth beat
The breasted wave with idle screaming;
Like a white sea-bird so small,
Now his distant sail is gleaming:

Now 'tis vanished. O'er the isle
Hurries vagrant Ariadne;
None she sees, and, when she calls,
Answers none to Ariadne.
'Neath a high-arched rock she rests,
Weary, and, with meek behaviour,
Stretched upon a stony floor,
Plains her prayer to Jove the Saviour:—

Mighty Jove, strong to destroy,
Stronger to save,
Hear; nor in vain may Minos' daughter
Thy mercy crave!
Weak is a maiden's wit: I saw
The galliard stranger,
And, with wise clue, I brought him through
The mazy danger.
My father's halls I left; I gave
My heart's surrender;
He loved the flower, and plucked the fruit,
With hand untender.
Mighty Jove, the suppliant's friend,
My supplication
Hear thou, and touch my prostrate woe
With restoration!

She spake; and, on the stony floor,
Stretched she lay in tearful sorrow;
Slumber, sent from Saviour Jove,
Bound her gently till to-morrow.

III.

Wake, Ariadne!
Wake from thy slumbers;
Wake with new heart,
Which no sorrow encumbers!
Black Night is away now,
And glorious Day now
Reddens apace.
The white mists are fleeing,
And o'er the Ægean,
His shining steeds follow
The call of Apollo,
And snort for the race.
Hark! through thy slumbers,
Undulant numbers
Quicken the air!
O'er the Ægean

Swells the loud pæan,
With melody rare;
The clear-throated flute,
And the sweet-sounding lute,
The cymbals' shrill jangle,
And tinkling triangle,
And tambour, are there.
Wake, Ariadne!
Look through thy slumbers!
The Mænads, to meet thee,
Marshal their numbers.
Down, from the sky
Dionysus has sent them;
Rosiest beauty
Venus has lent them.
Hovering nigh,
Their thin robes floating,
With balm in their eye,
Thy wounds they are noting,
O Ariadne!
Blest be the bride
(So echoes their song)
That shall sleep by the side
Of the wine-god strong,

Fair Ariadne!
Daughter of Minos,
Though Earth may reject thee,
Great Dionysus
Above shall expect thee.
Like a gem thou shalt shine
'Mid the bright starry glory;
A name shall be thine
With the famous in story.
Wake, Ariadne,
From Earth's heavy slumbers;
Wake to new life,
Which no sorrow encumbers!

IV.

Ariadne from her slumber
Woke and rose, and smiled benignly;
Radiant from the rapturous dreams,
That stirred her secret soul divinely.
Round her stood the Mænad maids,
Round her swelled their tuneful chorus;
Round her wheeled their floating dance,
To a piping reed sonorous.

With them danced a prick-eared crew,
Hairy-limbed, with goatish features;
Pans and Satyrs strange to view,
Forest-haunting, freakish creatures.
Old Silenus, bald and broad,
Stood beside, his bright face showing
Wreathed with laughter; his full eye
Brimmed with mirth to overflowing.
Strange; but Ariadne saw,
With strange eyes, a sight yet stranger;
Troops of shaggy forest whelps
Thronged around, and brought no danger.
Bearded goat, and tusky boar,
Fox that feasts on secret slaughter,
Tawny lion, tiger fierce,
Harmless looked on Minos' daughter.
Lo! a spotted pard appears
At the feet of Ariadne;
Comes, and, like a prayerful child,
Kneels before thee, Ariadne.
Pleased the savage brute she sees
Bend like sleekest ass demurely;
Mounts the offered seat, and rides
On the panther's back securely.

Forward now the spotted pard
Moves with measured pace and wary;
Then aloft (O wonder strange!)
Paws the heavenward pathway airy.
Fear thee not, thou Cretan maid,
Gods are with thee where thou fliest;
Dionysus waits for thee,
Near the throne of Jove the Highest.
In Olympus' azure dells,
Waits the god in ivy bowers,
Where for thee immortal Hebe
Twines the amaranthine flowers;
Where the purple bowl of joy
Brims for thee; where bitter sorrow
Grows not; where to-day's keen thrill
Leaves no languid throb to-morrow.
Flourish there, immortal bride,
Flourish in the minstrel's story;
Shine, to sorrowing hearts a sign,
High amid the starry glory!

GALATEA.

Δωρις και Πανοπη και ευειδης Γαλατεια.
—Hesiod.

I.

Hast heard the ancient story,
The worthy old Greek theme
Of lovely Galatea
And ugly Polypheme?
It is a tale of sadness,
As many tales there be:
Attend, and I will tell it,
As it was told to me.
There lived a heathen giant
In ancient Sicily,
A son of strong Poseidon,
That rules the stormy sea;

A huge unsightly monster;
Beneath his shaggy hair
(So learned Virgil sayeth),
One big round eye did stare.
His trunk was like a huge tree
Deep buried in a moss;
His skin was hard and horny,
Like a stiff rhinoceros.
On bloody food he feasted;
As ancient tales relate,
Each blessed day to supper
Two living men he ate,
A score of goats' milk cheeses,
And, mingled with black gore,
Red wine he drank in rivers
Till he could drink no more.
This monster was enamoured
(That such a thing should be!)
Of lovely Galatea,
A daughter of the sea.
His love he plied full stoutly;
He fell upon his knees,
And swore she might command him
In all that she should please.

He filled the seas with weeping;
His big round eye was red;
His hair he tore like forests
From off his clumsy head.
He beat his breast—by Neptune
He swore, and with wild nails
Digged his rude cheeks; loud Ætna
He rivalled with his wails.
But the maid was cold as marble,
She would nor see nor hear;
She shrank with chaste discernment
When his brutish bulk came near.
“What shall I do?” quoth Cyclops,
“This sin she shall atone;
Me shall she scout?—a sea-girl
Strong Neptune's son disown?”
He asked advice of Proteus;
Old Proteus said, “Behold!
I change myself; but can I
Change thy lead into gold?”
He asked advice of Nereus:
The hoary god appeared;
He could not give the monster
His own white snowy beard,

The beard that charmed young Doris
More than mad Triton's eye,
But Nereus had an eye, too,
Of calm blue prophecy.
Quoth Nereus, “Son of Neptune,
If thou wilt win her love,
Eat not the flesh of mortals,
Revere the name of Jove:—
And yet thy case is hopeless,
Even wert thou free from blame,—
She loves a gentle shepherd,
And Acis is his name.”
He spake: the Cyclops bellowed,
And, like a cloven rock,
His monstrous jaws were sundered;
Earth trembled at the shock.
Quoth he, “By Father Neptune,
It will be wondrous strange
If this same piping shepherd
Oust me—I vow revenge!”
And Ocean from his blue depths
Replied, “It will be strange!”
And from their hollow caverns
The rocks replied—“Revenge!”

II.

It was an hour of stillness,
In the leafy month of June,
Midway between the cool eve
And the sultry ray of noon.
Thin clouds were floating idly,
And with his changing rays
The playful sun bedappled
The green and ferny braes.
The birds were chirping faintly,
It scarcely was a song;
But the breath of green creation
And fragrant life was strong.
The lazy trees were nodding,
The flowers were half awake,
And toilsome men were basking,
Like the serpent in the brake.
The Borean winds were sleeping,
Asleep was ocean's roar,
And ripple was chasing ripple
On the silver-sounding shore.
The countless ocean daughters
Were weaving from the waves

Bright webs of scattered sun-light,
To deck their sparry caves;
And in her sapphire chamber,
Of lucent beauty rare,
The sea-queen Amphitrite
Was plaiting her sea-green hair.
But the chase, and the dance, and the gambol,
And the tramp of Triton war
Were dumb—for father Neptune
Had reined his billowy car.
The lovely Galatea,
Within a silent bay,
With her dear shepherd Acis
In blest seclusion lay.
High craggy rocks steep-rising
The bosomed beach enclose;
And at the feet of the goddess
The rippling ocean flows.
The shepherd sang to please her:
He piped a simple air,
And as he sang gazed alway
Into that face so fair;
He drank the dew of heaven,
Deep draughts of beauty rare,

And he never could weary gazing
On the face of the sea-nymph fair.
He sang the shepherd of Latmos,
Endymion the blest,
He sang his sweet day labours,
And his sweeter night of rest.
His labours sweet and easy,
Beneath the sunny cope,
To watch the fleecy wanderers
That cropped the Carian slope;
His rest more sweet, when Dian,
Fleet huntress of the woods,
Came bounding over the mountains,
Came leaping over the floods,
Came dancing over the rivers,
That with her beauty shone,
To see in mellow moonlight
The sleep of Endymion.
She looked on the lovely sleeper,
The soul that knew no strife;
He look'd like some spotless marble
God-wakened into life.
She bended gently o'er him;
Beneath his breast of snow,

She heard the pure blood flowing,
So musical below.
She smooth'd the mossy pillow
Beneath him as he slept,
And a fragrant flower sprang near him,
Each tear the goddess wept.
She kiss'd his cheeks so downy,
So beautiful, so brown,
And amid his locks so golden
She wove a silver crown.
Her breath was music round him,
And her presence fancies fair,
That cradled the happy dreamer
In a winged and rosy lair.
She look'd on the sleeping shepherd,
And her love with gazing grew,
And the limbs of the lovely mortal
She bathed in immortal dew.
Oh, happy shepherd of Latmos,
What sleeping bliss divine!
I might close mine eyes for ever,
To win one sleep like thine!
Thus sang the gentle Acis,
And rose to pluck a bloom,

100

With the hair of the lovely sea-nymph
To mingle its sweet perfume.
A noise was heard—a rumbling,
A crashing sound.—“O stay!
Oh, Acis, Acis!”—Buried
Beneath a rock he lay.
The rock came from the high cliff,
A huge and pointed stone,
By the hand of the savage monster,
The bloody Cyclops, thrown.
He stood on the craggy coping,
And laughed with a laughter wild;
“I have slain at once, and buried,
False goddess, thy mortal child!”
The lovely Galatea,
She fell in speechless woe;
On the rock that covered her Acis
Her tears unceasing flow.

101

THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS.

“εκριθη δ ερις αν εν Ιδα
κρινει τρισσας μακαρων
παιδας ανηρ βουτας
επι δορι και φονω και εμων μελαθρων λωβα:
στενει δε και τις αμφι τον ευρουν Ευρωταν
Λακαινα πολυδακρυτος εν δομοις κορα,
πολιον δ επι κρατα ματηρ
τεκνων θανοντων τιθεται χερα
δρυπτεται τε παρειαν,
διαιμον ονυχα τιθεμενα σπαραγμοις.”
—Euripides.

I.

On lofty Ida's grassy slope
Sat Priam's shepherd son,
What time Apollo's beaming car
Its course had well nigh run,

102

One radiant day in June. He leant
Upon his curved crook,
Musing; and to the sky around,
And to the various-dappled ground,
And the slow-oozing mossy rill,
On the green bosom of the hill,
Sent many a wandering look.
And with intenter gaze he eyed
The palace of his father's pride,
That in the vale below
Rose regal; battlement and tower
And massy porch of brazen power
To stay the battering foe:
And many a dwelling sheltered well,
'Neath Ilium's sacred citadel
Far-smoking; and the firm faced line
Of the high-gated wall,
That rose with upright strength divine,
At strong Poseidon's call.
And in his heart the hopeful thought
Swell'd venturous; and fair fancies float
Before him; and the secret germ
Of manhood's ripening fate grew warm.
The pomp of life in rolling splendour,

103

Bright wealth and purple power,
And rosy smiles and twinings tender,
In love's fresh-blossoming hour
O'ercame his spirit, and possessed
With pleasant tumult his young breast.
Thus finely rapt he mused, and leant
Upon his curved crook;
And, as the shadows came and went,
Upon the hill, he, like a seer,
Saw flitting shapes of hope and fear,
In the heart's shadowy book.

II.

Serene and still the sun doth set,
The wave with gold is gleaming;
But see a glory brighter yet
From high Olympus streaming!
The shepherd lifts his eye, and looks:
A splendour like a star
Sails westward; like a watch fire now;
Now 'tis a flaming car.
O Heavens! a glorious sight he sees;
With sweep of breezy lightness

104

Down Ida's slope the car descends,
And fills the mount with brightness;
Then lights at Paris' foot. The god
That bears a serpent-cinctured rod,
And guides, a winged charioteer,
That radiant cloud-car's swift career,
Checks the keen steeds with cunning rein,
And thus bespeaks the princely swain:
“Beautiful son of Ilium's king,
To thee from Jove on flaming wing
This word I bring: A contest rare,
Which is the fairest of the fair,
Between Jove's daughter and his wife
And Aphrodite golden-fair
Breaks Heaven's sweet peace. This hour prepare
Thy doom to end the strife.”
He spake; and, forth from out the cloud,
That doth the Olympian car enshroud,
Steps lofty Hera, with the mien
And posture of a queen.
“Shepherd, thou seest the Queen of Heaven,
Jove's thunder-hall is mine,
To me if beauty's prize be given,
Attend what meed is thine.

105

I give thee sway and lordly rule;
This populous Asian land
Shall be to thee a training school,
To mould with plastic hand
The pliant millions of mankind;
Thy lofty thought shall be,
A law to ages, that resigned
Shall take their stamp from thee.
Where to Apollo swells the pæan
From the bright isles of the Ægean,
Where the white peaks of Caucasus shine
O'er the dark Euxine's horrid brine,
Where blest Arabia's sunny shore
Teems with the fragrant spicy store,
Where Ganges rolls his ample flood,
And spreads wide leagues of pregnant mud,
Far as the wine-god tiger-borne
Travelled the bright realms of the morn;
So far, if beauty's prize be mine,
Shall wealth, and state, and power be thine.”
She spake; and her proud form back-drew
Into the cloud; when forth with spear,
And casque and large round buckler clear,
Jove's blue-eyed daughter stept to view.

106

“Thou seest the warrior-maid of Heaven,
The strength of spears is mine,
To me if beauty's prize be given,
The hero's fame is thine.
I give the strength of sinewy arm,
And the sure-levelled blow,
To stay the march of insolent harm,
And quell the lawless foe:
The daring thought, the piercing eye,
The free and generous breath,
The grasp that snatches victory,
Even in the throat of death.
Where forests of the twinkling spear
Fence the long battle line with fear;
Where furious Mars in scythed car
Leads the hot chase of panting war;
Where quakes the air with arrowy storm,
And man to man works hideous harm,
Thou shalt not fear; but to the cry
Of freedom, and of fatherland,
Shalt feel thy manhood mounting high,
And, with a chosen true-sworn band,
Breasting war's crimson tide shalt stand,
Firm as a rock. Thy name shall be

107

A travelling watch-word to the free;
The peasant's song shall tell of thee,
And little children shout for glee;
The hearth by thee shall blaze more brightly,
And loving hearts shall beat more lightly;
Thou shalt be blest of mothers; thou
Shalt see the ploughman turn his plough
O'er fields of recent slaughter;
The full-ear'd corn shall wave its pride,
Where wisdom was true valour's guide,
From me, Jove's blue-eyed daughter.”
She spake; and back the maid withdrew;
When forth, in beauty mighty,
Stept radiant to the ravished view
The golden Aphrodite.
“Shepherd, the strongest power in Heaven,
All-conquering love, is mine;
To me if beauty's prize be given,
Earth's fairest fair is thine.
I give thee beauty; being fair,
A fairer thou shalt find,
And mated live the loveliest pair,
From Gaul to furthest Ind.
The clear smooth brow, the glowing eye,

108

The shining hue of health,
The living grace that none may buy
With mines of golden wealth,
I give to thee. In fragrant beds,
Where violets nod their purple heads,
Where odorous jessamine and roses
Twine the cool bower where peace reposes,
Where glimpses of the stray sunshine,
Pierce the broad-leaved dark-clustered vine;
There thou shalt look in beauty's face,
And gently twine the soft embrace,
Till thy full liquid eye shall swim
With ecstacy, and overbrim
Thy soul with joy, and every limb
Thrill with rare transport. Gods above
No keener joy have known than love,
Then when with impulse fresh and mighty,
It stirs the soul and elevates,
And every throbbing sense dilates,
By gift of golden Aphrodite.
Such bliss, if beauty's prize be mine,
Shepherd of Ida, shall be thine.”
She spake; and the full-floating view
Of her bright fairness overthrew

109

All sterner purpose. “Thou art fair,”
He cried, “beyond the dull compare
Of meaner forms! My only duty
Henceforth, with pure resolve, shall be
To win the fair, and worship beauty
In thee, and those most like to thee.”
He said; and straight the vision flew,
Dissolving from his tranceful view,
And all the air was clear.
But as he homeward bent his way,
'Neath the last streaks of rosy day,
Jove's thunder from the hill-top grey,
Rolled ominous on his ear.

110

AESCHYLUS.

The occupation of watching the vineyards, in which the father of tragedy is here represented as engaged, when the first inspiration came to his soul by the Epiphany of the patron god of the “goat song,” is often alluded to by ancient writers. See Song of Solomon, i. 6. The works of the poet alluded to in the ballad, are the Agamemnon, the Choephorœ, the Furies, the Seven against Thebes, and the Prometheus Bound, being five out of the seven extant. The allusion to Homer, in p. 112, is with reference to a well known saying of the bard, reported by Athenæus (viii. p. 348), that his numerous tragedies were only “slices from the great banquet of Homeric dainties.”

“εφη δε Αισχυλος μειρακιον ων καθευδειν εν αγρω φυλασσων σταφυλας, και οι Διονυσον επισταντα κελευσαι τραγωδιαν ποιειν: ως δε ην ημερα (πειθεσθαι γαρ εθελειν) ραστα ηδη πειρωμενος ποιειν.”—Pausanias.

Near Eleusis' holy city,
By the sacred-winding way,
Where the pomp was yearly marshalled
On Demeter's festal day,
Sate a youth, the vineyard watching,
'Neath the moony welkin fair,
'Mid the rich and leafy greenness,
Gazing mutely through the air;
Sate and mused, high-vaulting fancies
Taming with devoutest fear;
Mingling thoughts of far adventure
With the peaceful goddess near.

111

While pure Phœbe high was wheeling,
Thus his lonely watch he kept,
O'er each dim conception brooding,
Till the musing watchman slept.
Through his soft sleep's dreamy rapture,
Festive notes in tinkling war
Thrilled his ear; his eye bright Bromius,
High-borne in a tiger-car,
Smote with wonder. Soft-limbed beauty
Shone in him divinely fair,
Swam his eye, in wavy gambol,
Floated free his sun-bright hair;
Crimson-mantled health, not faintly,
O'er his rounded cheeks was spread,
Coolest ivy bound his temples,
Horns of strength rayed from his head.
Thus the blooming vine-god beauteous
Lighted on the grassy sod,
And, with keen-felt presence glowingly,
To the mortal spake the god.
“Son of Euphorion, from Olympus
Sent, I come with haste to thee
Not unworthy; thou my singer
And Apollo's bard shalt be.

112

I thy thoughts have known the deepest,
The strong love that stirs thy soul;
Thou shalt run, divinely strengthened,
To the glory-glittering goal.
Where the stable-banded chorus
Voices Dionysus' praise,
Thou shalt lead their songs in triumph,
Through the curious-measured maze.
From the cloudy dim tradition
Thou shalt call the heroes old;
To thy great conception imaged,
Kings and gods thine art shall mould.
Thou from Homer's banquet various
Shalt nicely cull the dainty feast;
And the king of men victorious,
From Hades' iron hold released,
At thy call shall march to Argos,
At thy word retrace his path
Back to the home where Clytemnestra
Stabs him in the treacherous bath.
Thou the son shalt arm with vengeance,
Till the blood-stained mother die;
At thy call the hell-hounds furious,
With a sense-confounding cry,

113

Shall pursue the mother-murderer,
O'er the land and o'er the sea,
Wan and weary, worn and wasted,
Till a god shall speak him free.
Thou with spears the welkin maddening,
And with fierce steeds snorting war,
To Thebes shalt guide a host white-shielded,
In the dust-enveloped car.
Thou the haughty-hearted Titan,
That with bitter words did rail
'Gainst the Thunderer, to the storm-swept
Ice-ribbed, snow-capt crag shalt nail.”
Thus with words of lofty promise,
To the mortal spake the god;
Thrilled him with his keen-felt presence,
Touched him with his pine-tipt rod,
And waked the dreamer. He, upstarting
From his sweet entrancement, saw
In thin air the god evanishing,
And he worshipped him with awe.
And he vowed to be his singer,
And he sang full many a lay,
With religious power deep-throated,
From that consecrating day.

114

And he kept the trust committed
To his ward with reverent care;
And voiced a fearless inspiration,
That men felt a god was there;
Till, with ivy crowned victorious,
He was hailed by Attic throngs:
Time their high approval glorious
Through far-sounding halls prolongs.

115

SALAMIS.

In this ballad an attempt has been made to unite the descriptions of this great naval combat, given by Herodotus and Æschylus. The tragic writer was a soldier, and present at the battle, which circumstance makes his testimony, as given in “the Persians,” peculiarly valuable. The concluding part of this ballad is a sort of lyrical epitome of that very singular, and in some respects altogether unique remnant of the lost riches of tragic art in Athens.

“Ω κλεινα Σαλαμις συ μεν που ναιεις αλιπλαγκτος, ευδαιμων πασιν περιφαντος αει.”—Sophocles.

See'st thou where, sublimely seated on a silver-footed throne,
With a high tiara crested, belted with a jewelled zone,
Sits the king of kings, and, looking from the rocky mountain side,
Scans, with masted armies studded far the fair Saronic tide?
Looks he not with high hope beaming? looks he not with pride elate?
Seems he not a god? the words he speaks are big with instant fate.

116

He hath come from far Euphrates, and from Tigris' rushing tide,
To subdue the strength of Athens, to chastise the Spartan's pride;
He hath come with countless armies, gathered slowly from afar,
From the plain, and from the mountain, marshalled ranks of motley war;
From the land, and from the ocean, that the burdened billows groan,
That the air is black with banners, which great Xerxes calls his own.
Soothly he hath nobly ridden, o'er the fair fields, o'er the waste,
As the Earth might bear the burden, with a weighty-footed haste;
He hath cut in twain the mountain, he hath bridged the rolling main,
He hath lashed the flood of Helle, bound the billow with a chain;
And the rivers shrink before him, and the sheeted lakes are dry,
From his burden-bearing oxen, and his hordes of cavalry;

117

And the gates of Greece stand open; Ossa and Olympus fail;
And the mountain-girt Æmonia spreads the river and the vale;
And her troops of famous horse before the puissant Persian's nod,
Flee; the death-defying Spartans prostrate lie beneath his rod,
Where with fleshly breast they walled thy famous pass, Thermopylæ.
And the god that shakes Cithaeron, feared to block his crimson way;
And the blue-eyed maid of Athens shook not then her heavenly spear,
Rock-perched Pallas, when the tread of the high-clambering foe was near;
And the sacred snake, huge-twining guardian of the virgin shrine,
Where the honied cake was waiting, tasted not the food divine;
Stood nor man nor god before him; he hath scoured the Attic land,
Chased the valiant sons of Athens to a barren island's strand;

118

He hath hedged them round with triremes, lines on lines of bristling war;
He hath doomed the prey for capture; he hath spread his meshes far;
And hesits sublimely seated on a throne with pride elate,
To behold the victim fall beneath the sudden-swooping Fate.

Who shall stand his gathered might?—with thy thin slip of rocky coast,
Athens, wilt thou tell thy fifties 'gainst the thousands of his host?
All the might of all the Orient, from the Ganges-watered Ind
To the isles that fringe the Ægean, 'gainst thy little state combined;
Turbaned Persians, with gay panoply from the gold of distant mines,
Host immortal with their wives, and troops of spangled concnbines;
Mitred Cissians, high-capped Sacae, and the Assyrian brazen-crested;
The high-booted Paphlagonian; the swart Indian cotton-vested;

119

Shaggy warriors, goat-skin-mantled, from the dreary Caspian strand,
And the camel-mounted riders from the incense-bearing land,
Thracians fierce, with shouts Bacchantic, and more savage war-halloo;
Sacred Tmolus' sons, and Lydia's soft and silken-vested crew;
And the sons of hoariest Thebes, and sacerdotal Memphis, where
Gods, in brutish incarnation, bellow through the sacred air;
And the sun-scorched, painted Ethiop, with his huge-spanned bow of war,
And the woolly-headed Libyan, driving swift the scythed car;
And the boatmen of the lowland, that, with frequent-beating oar,
Plough the pools where floats the lotus, by the fat Nile's peopled shore;
Such a crew he drives against thee. 'Neath the dusky-vested Night
He hath ranged them to entrap thee. Now behold the glorious light,

120

Beaming broadly from the chariot of the silver-steeded day,
Shews revealed the triple barrier of his ships in close array,
Girdling in the coast of Ajax. Yet no wavering fear is there;
Firmly stands the line of Athens. Hark! their loud shouts split the air.
Not the expected note of terror, not the wild cry of despair;
Foolish Xerxes! 'tis the exultant power that swells strong manhood's breast;
'Tis the broadly-billowed pæan from the freemen of the West.
“Sons of the Greeks! now save your country! save your wives and children dear!
Save the sepulchres of your fathers! save the shrines of gods that hear,
When the patriot prays! This day makes us free or slaves for ever!”
On they sail, with steady helming, sworn to die or to deliver.
Now they meet. Now beak on beak is furious dashed; and Sidon old

121

Drives her brazen-breasted triremes 'gainst the ships of Athens bold.
A moment equal; but the Athenian, in the desperate-handed strife,
Wields, as patriots well may wield, a surer sword, and sharper knife.
On he presses; close and closer; cloven booms and shattered sails,
And the frequent-crashing oarage, mark the track where he prevails.
Ocean seethes beneath their fury; and the hostile-fretted flood
Yawns to drink the reeling Tyrian, and the floundering Cyprian's blood.
Sobs the wave with drowned and drowning: where the narrow channels flow,
Vain the strife with death two-handed, here the water, there the foe.
Ship on ship is rudely clashed; for in the narrow strait confined
Room is none to use their numbers; and, with strivings vain and blind,
Where they move they clog the movements of the friend they hoped to aid,

122

Where they fight they help the battle of the foe they should have stayed.
Vainly, with her Carian triremes, o'er the terror-tangled scene
Artemisia rides the battle like an Amazonian queen;
All is reasonless confusion. O'er the purple-streaming tide,
Helmless ships and shipless pilots struggle with the billows' pride
Vainly—for the west wind rising with a savage-minded roar
Drives the foundered and the drowning countless on the Colian shore.
And to crown such wreck and carnage, when the hottest fight was o'er,
Rodethe Athenian gallies proudly to a rocky islet's shore,
Near to Salamis—there the king, to crown the sure-deemed victory,
Susa's chiefest bloom had stationed; and in waiting there they lie
To help their conquering friends, and top the hoped-for triumph. There the foe
Circle round with rushing beaks, and, where the environing waters flow,

123

Blast them with the arrowy tempest, crush them with the huge-heaved rock,
Mow them down in rows defenceless, like the butchered bleating flock.
From his throne the monarch sees it, heap on heap of helpless slaughter,
With the life of Persia crimsoned far the fair Saronic water.
Rend thy robes, thou foolish Xerxes, rend the air with piteous cries!
On the rocky coast of Hellas gashed the pride of Persia lies!

Wake thee! wake thee! blinded Xerxes! God hath found thee out at last,
Snaps thy pride beneath his judgment, as the tree before the blast.
Haste thee! haste thee! speed thy couriers—Persian couriers travel lightly—
To declare thy stranded navy, and by cruel death unsightly
Dimmed thy glory. Hie thee! hie thee! hence ev'n by what way thou camest,
Dwarfed to whoso saw thee mightiest, and where thou wert fiercest, tamest!

124

Hide thee, where blank Fear shall hunt thee, and, more surely to undo thee,
Thirst and hunger where thou goest, brothered demons, shall pursue thee.
Where Cithæron dear to Bromius nods his horror-crested wood,
To the Phocian, to the Dorian, where Spercheius rolls his flood,
Through Æmonia steed-delighting, by Magnesia's wave-lashed strand,
Through the hardy Macedonian's, through the fierce-souled Thracian's land,
By the reedy Bolbe's waters, by the steep Pangæan height,
By the stream of holy Strymon thou shalt spur thy sleepless flight.
Frost and Fire shall league together, angry Heaven to Earth respond,
Strong Poseidon with his trident break thy impious-vaunted bond;
Where thou passed, with mouths uncounted eating up the famished land,
With few men a boat shall ferry Xerxes to the Asian strand.

125

Haste thee! haste thee! they are waiting by the palace-gates for thee,
By the golden gates of Susa eager mourners wait for thee.
Haste thee, where the guardian elders wait, a hoary-bearded train;
They shall see their king, but never see the sons they loved again.
Where thy weeping mother waits thee, queen Atossa waits to see
Dire fulfilment of her troublous vision-haunted sleep in thee.
She hath dreamt, and she shall see it, how an Eagle cowed with awe
Gave his kingly crest to pluck before a puny Falcon's claw.
Haste thee! where the mighty shade of great Darius through the gloom
Rises dread, to teach thee wisdom, couldst thou learn it, from the tomb.
There begin the sad rehearsal, and, while streaming tears are shed,
To the thousand tongues that ask thee, tell the myriads of the dead!

126

Blame the god that so deceived thee—for the mighty men that died
Blame all gods that be, but chiefly blame thyself, and thine own pride!
Drown thy sorrow with much wailing! beat thy breast, thy vesture rend,
Tear thy hair, and pluck thy beard—weep till thou hast no tears to spend;
Call the mourning women to thee! while they lift the Mysian wail,
Thou to Susa's sonless mothers pour the sorrow-streaming tale!

127

MARATHON.

Λειμωνα τον εροεντα Μαραθωνος.
—Aristophanes.

I

From Pentelicus' pine-clad height

Pentelicus overhangs the south side of the plain of Marathon, separating it from the great Attic plain. Those who have seen the beautiful Bay of Brodick, in the Island of Arran, have seen Marathon on a small scale, except that Goat Fell, which represents Pentelicus, is on the north. On the south, or Athenian side, this famous mountain is sufficiently bare, but towards Marathon it is richly wooded; and the direct road from the village of Vrana to the valley of the Cephissus, over the north-west shoulder of the mountain, is one of the wildest and most picturesque passes in Greece.

A voice of warning came,
That shook the silent autumn night
With fear to Media's name.
Pan from his Marathonian cave

Pan played a somewhat prominent part in the great Persian war.—(Herodotus, vi. 105.) He had a famous cave near Marathon (Pausan., i. 32), which archæologists have idly endeavoured to identify.

Sent screams of midnight terror,
And darkling horror curled the wave
On the broad sea's moonlit mirror.
Woe, Persia, woe! thou liest low, low!
Let the golden palaces groan!
Ye mothers weep for sons that shall sleep
In gore on Marathon!

128

II

Where Indus and Hydaspes roll,
Where treeless deserts glow,
Where Scythians roam beneath the pole,
O'er fields of hardened snow,
The great Darius rules; and now,
Thou little Greece, to thee
He comes; thou thin-soiled Athens, how
Shalt thou dare to be free?
There is a God that wields the rod
Above: by Him alone
The Greek shall be free, when the Mede shall flee,
In shame from Marathon.

III

He comes; and o'er the bright Ægean,
Where his masted army came,
The subject isles uplift the pæan
Of glory to his name.
Strong Naxos, strong Eretria yield;
His captains near the shore

129

Of Marathon's fair and fateful field,
Where a tyrant marched before.

Darius was led by Hippias, who was familiar with this approach to Attica, having come this way with his father Pisistratus, when that tyrant established himself in the sovereignty of Attica for the last time.

And a traitor guide, the sea beside,
Now marks the land for his own,
Where the marshes red shall soon be the bed
Of the Mede in Marathon.

IV

Who shall number the host of the Mede?
Their high-tiered galleys ride,
Like locust-bands with darkening speed,
Across the groaning tide.
Who shall tell the many-hoofed tramp,
That shakes the dusty plain?
Where the pride of his horse is the strength of his camp,
Shall the Mede forget to gain?
O fair is the pride of those turms as they ride,
To the eye of the morning shown!
But a god in the sky hath doomed them to lie
In dust, on Marathon.

V

Dauntless beside the sounding sea
The Athenian men reveal

130

Their steady strength. That they are free
They know; and inly feel
Their high election, on that day,
In foremost fight to stand,
And dash the enslaving yoke away,
From all the Grecian land.
Their praise shall sound the world around,
Who shook the Persian throne,
When the shout of the free travelled over the sea,
From famous Marathon.

VI

From dark Cithæron's sacred slope,
The small Platæan band
Bring hearts, that swell with patriot hope,
To wield a common brand
With Theseus' sons, at danger's gates;
While spell-bound Sparta stands,
And for the pale moon's changes waits
With stiff and stolid hands;
And hath no share in the glory rare,
That Athens shall make her own,

131

When the long-haired Mede with fearful speed
Falls back from Marathon.

VII

“On, sons of the Greeks!” the war-cry rolls,
“The land that gave you birth,
Your wives, and all the dearest souls
That circle round each hearth;
The shrines upon a thousand hills,
The memory of your sires,
Nerve now with brass your resolute wills,
And fan your valorous fires!”
And on like a wave came the rush of the brave—
“Ye sons of the Greeks, on, on!”
And the Mede stept back from the eager attack
Of the Greek, in Marathon.

VIII

Hear'st thou the rattling of spears on the right?
See'st thou the gleam in the sky?
The gods come to aid the Greeks in the fight,
And the favouring heroes are nigh.

132

The lion's hide I see in the sky,
And the knotted club so fell,
And kingly Theseus' conquering eye,
And Macaria, nymph of the well.

Hercules was the patron-saint, to use modern language, of Marathon; and, where the Athenians conquered, Theseus could not be absent. These two heroes, therefore, were represented in the picture of the battle of Marathon in the painted Stoa (Pausan., i, 15; Plutarch—Theseus, 35.) The fountain of Macaria, the daughter of Hercules and Deianeira, is mentioned by Pausanias (i. c. 32) as being on the field of Marathon; and sure enough there is a well on the road from Marathon to Rhamnus, near the north end of the plain, which Mr Finlay is willing to baptise with the name of the old classical nymph.

Purely, purely the fount did flow,
When the morn's first radiance shone;
But eve shall know the crimson flow
Of its wave, by Marathon.

IX

On, son of Cimon, bravely on!
And Aristides just!
Your names have made the field your own,
Your foes are in the dust!
The Lydian satrap spurs his steed,
The Persian's bow is broken;
His purple pales; the vanquished Mede
Beholds the angry token
Of thundering Jove who rules above;
And the bubbling marshes moan

There are two extensive marshes, mostly overgrown with great reeds, one at each end of the field. The Persians, of course, were driven back into the marsh at the north end. This was represented in the painting on the Stoa.

With the trampled dead that have found their bed
In gore, at Marathon.

133

X

The ships have sailed from Marathon,
On swift disaster's wings;
And an evil dream hath fetched a groan,
From the heart of the king of kings.
An eagle he saw, in the shades of night,
With a dove that bloodily strove;
And the weak hath vanquished the strong in fight.
The eagle hath fled from the dove.

The idea here is taken from Atossa's dream, in the Persians of Æschylus, v. 176, mentioned in the previous ballad.

Great Jove, that reigns in the starry plains,
To the heart of the king hath shown,
That the boastful parade of his pride was laid
In dust at Marathon.

XI

But through Pentelicus' winding vales
The hymn triumphal runs,
And high-shrined Athens proudly hails
Her free-returning sons.
And Pallas, from her ancient rock,
With her shield's refulgent round,

134

Blazes; her frequent worshippers flock,
And high the pæans sound,
How in deathless glory the famous story
Shall on the winds be blown,
That the long-haired Mede was driven with speed
By the Greeks, from Marathon.

XII

And Greece shall be a hallowed name,
While the sun shall climb the pole,
And Marathon fan strong freedom's flame
In many a pilgrim soul.
And o'er that mound where heroes sleep,

The famous mound in the middle of the battle-field, mentioned by Pausanias, and described by all modern travellers.

By the waste and reedy shore,
Full many a patriot eye shall weep,
Till Time shall be no more.
And the bard shall brim with a holier hymn,
When he stands by that mound alone,
And feel no shrine on earth more divine
Than the dust of Marathon.

135

PYTHAGORAS.

This piece was composed while I was residing in Castleton of Braemar, a once remote region, but now visited by all the world, as the summer retreat of our well-beloved Queen. This circumstance will explain the topographical allusions that occur in the poem. The ant-hills described in p. 146, are very common in the forests of Invercauld and Ballochbuie, and often strike eyes unaccustomed to sylvan sights, with considerable astonishment.

“Φαινονται δη και οι Πυθαγορειοι τον αριθμον νομιζοντες αρχην ειναι.”—Aristotle.

“Λυσις δε ο Πυθαγορικος αριθμον αρρητον οριζεται τον θεον.”—Athenagoras.

SON.
Father, who was Pythagoras?

FATHER.
I think
Thyself should'st know—an old philosopher
In Samos born, one of those sunny isles
That gem the mid-sea, where the Ægean tide
Laves Lesser Asia. But what reason moves
The question?

136

SON.
In a book I read to-day,
Where was much talk of strange old things, the writer
Said that Pythagoras had a golden thigh.

FATHER.
O yes! they say he had a golden thigh,
And of its beauty made a rare display
At the Olympic games, and that his body
Shone with a gleaming glory, like a god's,
And that no space could bind him, being seen
I' the self-same hour in places far apart,
And that his word was music, and his breath
Brought healing, and that he held mystic converse
With Abaris, the Hyperborean priest,
Who from the frosted Caucasus to Greece
Rode through the air, upon a golden arrow;
All this they say, and more.

SON.
But is it true?

137

FATHER.
As true as many tales that many men
Believe, and are much honoured for believing.

SON.
But surely such things can't be true: you don't
Believe them, father.

FATHER.
No, boy; they are false.

SON.
I wonder who could sit down, and invent
Such lies.

FATHER.
The Greeks.

SON.
I thought the Greeks were wise.

FATHER.
Yes! very wise. But, as the fattest loam
Sends forth both nurturing grain, and worthless weeds,

138

In rank abundance, so by Wisdom's throne
A subtle fool sits tinkling curious bells,
And mocks the sage. No land, like eloquent Greece,
Voiced deepest truth, or forged more monstrous lies.

SON.
Do other nations lie?

FATHER.
Yes: every nation;
Some less, some more. All peoples, parties, schools,
Conventions, convocations, churches lie,
Being human; perfect truth belongs to God.
Nor needs a conscious purpose to deceive,
But what they wish to see fond eyes invent,
And hearts more fond do hug the dear deceit.
But chiefly wonder hath a witching power
To beget lies; for each new portent strikes
The untutored gaze, with wit-confounding awe,
And every fool, that gapes for marvel, finds
A ready conjurer in his startled eye.
For the which cause, great thinkers, who do ride
Like new-born Suns, through our dull firmament,
Do mostly gather round them motley mists,

139

From the hot fumes of ignorant fancy bred,
Which hide their glory; and the many see
The shifting colours flashed from earth-born clouds,
Not the pure heavenly light. Thus Solomon
Was made a wizard; and the most learned Virgil
A necromancer; and Pythagoras
A juggling priest; and every maundering fool
Wears badges filched from sage philosophy.

SON.
But what rare wisdom did the Samian teach?

FATHER.
He saw the open mystery of Number,
That makes the world a world, and doth redeem
All things from chaos.

SON.
Then, should Number be
A name for God?

FATHER.
Yes! or an attribute,
Function, or form of uncreated MIND.

140

SON.
But God is one.

FATHER.
One power with many names.

SON.
Then let me hear the mystery of Number.

FATHER.
Bring me a flower.

SON.
Take this: it is a plant,
Which on the top ridge of steep Loch-na-Gar
I plucked but yesterday, beside the snow,
With which I pelted Fanny.

FATHER.
A delicate flower:
Knowest thou its name?

SON.
The learned schoolmaster,
Who clomb the hill with us, and slept all night

141

On Ben Muicdhui, 'neath the Shelter stone,
He said, I think, it was a Saxifrage—
Saxifraga stellaris.

FATHER.
So it is.
Count now the petals.

SON.
What are petals?

FATHER.
The segments of the blossom.

SON.
They are five.

FATHER.
Then count the stamens, that, like satellites,
Keep circular guard around the central germ.

SON.
I've told them twice. I think they number ten.

142

FATHER.
Right; and twice five make ten; and so this flower
Divides by five. The maker of the flower
Shaped the proportion; this Pythagoras saw.

SON.
And have all flowers a number?

FATHER.
Yes! all things
Are numbered, in a calculation far
Beyond the reach of Newton or Laplace.

SON.
Has grass a number?

FATHER.
Grass, and every grain
That yields sweet nurture to food-eating men,
Is measured by the perfect number THREE.

SON.
Hath THREE a special virtue?

143

FATHER.
Every number
Hath its own virtue; and the number THREE
Is the first number that contains the parts,
Which make a perfect whole.

SON.
I understand
This scarcely. What parts make a perfect whole?

FATHER.
A whole—'tis written thus in Aristotle—
Is that which hath beginning, middle, and end.

SON.
Ha! ha! now I remember, uncle John
Said that the Doctor preached a bad discourse,
Last Sunday; for he made so fierce a plunge
At first, he had no breath to follow on,
But stumbled through the middle course, and limped,
Like a poor jaded racer, to the end.

FATHER.
A common blunder. Preachers, poets, painters,

144

Against the virtue of the perfect THREE
Do oft offend.

SON.
And novel writers?

FATHER.
Yes.
They are the Pharisees that keep the letter,
But sin against the spirit of the law.

SON.
Father, I think you said, all things have number;
Some things, meseems, I know, that scorn control,
And riot in confusion. Who hath measured
The cloud, the tempest, and the waterfall?

FATHER.
God measures all things, is himself the measure
Of all that hath been, is, or yet shall be.
The headlong waterfall that o'er the cliff
Flings its full-flooded force, and fiercely smites
The black rocks with its many-sundered spray,
And in the rocky cauldron boils below,

145

With sleepless-whirling eddies, and white foam
Of bubbles bursting still, and still re-born;
This water hath a number men shall count
When moths shall measure mountains. Take that crust
Of curled black lichen, creeping o'er the face
Of the quartz rock—thou seest no order there;
But arm thine eye with scientific glass,
And probe the throbbing alleys of its life,
And mark its lines and surfaces, thou'lt find
A mustered and a marshalled beauty there,
As perfect as the ordered strategy
Of that French conqueror, who mapped all Europe
With battle fields, and played with human lives,
As children play with bowls, and made the world
The chess-board of his vast Imperial scheme.
His battles seemed confused, at times; but well
He knew the portioned number of his host,
And with one glance from him, they from afar
Gathered the seeming looseness of their ranks,
And, with concentric curious-numbered speed,
Bore on the spot well-marked for doom, and burst
In calculated thunder—Dost thou see
This small brown hillock?

146

SON.
Yes! what is it?

FATHER.
An ant-hill.

SON.
O how strange! up to this hour
I never saw one.

FATHER.
Learn to use your eyes.

SON.
O how they dive, and run, and wheel about!
Some here, some there, o'er one another's heads!
And some creep into holes, and some creep out,
And some are galloping with straws, and some
With little sticks are hobbling, and some push
A small white roll before their tiny snouts;
'Tis very strange!

FATHER.
Take care you don't intrude
Too close on their domain, or you may find

147

Bustling betwixt your stockings and your skin
No pleasant guests.

SON.
They're swarming still—I wonder
If evermore they make this moving medley;
Their reeling makes me dizzy, as the light
Far-shimmering o'er the million-pointed wave
Confounds the eye.

FATHER.
Man's eye is oft confounded,
Where no confusion is.

SON.
Is there none here?

FATHER.
No; more order than in your weak brain, or mine,
Or any brain that harbours human thoughts.
As well as sage Pythagoras, I trow,
These puny craftsmen know what number means.

SON.
Have they a plan?

148

FATHER.
Doubt not; as much as he,
Who piled the granite tower, whose turrets nod
High o'er the light-plumed birches of Balmoral.

SON.
'Tis wondrous strange!

FATHER.
Far stranger, if thou knew
The secrets of that sphered metropolis,
Whereof thou dost but see the outer posts,
And a few hundred peaceful citizens,
By our ungracious intrusion frayed:
Not fair Turin, or Berlin, or the pomp
Of high Dunedin's breezy palaces,
Hath streets more orderly; every lane, I wis,
Is numbered here, and every cross-way swept.
This busy people, as their skill may be,
Have, each his portioned work; some delve and burrow,
And make huge tunnels where a passage fails;
Some span the void with arches, and some scoop
A drain for water, whose untimely swell
Might flood the colony: some are sent abroad

149

To gather stores for winter's use; and some
Pile the new-plundered grains. Some run, some wait;
Some sweat and serve, some hold a high command;
But each a needful task fulfils; and all,
By mystic number's harmony, combine
The swarming units to a marshalled whole.

SON.
I think I've read somewhere that bees no less
Are cunning engineers, and captained well.

FATHER.
All things are full of cunning; even fools
Have wisdom for their need; and multitude
By number grouped, and by discretion used
Is power.

SON.
Well, now, I think I understand
What NUMBER means, and what Pythagoras taught.

FATHER.
'Tis well to understand; remains to make
Each worthy thought sire to a worthier deed.
Dear boy, a delicate work before thee lies,

150

Even mortal life: there too must mumber reign,
The fore-thought system, and sure-ordered plan,
Where every counted faculty must ply
Its special work, and rule its known domain;
Else chaos and disharmony shall seize
Thy mutinous state, and in the whirl of Time
Thy helmless bark go down.—Pythagoras,
Vexed with the Samian despot's lawless sway,
(For tyrants ne'er loved wisdom) crossed the seas,
And found a home on the Hesperian shore,
Then when the Tarquin arched the infant Rome
With vaults, the germ of Cæsar's golden hall.
There, in Crotona's state, he held a school
Of wisdom and of virtue, teaching men
The harmony of aptly-portioned powers,
And of well-numbered days: whence as a god
Men honoured him: and, from his wells refreshed,
The master builder of pure intellect,
Imperial Plato piled the palace, where
All great true thoughts have found a home for ever.
These men thy teachers make, and thou art wise.
We moderns are sharp-eyed; but keep thou far
From clear cold microscopic men, who sneer
At Plato sage, and wise Pythagoras.

151

HERACLITUS.

The striking contrast between rest and motion, permanence and mutability, eternity and time, being and becoming, which the phenomena of the universe present, could not fail to occupy, at a very early period, the subtle minds of the early Greek speculators. In Heraclitus, popularly known to the million as the weeping philosopher, we have the type of a class of men appearing in all ages of the world, who, losing their hold of the great central unity of self-consistent mind, which makes the world a world, and reason reasonable, give themselves up to the contemplation of the ever-shifting phases of ephemeral finitudes, which overwhelm the senses, and practically believe only in the idea of Change. Such a view of things, when it becomes a habit, leads to universal scepticism and shallow sophistry of that kind which became afterwards so rank in Athens, and required all the diligence of such master workmen as Socrates and Plato, to weed it out. Modern Sensationalism, issuing from the cold Rationalism of Locke, has produced similar results, for which a Scotsman does not require to seek far.

“Λεγει που Ηρακλειτος οτι παντα χωρει και ουδεν μενει, και ποταμου ροη απεικαζων τα οντα λεγει ως δις εσ/ τον αυτον ποταμον ουκ αν εμβαιης.”—Plato.

At Ephesus, by Cayster's flood,
The son of Blyson sate,
And mused, in darkly thoughtful mood,
On God, and man, and fate.
And, as he looked on the sleepless torrent
Rolling to the sea,
With a whirling, swirling, eddying current,
Thus to himself spake he:
Nothing to hold itself is strong;
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

152

The tender blade, whose eager seed
Broke through the teeming plain,
Shall blossom bear, with fated speed,
And end in seed again.
And, when Spring's plastic sunbeam warm
Shall thaw the wintry snow,
Abroad shall leap the prisoned germ,
And life from death shall grow.
For nothing to hold itself is strong;
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

Life from death, and death from life,
So round and round it goes,
A ceaseless self-provoking strife,
That ever ebbs and flows.
Within, without, and round about,
Sans end, and sans beginning;
My brain reels with the mystic rout
Of things for ever spinning.
For nothing to hold itself is strong:
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

153

Like the clouds that scour the sky,
In the sleepless-shifting weather,
I know not how, I ask not why,
Our thoughts chase one another.
Foolish fancies fret my brain,
And thoughts which men call clever,
Waking, sleeping, pleasure, pain,
The same, but shifting ever.
For nothing to hold itself is strong;
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

The giant-snouted mountains grey,
That seem to scorn mutation,
And see, like shadows, fleet away
Man's feeble generation;
Their brows, which tyrannous blasts assail,
Their peaks, which lightnings shiver,
With ceaseless ruin fill the vale,
And feed the flowing river.
For nothing to hold itself is strong;
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

154

All things that be like water flow;
The type of life is water;
But Heat makes motion swift or slow;
Fire is the soul of Water.
When Heat invades the stiffened stream,
The icy bonds are riven;
When Sunbeams pierce the flood, the steam
Swells in light airs to heaven.
For nothing to hold itself is strong;
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

Motion, motion, holy Force,
And Fire, pure fount of motion,
This sleepless-whirling world's course
Shall claim my heart's devotion!
So float each thing of mortal name,
On tides of joy and sorrow,
Ever the same, and never the same,
The sport of each to-morrow!
For nothing to hold itself is strong;
But all things, like a river,
Roll along, and swirl along,
And bubble along for ever.

155

ANAXAGORAS.

Though Socrates, in several places of Plato, expresses his dissatisfaction with the doctrine of νους, as taught by Anaxagoras, the friend of Pericles, there can be no doubt that, in comparison with those who preceded him, the philosopher of Clazomenæ is fully entitled to the proud position given him by Aristotle, and which has been asserted in the present sonnet.

Αναξαγορας τοις ολοις πρωτος ου τυχην, ουδ' αναγκην διακοσμησεως αρχην, αλλα νουν επεστησε καθαρον και ακρατον, εμμεμιγμενον πασι τοις αλλοις, αποκρινοντα τας ομοιομεριας. —Plutarch.

Slow rolls the year that makes the sour grape mellow,
Slow grows the blade that weaves the matted sod;
Slow o'er the grey rock creeps the lichen yellow,
Slow finds man's wandering wit its way to God.
Water, quoth Thales, is the first of things;
Nay, quoth Anaximander to my sight,
The primal thing must be the Infinite;
Quoth Anaximenes, 'tis Air that brings
Life to all living; nay, 'tis Fire that goes,
Quoth Blyson's son, through everything that flows.
Fools! saith, at length, wise Anaxagoras,
Cause never dwelt in aught of sensuous kind;
Sole first and last of all that is, and was,
And yet shall be, in Heaven or Earth, is Mind.

156

POLEMO.

This very remarkable history of the conversion of this father of the old Academy, from a licentious to a saintly life, will be found in Valerius Maximus, Lib. vi., c. 9, and in Diogenes Laertius. Those who wish to know where the Christian Church was before Christ (as we talk of “Reformers before the Reformation”), must search in the lives of the old Greek philosophers, who were not mere talkers and speculators, but men of character, and action, and exhibiting in many cases a self-control and self-denial, and a plain godly simplicity of life, which might shame not a few British Christians, who contrive in a very questionable sort of way to unite the worship of God with that of Mammon. A Socrates and a Polemo would not have sinned after this fashion.

“Αμην αμην λεγω υμιν, εαν μη τις γεννηθη ανωθεν, ου δυναται ιδειν την βασιλειαν του θεου.”—John iii. 3.

“Peregrinatus est hic in nequitiâ, non habitavit.”—
Valerius Maximus.

'Tis morn. On Parnes, nurse of hardy pines,
Gleams the new-started day,
And on Ægina's briny water shines
The clear far-twinkling ray.

'Neath the old Attic rock white vapours creep;
And on the dusty road,
O'er the meek army of his bleating sheep
The shepherd wields his goad.

157

The city sleeps; save where the market shows
The first green-furnished stalls,
And from his lair of shelterless repose
The squalid beggar crawls.

Who bursts into the peaceful street, with sound
Of brawl, and wrangling fray,
Rushing with blushless stare and staggering bound,
To greet the modest day?

A band of revellers, with torn chaplets crowned;
And at their head I know
The rich man's son, for shameless vice renowned,
Licentious Polemo.

Onward they reel, as whim may point the way;
But he, with firmer pace,
Who hath a will strong to assert its sway,
Even in the drunkard's place.

And whither now? Sometimes God leads a fool
To knock at wisdom's door;
And so the reveller rushes to the school,
Where Plato's holy lore

158

Is taught by sage severe Xenocrates,
Who, at that early hour,
Mingled wise disputation with the breeze,
That stirred the learned bower.

Amid the listening scholars Polemo
Sate down; and, from his place,
With impudent stare his strong contempt did show,
In the mild lecturer's face.

The teacher heard, nor stirred his soul serene,
That reveller to reprove,
But changed his theme, and, with unaltered mien,
More apt discourse he wove

Of temperance, purity, high self-control,
Ideal harmonies fine,
And all that lifts the dubious human soul
From bestial to divine.

The scoffer heard; but soon, with softened stare
And flinching look, confessed
How deep the preacher probed his heart; for there
He felt a strange unrest.

159

And as the wise man, with the waxing theme,
More grave and weighty grew,
With swelling doubts he felt his bosom teem,
His flushed cheek paled its hue.

He plucked from his head the wreath of violets blue;
And, as the speaker woke
More fretful tempest in his breast, he drew
His hand beneath his cloak;

And rose; and stood as one that fronts a foe;
Then, with a sudden turn,
Sank; in a gushing flood the salt tears flow;
And, with wild thoughts that burn,

He from the audience rushed. But not his soul
From the new awe that found him
Might rush; but, with a tyrannous strong control,
Missioned from God, it bound him,

And with his mutinous temper wrestled long,
Till, like a lamb, he lay;
Then rose, like one with a new nature strong,
To a new life that day.

160

And by the chaste and blue-eyed goddess sware
That, from that sacred hour,
He the philosopher's sober garb should wear,
And walk in learned bower:

And, as he sware, so lived; that not a breath
Might his pure fame besmirch,
And taught by word, and mightier deed, till death,
A saint in Plato's church.

161

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

“Was ich irrte, was ich strebte,
Was ich litt, und was ich lebte,
Sind hier Blumen nur im Strauss;
Und das Alter, wie die Jugend
Und der Fehler wie die Tugend,
Nimmt sich gut in Liedern aus.”—
Gœthe.

171

BE WISE TO-DAY.

O happy they,
Who, wise to-day,
Cut off the bud of sorrow!
Much woe he spares,
Sharp sighs and prayers,
Who is wise before to-morrow.

O foolish mind
Of Adam's kind!
Pride walks with vaunting paces;
When the wrong is done,
Lost Error's son
His limping march retraces.

What skill shall bind
The bleeding mind,

181

When bitter memory grieves it?
We bear a scar
From folly's war,
When only God perceives it.

Could mortal clay
Shake sin away,
Like dress, then all were holy;
But we breathe here
The atmosphere,
And element of folly.

O spirits kind,
On mortals blind
Look with an eye of sorrow!
Unless ye guide,
My prancing pride
Will be wise in vain to-morrow.

217

BRAEMAR BALLADS.

What are the causes of the sad aspect of desolation which so many once densely peopled glens of our dear mountain land now present? The subject has been much discussed, for several years back, by the public prints, with a violence on the one hand, and a studied levity on the other, such as might naturally have been expected from the important social interests which it involves. So far as I have been able hitherto to see my way through the social mists and sophistical entanglements of this question, the following points seem clear:—

(1.) The laws of this country, which govern the tenure of land, having been made by the proprietors of the soil, with a view mainly to their own interest, press in many ways unequally upon the tillers of the soil, and prevent the growth of a free, manly, and independent peasantry.

(2.) In any case of collision of interests between the legal proprietors, and the actual occupants of the soil, the latter are certain to be overwhelmed; having, in fact, the whole weight, not only of hereditary law and custom, but of aristocratic influence and legal machinery against them.

(3.) For this unequal pressure of aristocratic predominance against peasant-rights in the rural districts, the political constitution of our Parliament provides no remedy; the men who represent the peasantry in the House of Commons being, in fact, the very persons against whose oppressive predominance an appeal is to be made.

(4.) This unequal pressure necessarily operates with more glaring iniquity in those remote Highland districts, where the conduct of selfish and unfeeling proprietors is at a safe distance from the notice of the public eye, and the comments of the public press.

(5.) In the towns many persons are so connected with the aristocracy, by a thousand ties of dependence, a habit of unmanly sycophancy, and a sort of reverential association, that they are only too willing to shut their eyes to any offences against the natural rights of the peasantry, which the privileged classes, under the sanction of law and custom, may commit.

(6.) With regard to the special point of depopulation, the antisocial and essentially selfish maxim, that a MAN MAY DO WHAT HE PLEASES WITH HIS OWN (a lamentable misapplication of an important evangelic text), bringing as it does the unchastened idea of individual liberty, the pet maxim of Englishmen, to a climax, supplies nourishment to the extravagant notions of proprietors with regard to their absolute right in the soil, in disregard of every consideration of social policy, public order, and human feeling.

(7.) The proprietors of land, in fact, have never been taught the important maxim, that the ownership of the soil has its DUTIES as well as its RIGHTS. They have a very clear conception of their patrimonial interest in the soil; but very dim notions of their moral position as fosterers of local prosperity, and protectors of the provincial population.

(8.) The accumulation of immense tracts of country in the hands of individual proprietors, artificially forced by unlimited primogeniture and entail laws, tends to remove the proprietor to a remote distance from all connection with the occupants of the soil. Absentee proprietors, between whom and their tenants no kindly human tie exists, are multiplied; small resident proprietors are absorbed by unwieldy non-residents; property is managed in large masses by lawyers and factors, who are apt to use the land principally with a view to their own convenience, and the more easy collection of rents; and generally the whole MORAL relation between landlord and tenant is destroyed, while cold, unfeeling, selfish LEGALITY alone remains.

(9.) The utter disregard of proprietors for the population of the districts over which they preside, is shown most glaringly in the practical operation of the Game-laws. These are Acts of Parliament, creating artificially, in favour of landowners, a right in wild beasts—a right contrary to nature, and to the Roman law; and they are now used by the aristocracy undisguisedly for the purpose of turning whole districts of country into solitudes, peopled only by the birds of the air, and the deer of the mountain, to the systematic disregard, and even, in some cases, the violent and inhuman ejection of the native population of the country.

(10.) Cumulatively with these aristocratic abuses, are found acting false notions of a meagre political economy, and false principles of conduct, generated by that inordinate love of money, and respect for merely material wealth, which naturally arises in a commercial country, and is, in fact, at the present moment, perhaps the most perilous and most besetting sin of the nation. The one-eyed contemplation of the mere material mass of “production,” without the slightest regard to the moral character of producers and consumers, and the moral relations that ought to exist between all classes of a well-constituted society, necessarily produces a mania for large farms, leaving out of view the moral character of the rustic population—sacrificing the peasantry, in fact, at the shrine of Mammon, and teaching landlords to consider their consciences as clear before man and God, when they have fixed their eye only on the one unsanctified consideration of raising their rents.

These are my present views of this most important social question. If any person can prove to me that I am labouring under a delusion as to these points, I shall feel much obliged to him. I have not the slightest desire to believe any one of these things, if they have no foundation in the actual condition of British Society. Meanwhile, as a man and as a Scotsman, I cannot refuse to drop a tear of sympathy for the weaker and the suffering party; and shall esteem it only an honour, if stony lawyers and economists shall, for the indulgence of this my humour, baptize me a “sentimentalist” and “a dreamer.” My heart is not made of granite; and I pray God that I may never be so far left to my own devices, as to be capable of intruding into the sanctuary of human suffering with the cold stare of loveless science, or the shallow frivolity of an unfeeling wit.

THE LORDS OF THE GLEN.

I

O fair is the land, my own mountain land,
Fit nurse for the brave and the free,
Where the fresh breezes blow o'er the heath's purple glow,
And the clear torrent gushes with glee!
But woe's me, woe! what dole and sorrow
From this lovely land I borrow,
When I roam, where the stump of a stricken ash tree
Shows the spot, where the home of the cottar should be,

218

And the cold rain drips, and the cold wind moans
O'er the tumbled heaps of old grey stones,
Where once a fire blazed free.
For a blight has come down on the land of the mountain,
The storm-nurtured pine, and the clear-gushing fountain,
And the chieftains are gone, the kind lords of the glen,
In the land that once swarmed with the brave Highlandmen!

II

O fair is the land my own mountain land,
Fit nurse for the brave and the free,
Where the strong waterfall scoops the grey granite wall,
'Neath the roots of the old pine tree!
But woe's me, woe! what dole and sorrow
From this lovely land I borrow,
When the long and houseless glen I see,
Where only the deer to range is free,
And I think on the pride of the dwindled clan,

219

And the homesick heart of the brave Highlandman,
Far-tost on the billowy sea.
For a blight has come down on the land of the mountain,
The storm-nurtured pine, and the clear-gushing fountain,
And the stalkers of deer keep their scouts in the glen,
That once swarmed with the high-hearted brave Highlandmen!

III

O fair is the land, my own mountain land,
Fit nurse for the brave and the free,
Where the young river leaps down the sheer ledge, and sweeps
With a full-flooded force to the sea!
But woe is me! what dole and sorrow
From this lovely land I borrow,
When I think on the men that should father the clan,
But who bartered the rights of the brave Highlandman

220

To the lordlings, that live for the pleasure to kill
The stag that roams free o'er the tenantless hill:
What care they for the brave Highlandman?
For a blight has come down on the land of the mountain,
The storm-nurtured pine, and the clear-gushing fountain,
And vendors of game are the lords of the glen,
Who rule o'er the fair mountain land without men!

221

A SONG OF LOCH CANDER.

This, to my taste, almost perfect specimen of a small secluded Highland loch, is situated at the head of Glen Callater, about three miles above the spot whence the ascent is generally made to Loch-na-Gar.

Round the rim of dark Loch Cander,
Rock-fenced from every gale,
An old and plaided man did wander,
And thus he poured his wail.
O lonely, lonely dark Loch Cander,
More lonely none may be;
But lonely to my grave I wander,
Most like on Earth to thee!
O lonely, lonely loch!

O lonely, lonely dark Loch Cander,
When I was young and free,
Full many a lusty friend did wander
Round thy sharp rim with me!

222

But o'er the glen there swept a storm,
And none to stand was free;
The strongest held the one big farm,
The rest sailed o'er the sea.
O lonely, lonely loch!

O lonely, lonely dark Loch Cander,
More lonely shalt thou be,
When even the sheep with lambkins tender
Thy crags no more shall see!
More few shall be true Highlandmen;
And soon the deer shall wander,
Sole tenant of the trackless glen,
In lonely dark Loch Cander.
O lonely, lonely loch!

223

THE COTTAR'S FATE.

Of purple hills let poets prate,
The lone and rocky grandeur;
For me this dwindled people's fate
Makes dim the mountain's splendour.
Let tourists climb high Loch-na-Gar,
And muse on Byron's rhymes;
I wander through the broad Braemar,
And weep the good old times.
O waly, waly woe!

Let painters limn the bleakest spot,
The thunder-blasted pines;
To me upon the poor man's cot
The Sun most cheerly shines.

224

O where be they, whom once I knew
The strong-limbed peasant men?
I strain my sight in vain for you;
You're vanished from the glen!
O waly, waly woe!

I hear the gun upon the hill,
I hear the wild bees' hum,
I hear the stream and dashing rill:
All else is dead and dumb!
And o'er the ruined cottar's house,
Once bright with Highland cheer,
A London brewer shoots the grouse,
A lordling stalks the deer.
O waly, waly woe!

O Albin, Albin, thou art lost,
When all thy strong-limbed men
The broad Atlantic wave have crossed,
And houseless left the glen.
A state may thrive without a king,
A church may priestless stand;
But who shall strength and glory bring,
When men shall fail the land?
O waly, waly woe!

225

What were your sins, ye simple men,
That, banished from your home,
Ye left to the deer your father's glen,
And ploughed the salt sea foam?
Your fault was this, that ye were meek,
And dumbly took the wrong;
While law, which still should shield the weak,
Gave spurs to help the strong.
O waly, waly woe!

The nation and the Parliament,
If you they named at all,
With bags of windy babblement,
Made answer to your call.
Landlord and lawyer well agreed
Their violent work to do;
They plucked the cottar like a weed;
The burgher scarcely knew.
O waly, waly woe!

And while in Cluny's grassy glen,
And lone Glen Tilt I wander,
I hear the cries of injured men,
And on their wrongs I ponder.

226

And in my heart I fear the rod
Of righteous indignation,
Whose vengeance soon shall smite from God
This harsh and haughty nation.
O waly, waly woe!

227

THE BRAES OF MAR.

Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From you my feet must travel far,
Thou high-peaked steep-cliffed Loch-na-Gar,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
Thou lone green glen where I was born,
Where free I strayed in life's bright morn,
From thee my heart is rudely torn,
And I shall see thee never!

The braes of Mar with heather glow,
The healthful breezes o'er them blow,
The gushing torrents from them flow,
That swell the rolling river.
Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,
On banks of clear swift-rushing Dee,
My widowed eyne no more shall see
Your birchen bowers for ever!

240

Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui,
Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,
Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
In you the rich may stalk the deer,
Thou'lt know the tread of prince and peer,
But O! the poor man's heart is drear,
To part from you, for ever!

May God forgive our haughty lords,
For whom our fathers drew their swords!
No tear for us their pride affords,
No bond of love they sever.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From bleak Ben A'on to Loch-na-Gar,
The friendless poor is banished far,
From your green glens for ever!

241

THE RIVER SIDE.

(Lines written at Banchory Ternan, Dee-side.)

Fevered by passion, by the spur
Of eager purpose goaded on,
Driven, like a steam-car, through the stir
Of all things, with a pause for none;
O come not here,
To the river's side,
With thy passion and thy pride,
To the amber stream both swift and clear!
Where, by the green bank, hollow-roaring
The many-swirling tide is pouring
Its waters broad and free,
There is a music—O how sweet!
But not for thee.

242

But thou by gracious love subdued,
From the keen hour's still-vexed annoy
To turn, and woo in solitude
Each gentlest thought, each simplest joy;
O come thou here
To the river's side;
Through brake and bush I will thee guide
To the amber stream both swift and clear!
Where leafy summer richly dresses
The lady birch with feathery tresses,
Or by the alder tree,
'Neath whose coiled root the old trout dwells,
Come sit with me.

Or thou by pain and sorrow bowed,
Whom now, with lightened heart and head,
The gracious God who smites the proud
Lifts from the low and languid bed;
O come thou here
To the river's side!
O'er crag and scaur I will thee guide,
To the amber stream both swift and clear.
Come with me, nor fear the scramble,
Through briar, rasp and sprawling bramble:

243

There's health in the thorny strife;
Breathe free, and know how sweet a thing
Is simple life.

Sit by the stream, and look and see
The darting minnow in the pool;
And lave thy feet i' the pure lymph, free
From freakish fashion's fretful rule;
So sit thou here
By the river side,
The tuneful roar o' the amber tide
Drinking with gently ravished ear;
While mild the winged odours move thee,
From the fragrant birchen bower above thee;
And, like a child, think then,
How sweet a thing is life, how good
Is God to men!

Then lift thine eye to whence it flows,
'Neath yon far mountain's sweeping line,
Where the blue prospect dimly shows
Tall armies of the serried pine.
Then trace its thread,
Clear silvery seen,

244

Far-fringed with plumes of summer green,
The fretted flood's keen-twinkling bed;
And feast thine eyes on the various splendour,
Of forest and field in wavy grandeur,
And waters deeply swirled;
And think how fair a thing to see
Is God's fair world!

245

THE REVIVALIST.

And thou art he!—I wish thee joy,
Of recent Time's arrivals
Not the least strange, the godly boy,
The preacher of Revivals!

Thou hast made uproar great, I learn,
In this good town appearing;
Filled all our maids with soul-concern,
And all our men with sneering.

I'll judge thee justly, trust me, youth;
Fame, like a broken mirror,
With twenty fragments of a truth,
Gives twenty shapes of error.

249

I find thee modest, meek, and mild,
With smooth and boyish braid
Thy hair; as simple as a child,
As gentle as a maid,

But pensive, sad, and inly-grieved;
Else that slow utterance why,
That each fair thought, howe'er conceived,
Must still be born a sigh?

But even thou art not all night,
Thy soul, too, has its gleaming;
Mark! now it flickers with fair light,
Now with red fire 'tis streaming;

Now like sea-murmurs on the shore,
Soft ripple on the pebble;
Now like the many-surging roar
That furious scales the treble;

A wind-waked stream of gospel notes,
Which systematic ears,
Because for them too wild it floats,
Will listen to with sneers.

250

But God, who nothing does in vain,
And gives to each his part,
Oft compensates the feebler brain
By stronger-pulsing heart.

Thus He to thee gave strong desires,
Emotion deep, not clear,
The power to wake the fusing fires,
And urge the softening tear.

And if, belike, scant wisdom serves,
Nor needs a potent planet,
To witch convulsions from the nerves
Of Jeanie or of Janet,

Is it not better thus to hear
The Word, and wildly feel it,
Than to receive it in thine ear,
And in thy heart congeal it?

And were the preacher very fool,
A man of basest note;
'Tis well, lest men confound the tool
With the high power that wrought.

251

This further mark: whate'er he speaks
Is simplest and sincerest,
As if for each lost soul he seeks
His own heart's blood the dearest

He'd wring. Who rate him false mean this,
That they, cased in his crust,
To weep like tears would act amiss,
Their hearts being dry as dust.

Ye Doctors learn'd, compact, and square,
Of decent reasons full,
This boy is rich where ye are bare,
And quick where ye are dull.

Let him alone!—with his rude creed,
And logic loose arrayed;
He is a workman, hath sown seed
Where ye ne'er moved a spade.

Enough with one gift to be true:
The poise of all the powers
Belongs to few, and very few,
In such a world as ours.

252

257

HIGHLAND SONNETS.

HIGHLAND TOURISTS.

A pleasant life is yours, ye rambling men!
O'er field and fell, mountain and moor well driven,
Ye feast your eyes on a bright shifting heaven
Of varied view, while to each farthest glen
Of the once distant hills the steam-car flies.
All things are good: and of your light employ,
Birds of the summer wing, I wish you joy!
Wise is the man who feeds discerning eyes.
But me—my pleasure is much dashed with pain,
When o'er the lonesome hills lonesome I wander,
And seek for signs of human life in vain,
And on the clansman's faded glory ponder.
Stranger, forgive my tear; on this fair shore
Scotsmen are few; and soon Scotland shall be no more!

259

LOCH ERICHT.

The lake is smooth, the air is soft and still;
The water shines with a broad lambent gleam;
And the white cloud sleeps on the hoary hill,
With the mild glory of a sainted dream.
From the steep crag the distant bleatings come
Of sheep far-straggling o'er the turfy way,
And the harsh torrent, softened to a hum,
Gives murmurous music from the stony brae.
If here on earth a heaven may be, thou hast
Heaven here to-day; now give thy soul repose.
To-morrow, down this glen the ruffian blast
May sweep, while high the enchafed billow throws
Its surly might, and smites the sounding shore,
And the swollen rills rush down with thunderous roar!

262

AT LOCH ERICHT.

O heavens! a lovelier day ne'er shone upon
The gleaming beauty of the long-drawn flood!
Come hither, if Scotland boasts a loyal son,
And nurse the holy patriotic mood!
These crags that sink precipitous to the waves,
These floods that gush down the sheer-breasted hill,
They were not made to train soft fashion's slaves,
And to nice modes to trim the pliant will.
A strong rude heart once burned in Scottish men,
And Scotland shewed her stamp upon her sons;
The mountain-nursling all might surely ken;
But now through all one English smoothness runs;
Men cut their manners, as their clothes, by rule,
But none grows strong in rugged Nature's school.

264

SABBATH-DAY AT BRAEMAR.

'Tis Sabbath. All the village life is still;
The cold raw mists are fled; the sky is pure;
Fresh blows the West wind from the mountain moor,
And light-winged shadows sweep the purple hill.
O Thou, who in the seasons dost fulfil
Thy glory, changing still, and still the same,
To an accordant beauty gently frame
My soul this day, tuned to thy perfect will!
Wisely they use thy gifts who use the hour,
And, when the sun shines, pile the winnowed hay;
Nor less in shapely shrine, or birchen bower,
Who nurse pure thoughts on God's pure Sabbath-day.
Whoso hath tears to weep of godly sorrow,
Bid them flow now! A frost may come to-morrow.

265

ODE TO LIBERTY.

Freedom, thou co-eternal might with Love,
Great birthright of all breathing things that be,
The bird's light wing thy inspirations move,
And the stern thinker's thought is shaped by thee.
Thou in the sailing cloud,
Thou in the laughter loud
Of ocean's bright wave dost supremely reign;
The grey hills know thy sovereignty; and all
The undulant fulness of the green-leaved plain;
And heaving nations own thy heart-constraining call.

Peoples are strong by thee. Old Greece and Rome
Waxed mighty, when thy waxing power they knew;
Thy virtue fenced the Sabine farmer's home,
And to a king the ploughman-consul grew.

276

From each Ægean isle
Thy broad benignant smile
Beamed forth; and lo! all radiant with thy fire,
Th blind old Chian leads the minstrel band;
A thousand bards catch rapture from one sire,
And tuneful sages teach the fine-eared Grecian land!

Thy home is in the soul. On Hebrew hills,
Alone communing with his fervid thought,
The shepherd knew thee, brooding o'er the ills
That godless kings to his dear country brought.
God's Spirit moved him then
To walk forth amongst men,
And through the crowds his burning message send.
Through streets, through halls, his fearless way he took;
People and priest before his preaching bend,
And purple monarchs own the shaggy seer's rebuke.

Thee knew the Saxon monk in lonely cell,
What time on dusty shelf remote he found
The Book; and from his eyes thick darkness fell,
Like scales. As one new-born he looked around.

277

O then, nor Prince nor Pope,
Nor worldly fear or hope,
Might bribe his lips; but with free voice he spake.
Scorning the smooth damnation of a lie:
Old Error shrinks; world-famous falsehoods quake.
And the strong Kaiser fears his bright truth-gleaming eye.

Right hand of God, victorious Freedom! who
Are they that dare, where thou dost loose, to bind?
The dark-stoled priests, the sharp suspicious erew.
The jealous warders of the God-stirred mind.
These are thy foes; and thou
With them dost struggle now
In terrible agony, where old Tiber rolls
His tide, with many a murtherous memory red,
And hoary curses from the prisoned souls
Of thousands, cry to God to judge the injured dead.

These be thy foes; and whoso leagued with them.
Stopping their ears to fettered nature's moan,
Have glued with blood their forceful diadem,
And marched through murder to a lawless throne:
He who doth use foul sway
O'er Naples azure bay;

278

And he—his baseness with his years increased—
Where the fat Danube feeds the polished slave,
Who sold his empire's charter to a priest,
And hired the Russ with gold to dig free Hungary's grave.

Long hath grim Tyranny reigned; but we will wait.
A thousand years with God are as one day:
And the slow-brewing storm of righteous fate
Will burst, like deluge, from the long delay.
The days and years that roll
Obey thy sure control,
Almighty; and, like fruitful sowers, we
Cast the small seed beneath the lowly clod;
From the hard shell thy touch the germ makes free;
And all the field is quick with verdurous life from God.

287

MAHOMET.

The legend of Mahomet in the cave of Thor, saved from the pursuit of his enemy by the providential web woven by a spider over the entrance to his retreat, will be found in the introduction to Sale's Koran. In connection with this striking occurrence in the life of the great Arabian prophet, I have endeavoured to realize Mahomet's notion of his own mission, and method of procedure, giving him credit for a certain fundamental earnestness and honesty of prophetic fervour; which charitable supposition, I hope, is not altogether remote from orthodoxy.

“Abubeker, Abubeker,
Clear thy looks, the worst is o'er!”
Thus, from Mecca fled, the prophet
In the darksome cave of Thor,
Spake to his friend—“Good Abubeker,
Danger hath its darts, but they
Only where great Allah pointeth
Strike; where he points not, they stray.
The foe like drifting storm pursues us,
But, like clouds before the wind,
Allah shapes each mortal purpose,
To his changeless will inclined.
Where he clouds the sense, the wisest
Flounder with a vagrant mind;
Where he blocks the way, the sharpest
To the clearest road are blind.

288

Abubeker, thou hast known me
In my travail; thou did'st see
When in Mecca's cave the Eternal
Oped his secret thought to me.
Gold I had, but I despised it;
Birth, and rank, and state, and all
The glittering pride of outward grandeur
I did leave at Allah's call.
'Neath the azure tent sublimely
Spread before God's watchful eye,
In the desert I have pondered
On deep truths that may not die.
In the lonely midnight musing,
Breezy voices came to me,
Whispering strange, with power prophetic,
Of great things that yet shall be.
Allah stirs the hearts of mortals,
In my life there lives a charm;
Till God's work be done, God's prophet
Brooks no wrong from human arm.
Five times to the labouring world
Hath the Eternal voiced his will;
Shall He fail, when need is greatest,
To direct the wanderer still?

289

First to Adam in the garden,
When with stranger-eye he viewed
The bursting world, and, mutely gazing,
Feared to spell its magnitude;
Then to Noah, when the waters
Seized the hills with surges dark,
And the sainted patriarch floated
Safely in the chartered ark;
Then to Abraham, when millions
Brutish-minded kissed the sod
To idols dumb, at leafy Mamre
Worshipping the one true God;
Then to Moses, wisely fencing
The untutored heart with awe,
From the smoking mountain pealing
Forth the thunders of the law;
Then to Jesus, veiling terror
With the free redundant grace,
Preaching pardon to the guilty,
Bearing burdens with the base.
Last of all, to me, Mohammed,
Allah spake—my work, to join
Jew and Arab, Greek and Roman,
In one simple faith divine.

290

Strong is truth by mortals spoken,
Stronger far is Allah's word;
But, to make my mission surer,
God hath girt me with the sword.
Gentle words stir not the laggard,
Wise rebukes touch not the fool;
They shall know their spirit's master,
Flogged like children in the school.”
Thus the prophet, calm assurance
Breathing in the doubtful ear,
When the tramp of hurrying horsemen
Told the dreaded foe was near.
Quailed Abubeker; nigh and nigher,
Like the travelling thunder's roar,
The hot pursuit, with hoofs of fire,
Galloped to the cave of Thor.
“Surely here the traitor skulketh!”
One did cry. “Nay, brother, nay!”
Cried another; “no disturbing
Foot hath stirred the sand this way.
Haste we, lest his flight deceive us,
In this cave no man hath been;
Lo! untouched the flimsy cobweb
Hangs before it, like a screen!”

291

On they hied with blinded hurry,
Panting o'er the hot-parched ground;
Whoso run to cheat the Highest
With vain speed themselves confound.
“Said I not, good Abubeker?”
Quoth the prophet: “Now adore
Mighty Allah; he hath led them
Past the sheltering cave of Thor!”

292

NAPOLEON.

(On the day after the Battle of Leipzig, October 18, 1813.)

Away, away with hurrying tread,
Close-hounded by the foe,
A vengeful heaven above thy head,
A yawning hell below!
Thy star is set; the surging tide
Shrinks back, that proudly bore thee;
Down reels the fabric of thy pride,
And the wave is surging o'er thee!
Away!—with sharp and hissing sound
The bullets of the foe
Fret the thick air; and from the ground
The eager lances grow.
Nor in thine ear the Furies sleep,
But yell their burden strange:
“Who soweth fear shall hatred reap,
And Wrong shall breed revenge!”

293

Here, where the sainted hero fell,
On Lützen's storied plain,
Pause o'er thy fate, and count it well;
Much loss is all thy gain.
The Persian fool that lashed the wave,
Old Ocean's neck to bind,
That fool wert thou, that wouldst enslave
With fleshly force the mind.
In vain thy cannon's conquering yell
Even here did lately sound;
The Teuton heart not vanquished fell,
Thou didst but claim the ground.
And now, the impatient flood rolls back,
A multitudinous sea,
And wave on wave roars o'er thy track,
“The nations shall be free!”

Look not for friends; all, all shall fail!
Thou never had'st a friend,
Nor car'dst to have. Nay, do not rail!
Shall loving trains attend
The loveless in his fall? shall he
Who bartered souls like land

294

By wholesale—he whose oaths were free
As a whore's smiles—demand
The loyal heart-beat? Let him reap
What fruit himself did sow.
No faithful friend for him shall weep,
No honest tears shall flow;
The wife, that lent her venal hand,
Shall haste back to her own,
And he like a blasted tree shall stand
On a barren heath alone.

Hark! from vexed Leipzig's sulphurous wall
A fearful cry ascends;
In hideous rout, wild hurrying out,
The shattered column wends.
And the Teut's war-cry is Hermann's name,
Drowning the cannon's roar,
And bids thee weep thy legions' shame,
As Cæar did before.
“The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!”
The echo rolls more nigh;
“Our German Rhine shall ne'er be thine,
Thou stranger Celt!” they cry.

295

The Prussian, from Montmartre's hill,
Shall hold proud Paris in awe;
And, from the heights of Romainville,
The Cossack cry Hurrah!

Ah, woe is me! where now be they,
Thy feats of sounding glory,
War linked to war in grim array,
Long lines of crimson story:
Land yoked to land to pave thy path,
Limb rudely wrenched from limb,
Great kings unmade to soothe thy wrath,
And made to please thy whim?
Gone like what shapes the light cloud frames
Floating, fantastic wholly;
Marengo, Jena, Wagram, names
To eternize thy folly!
Ceased are thy terrible thunder fits,
Emptied thy iron quiver,
And the Sun that shone on Austerlitz
Shall shine no more for ever.

Go! from the scene that mocks thee, go!
And, on some lonely spot,

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Recount the story of thy woe
To things that know thee not.
We know thee well, too well; ah, heaven!
That such a sweet-wreathed smile,
But to deceive, should have been given,
Such goodness, but for guile!
Go! on some lonely rock relate
Thy tale to the sounding billow,
And spell to men thy freakish fate
Beneath the weeping willow:—
“My life hath been a fevered race,
The phantom Fame pursuing;
False Fortune winged the eager chase,
And Pride was my undoing.”

297

GERMAN SONNETS.

WEIMAR.

Thou little Weimar, in the Saxon land,
All hail! With little Palestine and Greece
Well sistered, thou dost use a wide command,
And pile thy thoughtful trophies, where fair Peace
Her bloodless victories tells. A common place
And common streets I see; but where we stand
The gods once walked; and now an humble race
Lives on the memory of that Titan band.
Such the high function of God's elect men,
To fill time with their presence, and inspire
The many with strong will, and loftier ken,
And elevate our lives with a faith higher
Than our poor selves. O heavenly Father, give
This faith to me! By this the righteous live.

298

“ONE THING IS NEEDFUL.”

(On hearing a sermon on this text preached in the Domkirche, Berlin.)

“One thing is needful.” What then?—to believe
A file of dogmas made compact with curses,
And, with soft bill obedient, to receive
Spoon-meat well drugged by sacerdotal nurses?
This priests and most religious kings delight
To preach, who love to count their subject souls
As captains levy soldiers for the fight,
And with the unvalued rabble swell their rolls.
But thou thy portion with the thoughtful few
Deep-searching choose; nor with strange dogmas cram
The unwilling brain, but thine own path pursue
With faithful foot, nor fear, when Doctors damn
Thy freedom. More than creeds, both old and new,
Is this—To God and to thyself be true.

299

BERLIN.

Statues on statues piled, and in the hand
Of each memorial man a soldier's sword!
Fit emblem of a tame and subject land,
Mustered and marked by a drill-serjeant-lord.
And these long lines of formal streets, that go
In rank and file, by a great captain's skill
Were marched into this cold and stately show,
Where public order palsies private will.
Order is strong; strong law the stars commands,
But birds by wings, and thought by freedom lives;
The crystalled stone compact and four-square stands,
But man by surging self-born impulse strives.
Much have ye done, lords of exact Berlin,
But one thing fails—the soul to your machine!

300

A HINT TO ENGLAND.

England is free; pray God she still may know
What Freedom means, and nurse the gift divine.
Athens was free, and Rome; but their worst foe
In their own breast they nursed; and now they pine
With the long slavery of two thousand years.
Freedom is godlike; but the gods do bind
Themselves with laws that rule the rolling spheres;
So, Briton, freely bend thy free-born mind
To the strong rule of Right. Wild beasts are free;
Free the wild rack that scours the scowling skies;
Man's higher freedom stands by God's decree,
To sink by folly, or by wisdom rise.
Would'st thou sail smooth, when lawless tempests bray,
Choose Law thy pilot, and thy choice obey.

301

ORTHODOXY ON THE THRONE.

“The king believes, and all the people must
Believe with him;” —so thought the Stuart, so
That mad Antiochus, who kicked i' the dust
The solemn service, and the sacred show
Of the old Hebrew Temple. Thrice ten years,
To crush free thought, did stolid Austria fight,
And bathed the land in blood, and fire, and tears,
And with harsh gripe choked the fresh-bursting light
In countless souls. Now men are nice and tame,
And blood looks ugly; but who fears to kill
Can starve; and kingcraft, with a pious fame,
Cuts creeds at leisure, and with churchly drill
Trains subject souls. O when will princes know
That men are more than tools, and creeds from God must grow?

302

THE STATUE OF ALBERT DÜRER AT NÜRNBERG.

Solid and square doth master Albert stand,
An air of hardy well-proved thought he wears,
As one that never flinched; and in his hand
The cunning tools of his high art he bears.
From thy grave face severe instructions come,
The peace that's born of well-fought fights is thine;
Before thy look frivolity is dumb,
And each true workman feels his craft divine.
First-born of Jove, immortal Toil! by thee
This city rose, by thee, so quaintly fair,
It stands, with well-hewn stone in each degree,
Turret, and spire, and carved gable rare.
Toil shaped the worlds; and on Earth's fruitful sod
Man works, a fellow-labourer with God.

303

THE STATUE OF THE VIRGIN MARY IN THE MARKET PLACE, MUNICH.

The people stream, the cars come rattling by,
The hum of life swells loud; and yet before
This pillared idol these mute worshippers pour
Their prayers in reverent low-hushed piety.
Art thou a Presbyterian strict, thy head
To a clear creed well schooled? beware to damn
Their ignorant worship; to the great I am
Crude notions from man's pious fancy bred
Stint not His liberal grace. A stammering prayer,
Lisped from unlettered lips, will sooner climb
Into God's ear than sounding speech sublime,
Stilted with learning, and with reasons fair
Well-propped. Invoked as Allah, Mary, Jove,
He hears in Heaven, whose one true name is Love.

304

HIGH MASS IN THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.

O heavens! so fair a fane, and such a crew
Of swine-faced mummers, fleshy, fat, and red,
Tricked out in antic robes of every hue,
And in a round of graceless movements led,
And this they call the Mass!—Thank Heaven that I
Was born a Protestant, and so released
From spell and charm, and strange soul-slavery
Of book and bell and candle, picture and priest!
O mighty God, how long shall millions breathe,
Age after age, this priest-infected air,
And to the pining centuries bequeathe
The deep heart-plague to which themselves were heir?
Thou knowest. Above all human hopes and fears
He reigns, who moves the churches and the spheres.

305

FAREWELL TO THE RHINE.

(Lines written at Bonn.)

Fare thee well, thou regal river, proudly-rolling German Rhine,
Sung in many a minstrel's ballad, praised in many a poet's line!
Thou from me too claim'st a stanza; ere thy oft-trod banks I leave,
Blithely, though with thread the slenderest, I the grateful rhyme will weave;
Many a native hymn thou hearest, many a nice and subtle tone,
Yet receive my stranger lispings, strange, but more than half thine own.

306

Fare thee well! but not in sorrow; while the sun thy vineyards cheers,
I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears;
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer bright,
In the trellis'd vine-clad arbour I will hold a feast to-night.
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows, like the juice that brims the bowl:
Let the wife who loves her husband, with her eyes of gracious blue,
Give the guests a fair reception—serve them with a tendance true;
With bright wine, bright thoughts be mated; and if creeping tears must be,
Let them creep unseen to-morrow, Rhine, when I am far from thee!

Lo! where speeds the gallant steamer, prankt with flags of coloured pride,
With strong heart of iron, panting stoutly up the swirling tide;

307

While from fife, and flute, and drum, the merry music bravely floats,
And afar the frequent cannon rolls his many-pealing notes;
And as thick as flowers in June, or armies of the ruddy pine,
Crown the deck the festive sailors of the broad and German Rhine.
“Der Rhein! Der Rhein!” I know the song, the jovial singers too I know,—
'Tis a troop of roving Burschen, and to Heisterbach they go;
There beneath the seven hills' shadow, and the cloister'd ruin grey,
Far from dusty books and paper, they will spend the sunny day;
There will bind their glittering caps with oaken wreaths fresh from the trees,
And around the rustic table sit, as brothers sit, at ease;
Hand in hand will sit and laugh, and drain the glass with social speed,
Crowned with purple Asmannshausen, drugged with many a fragrant weed;
While from broad and open bosom, with a rude and reinless glee,

308

Sounds the jocund-hearted pæan,—Live the Bursch! the Bursch is free!
Thus they through the leafy summer, when their weekly work is o'er,
Make the wooded hamlets echo with strong music's stirring roar,
From young life's high-brimming fulness—while the hills that bear the vine
Brew their juice in prescient plenty for the Burschen of the Rhine.

Oft at eve, when we were sated with the various feast of sight,
Looking through our leafy trellis on the hues of loveliest light,
Poured on the empurpled mountains by the gently westering sun;
When at length the blazing god, his feats of brilliant duty done,
Veiled his head, and Güdinghofen's gilded woods again were grey;
When the various hum was hushed that stirred the busy-striving day,
And the air was still and breezeless, and the moon with fresh-horned beam

309

Threw aslant a shimmering brightness o'er the scarcely sounding stream;
We with ear not idly pleased would rise to catch the mellow note
Softly o'er the waters wandering from the home-returning boat;
And we saw the festive brothers, sobered by the evening hour,
Shoreward drifted by the river's deep and gently-rolling power;
And our ear imbibed sweet concord, and our hearts grew young again,
And we knew the deep devotion of that solemn social strain.
And we loved the Bursch who mingles truth and friendship with the wine,
While his floods of deep song echo o'er the broad and murmuring Rhine.

Fare thee well, thou people-bearing, joy-resounding, ample flood,
Mighty now, but mightier then, when lusty Europe's infant blood
Pulsed around thee; when thy Kaisers, titled with the grace of Rome,

310

With a holy sanction issued from hoar Aquisgranum's dome,
And with kingly preparation, where the Alps frostbelted frown,
Marched with German oak to wreathe the fruitful Lombard's iron crown.

Then the stream of wealth adown thee freely floated; then the fire
Of a rude but hot devotion piled strong tower, and fretted spire,
Thick as oaks within the forest, where thy priestly cities rose.
Weaker now, and faint and small, the sacerdotal ardour glows
Round the broad Rhine's unchurched billows; but an echo still remains,
And a fond life stiffly lingers, in the old faith's ghostly veins.
Ample rags of decoration, scutcheons of the meagre dead,
By thy banks, thou Christian river, still, from week to week, are spread.
Flags and consecrated banners wave around thee; I have seen

311

Strewn with flowers thy streets, and marching in the gay sun's noonday sheen
Lines of linen-vested maidens, lines of sober matrons grey,
Lines of feeble-footed fathers, priests in motley grim array;
I have seen the bright cross glitter in the summer's cloudless air,
While the old brown beads were counted to the drowsy-mutter'd prayer;
I have seen the frequent beggar press his tatters in the mud,
For the bread that is the body, and the wine that is the blood,
(So they deem in pious stupor), of the Lord who walked on earth.
Such thy signs of life, thou strangely-gibbering imp of Roman birth,
Old, but lusty in thy dotage, on the banks of German Rhine:
Though thy rule I may not own it, and thy creed be far from mine,
I have loved to hear thy litany o'er the swelling waters float,

312

Gently chaunted from the crowded, gaily-garnished pilgrim-boat;
I have felt the heart within me strangely stirred; and, half believer,
For a moment wished that Reason on her throne might prove deceiver.
Live, while God permits thy living, on the banks of German Rhine,
Fond old faith!—thou canst not live but by some spark of power divine;
And while man, who darkly gropes, and fretful feels, hath need of thee,
Soothe his ear with chiming creeds, and fear no jarring taunt from me.

Fare ye well, ye broad-browed thinkers! pride of Bonn upon the Rhine,
Patient teachers, in the rock of ancient lore that deeply mine;
Men, with whom in soul lives Niebuhr, loving still to glean with them
From huge piles of Roman ruin many a bright and human gem.

313

Oft with you, beneath the rows of thickly-blooming chestnut trees,
I have walked, and seen with wonder how ye flung, with careless ease,
Bales of treasured thought about ye, even as children play with toys.
Strange recluses! we who live 'mid bustling Britain's smoke and noise,
Ill conceive the quiet tenorof your deeply-brooding joys;
How ye sit with studious patience, and with curious travelling eyes
Wander o'er the well-browned folio, where the thoughtful record lies;
Musing in some lonely chamber day by day, and hour by hour,
Dimly there ye sit, and sip the ripest juice from Plato's bower;
Each fair shape that graceful floateth through the merry Grecian clime,
Each religious voice far-echoed through the galleries of time,
There with subtle eye and ear ye watch, and seize the airy booty,

314

And with faithful ken to know the rescued truth is all your duty.
Souls apart! with awe I knew your silent speculative looks,
And the worship that ye practise in the temples of your books;
And I felt the power of knowledge; and I loved to bridge with you
Gulfs of time, till oldest wisdom rose to shake hands with the new;
May the God of truth be with you, still to glean, with pious patience,
Grains of bright forgotten wisdom for the busy-labouring nations;
And, while books shall feed my fancy, may I use the pondered line,
Grateful to the broad-browed thinkers, pride of Bonn upon the Rhine!

Fare ye well, old crags and castles! now with me for ever dwells,
Twined with many a freakish joy, the stately front of Drachenfels.

315

O'er thy viny cliffs we rambled, where the patient peasant toils,
Where the rugged copse scarce shelters from the sun that broadly smiles,
And the fresh green crown is plaited from the German's oaken bower:
Here we wandered, social pilgrims, careless as the sunny hour,
Gay and free, nor touched with horror of the legendary wood,
Harnessed priests and iron knights, and dragons banqueting on blood.
Praise who will the mail-clad epoch, when the princes all were reivers,
Every maundering monk a god, and all who heard him dumb believers;
Me the peaceful present pleases, and the sober rule of law,
Quiet homes, and hearths secure, and creeds redeemed from idiot-awe;
Peopled cities' din; and where then tolled the cloister's languid chime,
Now the hum of frequent voices from each furthest human clime,

316

Every form of various life beneath the crag that bears the vine,
Borne upon the steam-ploughed current of the placid rolling Rhine.

Fare thee well, thou kingly river! while the sun thy vineyards cheers,
I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears.
Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer clear,
In the green and vine-clad arbour spread the goodly German cheer;
Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul,
Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows like the juice that brims the bowl;
With free cheer free thoughts be wedded; high as heaven, deep as hell,
Wide as are the dark blue spaces where the starry tenants dwell.
Let the German hymn, that echoes from the Sound to Adria's Sea,
Ring damnation to the despot, peal salvation to the free!

317

And when I from vine-clad mountains and from sunny woods am far,
On thy breezy steeps, Dunedin, where wild Winter loves to war,
In my memory crag and castle, church and learned hall shall shine
Brightly, with the seven hills glorious of fair Bonn upon the Rhine.

318

LIKING AND LOVING.

Liking is a little boy
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing;
Love's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of Beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.

Liking hovers round and round,
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants light foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it;
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.

321

Liking's ever on the wing,
From new blooms new sweets to bring,
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still;
Love's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to Thee still.

322

LOVE'S REASONS.

Tell me why the forky fire,
Darting dire
From its cloud-home dark profound,
Seeks the ground;
Tell me why the magnet's soul
Finds the pole;
Why the warm-rubb'd amber wings
Stirless things.
Tell me why the pungent power
Of the sour,
Harshly wedding, this mate chooses,
That refuses;
Why the fragrant birch, with grace,
Decks the face

323

Of the bare crag; why the willow
Loves the billow;
Why to-day the gentle West
Fans the breast;
Rudely why the North did bray
Yesterday.
Tell me why thy own self art
What thou art
Now, not Pompey, Cicero,
Long ago;
Why, with eager agile start,
Thy strong heart
Bounds to-day, to-morrow why
Thou must die:
Tell me this, and I will tell
Why I love my lov'd one well.

324

I THINK OF THEE.

I think of thee,
When day's first gleams through the east casement glitter,
When 'neath the eaves the frequent swallows twitter,
With busy glee;
When quiet eve, with crimson curtains mellow,
O'erspreads her couch of soft green-tinted yellow,
I think of thee.

I think of thee,
In noon-tide's heat, when myriad wings, sun-glancing,
O'erlace sweet waters with their woven dancing,
(Life's revelry;)
In dewy night, when the blithe birds are silent,
And earth, I' the ambient blue, sleeps like an island,
I think of thee.

325

I think of thee,
I' the babbling streets, where din with din contendeth.
And the chaste eye sees much that much offendeth
Chaste eye to see;
In the lone glen, where no rude tread may follow,
Plucking the gem-eyed flower from shady hollow.
I think of thee.

I think of thee,
In happy hour when healthy fancy, firing
The pure-toned blood, wings me with high aspiring.
Noble and free;
When I have sinned, and written mine own sentence.
And the foul stain is washed in fair repentance,
I think of thee.

326

TO A CAGED EAGLE.

(Suggested by a Visit to the Zoological Gardens.)

Bird of the far-commanding eye
And wide-spread wing, who will not sigh
Thee cooped and chained to see?
To me my life's my liberty,—
Should it be else to thee?
Ah, no! thy now sunk, sullen eye
Gives silent, eloquent reply,
“He killed who cabined me.”
The pleasure of some lady light,
Or peeping microscopic wight,
Is harshest hell to thee.

Him I denounce who did prepare
Thy bonds: what title he may bear
I reck not; he did sin.

329

If from his stock more than thy share
Thy noble theft did win,
He had the right, by force or snare,
Where thou wert found, to fell thee there;
But so to bar thee in,
To rob the wingful of his wing,
To chain thee here, the mountain king,
I say, it was a SIN!

A monkey in a cage may spring,
A sparrow hop, a linnet sing,
But can an eagle fly?
Or, were more space, with his proud wing
He would disdain to try.
Think'st thou that God made such a thing
For scientific torturing,
Or food of idle eye?
O barren bliss to look upon
The cabineted skeleton
Of fallen majesty!

Trust thou the instinct of thy heart;
Thy wit sees but the smallest part,
When deepest it may pry.

330

Let knowledge be thy daily mart,
Keep aye an open eye;
But still with holy shrinking start
From the strange wisdom of an art
That teaches life to die.
For this nor reason ask nor give,
All living things have right to live,
All flying things to fly.

331

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH.

The Earth is drest in leafy June;
'Mid fleecy banners white
The Sun rides through the azure noon:
But in my heart 'tis night.
The blackbird from the wood doth pour
His mellow-throated troll,
But like the pewit o'er the moor
So wails my desert soul
This heavy day!

Flow freely, tears!—I will not stay
The tide that Nature sends;
These tears ye have(my all to-day)
Whom I have left, my friends.

332

I vowed to bear a manly heart,
And like a rock to stand;
But, oh! 'tis hard in one to part
From friend and fatherland,
As I this day!

Farewell, Dun-Edin's castled seat,
Dear, and thou, dearer still,
Where oft we clomb blithe May to greet.
The lion-crouching hill!
And the high crags, where we did walk
Bewondering the rocks,
And of pent fires wove learned talk,
And terrible earthquake shocks
'Fore Adam's day!

Farewell, green Pentland's pastoral braes.
The rock, the scaur, the glen,
The burn that wimples mazy ways
Sweet through the furzy den!
And many a peak where Boreas snorts,
And I would climb with glee,
Blessing our chain of mountain forts
That make us bold and free,
And strong as they!

333

Farewell, thou beauty-skirted Firth,
With glancing islets spotted;
Farewell, thou land of wealth and mirth,
With busy cities dotted.
Ban thee who will, and stay at home,
The coldest, bleakest, barest;
But force him, Fate, abroad to roam,
He'll bless thee, freshest, fairest,
As I this day!

Farewell, the homes that I have known,
The skies that I have loved,
Each heart that I have called mine own,
Each friend that I have proved!
Farewell; and, if the Heavens be kind,
A better-omened oar
Shall speed me back from scorching Ind,
To my green native shore,
Some future day!

334

THE PATRON OF THE PARISH.

The good little King of Yvetôt
The Muse shall ever cherish;
But with your leave, Messieurs, just so
I'm king in my own parish.
It is a land of little kings
This England; and its glory
Must pale, when pale to limbo wings
The pious, ancient Tory.
Let Chartist and Dissenter rave!
This creed I fondly cherish,
There's none the storm-tost ship can save,
But the Patron of the Parish.

Our parson, in his early day,
Taught my smart boys their letters,

335

And learned, betimes, himself to pay
Due deference to his betters.
He sat so modest, meek, and mum,
While we discussed our claret;
And now he beats the pulpit drum
With decent, sober spirit.
There's danger in a bolting brain;
No youth that's high and airish
A living neat and snug shall gain,
From the Patron of the parish.

The gospel, when it 'gan to stir,
Was on a vulgar plan quite;
But now we've changed the carpenter
Into the gentleman quite.
To meet some twenty in a garret
They once might deem delectable;
But, now with lords and dukes we star it,
The gospel is RESPECTABLE.
The Church no more is scandalized
By scoffers bold and bearish:
God's gospel now is patronized
By the Patron of the parish.

336

When with my wife to church I go,
So flaunting, gay, and garish,
I hear the flattering murmur flow—
“The Patron of the parish!
And the young squire, how spruce, how trim
He graces his majority;
While on his father's broad hat-brim
Sits visibly AUTHORITY!”
Then, in the gallery's velvet front
We sit so gay and garish;
I well may bear the battle's brunt,
The Patron of the Parish!

A jolly, dapper boy, they say,
The purple Pope in Rome is;
But red and ruddy as the May
The Patron in his home is.
Full many a dainty feast from him
The curate and schoolmaster
Enjoy: their shallow souls do brim;
Their slow thoughts travel faster.
For so it is, and so shall be,
The Church I kindly cherish;

337

This goodly arch must have a key—
The Patron of the Parish.

For truth is ONE; and there must be
One Church, with bell and steeple;
One Law must stamp the Liturgy;
One Patron lead the people.
And every true church has one scope
To check all fiery particles
That would rebel against their Pope—
The law-established Articles!
It is, and shall be so, no doubt,
This creed I fondly cherish,
Religion would die out without
The Patron of the Parish!

338

THE SONG OF METRODORUS.

Παντοιην βιοτοιο ταμοις τριβον. ειν αγορη μεν
κυδεα και πινυται πρηξιες: εν δε δομοις
αμπαυμ': εν δ'αγροις Φυσιος χαρις: εν δε θαλασση
κερδος: επι ξεινης, ην μεν εχης τι, κλεος:
ην δ' απορης, μονος οιδας. εχεις γαμον; οικος αριστος
εσσεται: ου γαμεεις; ζης ετ' ελαφροτερον.
τεκνα ποθος. αφροντις απαις βιος: αι νεοτητες
ρωμαλεαι: πολιαι δ' εμπαλιν ευσεβεες.
ουκ αρα των δισσων ενος αιρεσις, η το γενεσθαι
μηδεποτ', η το θανειν. παντα γαρ εσθλα βιω.

Metrodorus was a rare old blade,
His wine he drank, his prayers he said,
And did his duty duly;
But with grave affairs of Church and State
He never fretted his smooth pate,
For he said, and he said full truly,

345

If a man about and about will go,
To mend all matters high and low,
He'll find no rest full surely.
In his chair of ease a thorn will grow,
The gall will in his bladder flow,
Thick seeds of sorrow he will sow,
And make his dearest friend a foe,
And go to the grave prematurely.
One day he sate beside the fire,
With all things square to his desire,
—A wintry day, when Boreas blew
Through the piping hills with wild halloo—
Just after dinner, when the wine
On the tip of his nose was glowing fine.
A pleasant vapour 'fore him floats,
The logs are blazing brightly,
And in his brain the happy thoughts
Begin to move full lightly.
He never wrote a verse before,
Though now he counted good threescore,
And scarcely knew what poets meant,
When in their high conceited bent
They talked of inspiration.
But now his soul a fancy stirred;

346

He trilled and chirped like any bird;
His bright imagination
Poured forth a pleasant flowing verse,
Which, if you please, I will rehearse
For gentle meditation.
'Twas Greek of course, but by the skill
Made English, of my classic quill,
As good, or better, if you will,
In this my free translation.

I.

They may rail at this world, and say that the devil
Rules o'er it, usurping the mace of the Lord;
In my soul I detest all such impious cavil,
While I sit as a guest at life's bountiful board.
I was young; I am old, and my temples are hoary,
On Time's rocking tide I have gallantly oared;
This wisdom I learned, 'tis the sum of my story,
With blessings God's earth like a garner is stored.

II.

You blame your condition; by Jove I was never
So placed that I could not with pride be a man;

347

At rest or afloat on life's far-sounding river,
Content was my watchword, enjoyment my plan.
Where busy men bustle, to elbow and jostle
What sport! then at home how delightful repose!
What comfort and pleasure your body to measure
At large in the elbow-chair, toasting your toes!

III.

A soldier? how gallant through smoke and through thunder
To ride like the lightning, when Jupiter roars;
A farmer? to gaze on the green leafy wonder
Of April how sweet, and to think on the stores
Of golden-sheaved Autumn!—to dash through the billow
Is dear to the merchant who carries his gains;
How sweet to the poet on green grassy pillow,
To lie when spring zephyrs are fanning his brains!

IV.

When you find a good wife, Nature urges to marry;
But art thou a bachelor, never complain;

348

Less sail you display, but less burden you carry,
And over yourself like a king you may reign.
'Tis pleasant to hear children prattling around you,
Thank Heaven you've arrows enough for your bow;
But if you love quiet, they'll only confound you,
So if now you have none—may it ever be so!

V.

Art young? then rejoice in thy youth,—give the pinion
Of passion free play—love and hate like a man;
And gather around thee a mighty dominion
Of venturous thoughts, like the crest-waving van
Of a conquering host. Art old? reputation
And honour shall find thee and pleasures serene,
And a power like to Jove's, when the fate of the nation
Shall wait on thy word in the hall of the queen.

VI.

Blow hot or blow cold, with hearty endeavour
Still witch out a virtue from all that you see;

349

Use well what you get, giving thanks to the Giver,
And think everything good in its place and degree.
I've told you my thoughts, and I think you're my debtor,
And if you don't think so, I wish you were dead;
The sooner you rot on a dunghill the better,
You're not worth the straw that they shake for your bed.

350

CONCLUSION.

Reader, my songs are sung. If thou hast read
With love and pious kindness to the bard,
Thy reading was not bare of all reward.
But if thou curled thy lip and tossed thy head,
As one to nice fastidious notions bred,
Judging all men with bitter sentence hard,
Thyself against thyself the way hast barred
To know my best, and on my worst hast fed.
In the pure eye to stir the sacred tear,
To lift the low, and dash the lofty look,
Bright thoughts to nurse, the cloudy brain to clear,
Was all the plan that shaped this little book:
Choose what thou needest, what thou choosest hold,
As men from sand redeem the glancing gold.

University of Virginia Library

TO John Hunter, Esquire, AUDITOR OF THE COURT OF SESSION.

LAYS AND LEGENDS.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

II.

III.

PANDORA.

I.

II.

PROMETHEUS.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

THE NAMING OF ATHENS.

BELLEROPHON.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

IPHIGENIA.

WAIL OF AN IDOL.

ARIADNE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

GALATEA.

I.

II.

THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS.

I.

II.

AESCHYLUS.

SALAMIS.

MARATHON.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

PYTHAGORAS.

HERACLITUS.

ANAXAGORAS.

POLEMO.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

BE WISE TO-DAY.

BRAEMAR BALLADS.

THE LORDS OF THE GLEN.

I

II

III

A SONG OF LOCH CANDER.

THE COTTAR'S FATE.

THE BRAES OF MAR.

THE RIVER SIDE.

(Lines written at Banchory Ternan, Dee-side.)

THE REVIVALIST.

HIGHLAND SONNETS.

HIGHLAND TOURISTS.

LOCH ERICHT.

AT LOCH ERICHT.