is with him, even Pallas Athena herself, and the fight is restored. Slaughter rages: the bard and the herald are saved alone. The handmaids, partakers in the suitors' guilt, are strung up in the hall-their feet quiver, but not long. The traitor is miserably slain-the work is finished. But who shall tell the greetings and recognition between Book XXIII the chaste long-suffering spouse and her husband-king? Homer, not we. With the same veil of reverence will we cover the deep Book XXIV. mystery and fading interest of the last book.—The king is at home-wife, father, and son, are around him-his enemies are destroyed-all seems finished: but fresh labours await himhe has been a man of blood. His people rebel-there is more slaughter. The gods in heaven are grieved—Athena descends and stays the deeds of death, and makes covenants of peace. A cloud is on the king-his brow darkens-the Odyssey is ended. READER-THIS IS THE GREATEST WORK OF HUMAN GENIUS. CHAPTER V. ON THE FRAGMENTS OF THE LOST POETS OF GREECE. SIR ISAAC NEWTON, when he lived over the great gateway at Trinity, had a little dog named Diamond. One morning the philosopher was aroused from intense study by the ceasing of the chapel bell. It was winter and dark-he left his candle and his dog. He returned from chapel-but it was to rescue some pitiful fragments from the wreck of his papers. Oh, Diamond, Diamond, thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done!' A mild speech-but it drove the philosopher mad. 6 Yet the loss was not irreparable. Nature and nature's laws change not. The mind of man grapples with them and binds them, and if the fetter be broken, it may be knit again. The tools are still preserved—the workmen are able and many—it is only one fair fabric that is crushed-many may be hereafter wrought. But now to a deeper calamity in the history of our kind. There was a saint-a patriarch of Constantinople, named Gregory Nazianzen. The saint was also a poet, such as the world then bred, in the poisoned death-chamber of the Roman Empire. He was a poet without love. The sky, the fields, the waters, the myriads of creation,-the wonderful heart of man-all these entered not into his poetic account. Alas for the man-for he knew not of the secret droppings on the soul of the grateful and nourishing dews of Poësy-he knew not the wonders and the joys revealed by communion with the humblest things-he knew not that the lifetime of the world has been an education, a progress-that the bright and burning thoughts of one generation have been woven into the minds and every day lives of the next-he had never felt that every work of art is sacred-is a creation-is an aiming at and reaching after the first great Creator. Alas for the saint-for he was not aware that the mighty struggles of human intellect and genius before the true Light' arose were part of the counsels of Providence, given to mankind to teach, to exalt, to humble by exalting. All this he knew not-his Faith possessed his soul, but that soul was narrow ;-there was no room for his Faith to spread over and hallow the beautiful and lovely creations of the Past-but it must cast them out, or it could not dwell there. I said, He was a Poet: that is, he had read much Poetry, and made some verses. Now a great work opens on him. What if the best parts of the ancient poets could be collected, well morticed together, and made into a Christian poem ? The idea is worthy of a patriarch—it shall be done. He had power in abundance. Talk of your Pope- he is a shrimp to what the patriarchs of Constantinople were. Let them be brought-the hundreds, the thousands of tomes-the treasures of the world. Many are hurrying to the patriarchal palace, books in hand. He has them all-the manly Alcæus, the tender Sappho, the pure Simonides, Alcman, Bacchylides, Ibycus, and more. He has made his selection-the absurdest drama that the world has seen. The rest he has given to the flames. 'Oh, Gregory, Gregory, thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done!' * This loss is irreparable. For who shall re-create the dream of the Poet-that subtlest and most complicated result of the unions between mind and matter? Who shall re-produce the individual soul and character, identity of accompanying circumstances, the love, the hope, the fear, which gave birth to the strains that have perished? Our own great poet has told Drama longè insulsissimum.-Porson. It is but just to add here, that the story in the text rests on authority not altogether trustworthy. Sappho. us of times when "the visible scene with its solemn imagery" enters far into the heart;* (oh, what an expression is that,) and who shall prescribe for those times of hallowed influence? They came upon these ancient bards and are passed from us. The fair lands which fed them remain; but the spirit is gone. The bright Ægean still leaps and twinkles in the sunlight; but a different race are on its waters, and by its shores. A few precious fragments, however, are left to us; lying scattered in quotations here and there. Sometimes a mere word, sometimes a line or two is given us; sometimes a stave or so of an old lyric song. Many of these sparkle with beauty, and can never be forgotten. Listen then, gentle reader, while we lay before you some of these hallowed remains. And remember while you read, that in this department, of all others, translation is most difficult; that the charm of these fragments is generally the exact adaptation of beautiful words to some beautiful thought; and those words arranged in metres exquisitely fitted to set them off to advantage; so that, with our essentially different and less flexible language, we labour behind our patterns, and fail of our effect. However, the best must be tried; and it is hard, if the inherent beauty of the thoughts do not bespeak some interest and admiration, even where the words are inadequate. The first place among the lyrical bards of Greece whose writings are lost, is due to Sappho, of Mitylene, in the island of Lesbos. Of the life and character of this poetess, nothing is known to us. A few rumours are afloat; but having been propagated long since her time, form too weak a foundation for us to rest on. Her poetry is the theme of universal praise among the ancient critics; and the few pieces yet left amply justify the verdict. The following are the most celebrated of her longer fragments. The first is a hymn to Aphrodita, goddess of love. Light-enthroned, eternal one, Aphrodita, Child of Zeus, deep-counselling, I beseech thee Wordsworth. Not with grief's keen agony, nor with judgments, But be present, if to my prayers aforetime And hast come, the palace of heaven's bright ruier Willingly leaving, Yoking to thy chariot thy birds of swiftness, Fair to see, who bear thee around the surface Restlessly quiv'ring. Soon they came; and thou didst approach, and ask me, Why I grieved in sorrowful supplication, What was the burden Of the wish, my fluttering heart that maddened. 'Whom art thou entrapping with soft persuasion In thy nets of witchery? tell me, Sappho, 'Who hath offended? "If he now retreats, he shall soon pursue thee, 'If he now spurns presents, he soon shall give them, 'E'en tho' thou wouldst not.' Come to me now also, and loose my spirit Present to aid me. The metre of the above translation is that of the original, and is called Sapphic, from its authoress. It ill suits our language, and can only be made agreeable to the English ear by some peculiarly happy position of words concurring with the sentiment to be rendered. It is given as a specimen to the reader of the form which the thoughts of Sappho loved to take. The rest of the fragments shall be clothed in metre less harsh and unusual, except where the Sapphic form happens to please our ear. The second fragment has been the most celebrated of any that have reached us. It describes the influence of excessive beauty. Poets of all ages have sung how there is that in the Ꮮ |