Oh lay me near yon limpid stream, Whose murmur sooths the ear of woe! There in some sweet poetic dream Let fancy's bright Elysium glow! 'Tis done-o'er all the blushing mead The dark wood shakes his cloudy head: Below, the lily-fringed dale
Breathes its mild fragrance on the gale; While, in pastime all unseen, Titania, rob'd in mantle green, Sports on the mossy bank: her train Skims light along the gleaming plain; Or to the flutt'ring breeze unfold The blue wing streak'd with beamy gold; Its pinions op'ning to the light!—- Say, bursts the vision on my sight? Ah, no! by Shakespeare's pencil drawn, The beauteous shapes appear;
While meek-eyed Cynthia near
Illumes with streamy ray the silver-mantled lawn.
But hark! the tempest howls afar!
Bursts the loud whirlwind o'er the pathless waste! What cherub blows the trump of war? What demon rides the stormy blast? Red from the lightning's livid blaze, The bleak heath rushes on the sight; Then, wrapt in sudden night Dissolves. But, ah! what kingly form Roams the lone desert's desolated maze Unaw'd, nor heeds the sweeping storm? Ye pale-ey'd lightnings, spare the check of age! Vain wish! tho' anguish heaves the bursting groan, Deaf as the flint, the marble ear of rage
Hears not the mourner's unavailing moan: Heart-pierc'd he bleeds; and, stung with wild despair, Bares his time-blasted head, and tears his silver hair.
Lo! on yon long-resounding shore,
Where the rock totters o'er the headlong deep;
What phantoms bath'd in infant gore Stand mutt'ring on the dizzy steep! Their murmur shakes the zephyr's wing! The storm obeys their powerful spell; See from his gloomy cell
Fierce winter starts! his scowling eye Blots the fair mantle of the breathing spring, And lowers along the ruffled sky,
To the deep vault the yelling harpies run;
Its yawning mouth receives th' infernal crew,
Dim through the black gloom winks the glimmering sun, And the pale furnace gleams with brimstone blue. Hell howls; and fiends, that join the dire acclaim, Dance on the bubbling tide, and point the livid flame. II. 3.
But, ah! on sorrow's cypress bough
Can beauty breathe her genial bloom? On death's cold cheek will passion glow? Or music warble from the tomb?
There sleeps the bard, whose tuneful tongue Pour'd the full stream of mazy song. Young spring, with lip of ruby; here Show'rs from her lap the blushing year; While, along the turf reclin'd, The loose wing swimming on the wind, The Loves, with forward gesture bold, Sprinkle the sod with spangling gold: And oft the blue-eyed Graces trim Dance lightly round on doway limb; Oft too, when eve, demure and still, Chequers the green dale's purling rill, Sweet fancy pours the plaintive strain; Or, wrapt in soothing dream,
By Avon's ruffled stream,
Hears the low-murm'ring gale that dies along the plain.
Antenor's admirable contrast between the genius and talents of Ulysses and Menelaus. THEN answer thus, Antenor sage, return'd. Princess! thou hast described him: hither once
The noble Ithacan, on thy behalf Embassador with Menelaus, came, And at my board I entertain'd them both. The person and the intellect of each
I noted; and remark'd, that when they stood Surrounded by the senators of Troy, Atrides by the shoulders overtopp'd The prince of Ithaca; but when they sat, Ulysses had the more majestic air. In his address to our assembled chiefs, Sweet to the ear, but brief, was the harangue Of Menelaus, neither loosely vague,
Nor wordy, though he were the younger man. But when Ulysses rose, his downcast eyes He rivetted so fast, his sceptre held
So still, as if a stranger to its use,
That hadst thou seen him, thou hadst thought him, sure, Some chafed and angry ideot, passion-fixt.
Yet, when at length, the clear and mellow base Of his deep voice brake forth, and he let fall His chosen words like flakes of feather'd snow, None then might match Ulysses; leisure, then, Found none to wonder at his noble form.
XXXIII. Homer's description of the first battle of the Greeks and Trojans.
WHEN thus the rivals, each among his friends, Had arm'd at every point, with eyes that flash'd Fiercest defiance, to the ground they moved. Each host beheld them with the stedfast gaze Of expectation. On the measured ground
Full near they stood, both shook their threat'ning spears, And rage incited both. First Paris hurl'd
His quiv'ring spear, and smote the rounded shield Of Menelaus; but his doubling point
Enforced no passage through the stronger brass. Next, Menelaus hurl'd. But first he pray'd.
All-righteous Jove! now grant me just revenge, Now let the impious aggressor die!
That men unborn may shudder at the thought Of hospitality with rape repaid.
He said, and brandishing his massy spear, Dismiss'd it.
Through the burnish'd buckler broad Of Priam's son the stormy weapon flew, Transpierced the splendid corslet and the vest Of his smooth flank; but, with a sideward bend Eluding half its violence, he liv'd.
Then, Menelaus, with the downright edge Of his bright faulchion smote him on the casque ;- And all his blade fell shiver'd to the ground. He look'd to heav'n, and with a groan exclaim'd—- There is no pow'r that favours wrong as thou, Jove! I believed that Paris should have died For his offence; but lo! my faulcion falls In fragments, and my spear was hurl'd in vain. Then, starting forward, by his hairy crest He seiz'd him fast, and, turning, dragg'd-him thence Toward the Grecian host. The broider'd band That underbraced his helmet at the chin, Strain'd to his smooth neck with a ceaseless force, Choak'd him; and now had Menelaus won Immortal fame, his rival dragg'd away,
But Venus mark'd the moment, snapp'd the brace Though stubborn, by a slaughter'd ox supplied, And the void helmet follow'd as he pull'd. The hero seized and swung it to the Greeks Who took the prize in charge; then, spear in hand, He flew again to pierce his rival's heart.
XXXIV. Picture of the horrors of War.
MEAN-TIME, in ev'ry tent Achaia's sons Took short refreshment, and for fight prepared. On th' other side, though fewer, yet constrained By strong necessity, throughout all Troy, In the defence of children and of wives Ardent, the Trojans panted for the field. Wide flew the gates on either side, forth rush'd Horsemen and foot, and tumult wild arose."
They met, they clash; loud was the din of spears
And bucklers on their bosoms brazen-mail'd Encount'ring, shields in opposition firm Met bossy shields, and tumult wild arose.
There, many a shout and many a dying groan Were heard, the slayer and the wounded loud Exclaiming, and the earth was drench'd with blood. Till sacred morn had brighten'd into noon, The vollied weapons on both sides their task Perform'd effectual, and the people fell. But when the sun had climb'd the middle skies, The sire of all then took his golden scales; Doom against doom he weighed, th' eternal fates In counterpoise, of Trojans and of Greeks. He rais'd the beam; low sank the heavier lot Of the Achaians; the Achaian doom Subsided, and the Trojan struck the skies.
XXXV. Idomeneus's description of the Ambuscade, in which is finely depicted the brave mun and the coward.
To whom the leader of the host of Crete Idomeneus. I know thy* valour well,
Why speakest thus to me? Since, chose we forth This day an ambush of the bravest Greeks, (For in the ambush is distinguish'd best The courage; there, the tim'rous and the bold Plainly appear; the dastard changes hue
And shifts from place to place, nor can he calm The fears that shake his trembling limbs, but sits Low-crouching on his hams, while in his breast Quick palpitates his death-foreboding heart, And his teeth chatter; but the valiant man His posture shifts not; no excessive fears Feels he, but seated once in ambush, deems Time tedious till the bloody fight begin)
Ev'n there, thy courage should no blame incur. For shouldst thou, toiling in the fight, by spear Or faulchion bleed, the weapon should not pierce
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