"Jove rules above: Fate willed it so. 'Tis well; Prometheus rules below. Their gusty games 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.

"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 winged lizards, with broad stare, Peered through the raw and misty air. Where then was Cretan Jove? Where then This king of gods and men?

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

"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 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.

"These jagged cliffs that flout the air, Harsh granite rocks, 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-winged before the summer gale, The smoking chariot o'er the land Shall roll at his command.

"'Blow, winds, and crack your checks!' 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 laboring breasts Here let me rouse; and whoso rests From labor, 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 PUNISHMENT OF PROMETHEUS.

Regarding the punishment of Prometheus for his daring act, the legend states that Jupiter bound him with chains to a rock or pillar, supposed to be in Scythia, and sent an eagle to prey without ceasing on his liver, which grew every night as much as it had lost during the day. After an interval of thirty thousand years Hercules, a hero of great strength and courage, slew the eagle and set the sufferer free. The Greek poet AES'CHYLUS, justly styled the father of Grecian tragedy, has made the punishment of Prometheus the basis of a drama, entitled Prometheus Bound, which many think is this poet's masterpiece, and of which it has been remarked:

"Nothing can be grander than the scenery in which the poet has made his hero suffer. He is chained to a desolate and stupendous rock at the extremity of earth's remotest wilds, frowning over old ocean. The daughters of O-ce'a-nus, who constitute the chorus of the tragedy, come to comfort and calm him; and even the aged Oceanus himself, and afterward Mercury, do all they can to persuade him to submit to his oppressor, Jupiter. But all to no purpose; he sternly and triumphantly refuses. Meanwhile, the tempest rages, the lightnings flash upon the rock, the sands are torn up by whirlwinds, the seas are dashed against the sky, and all the artillery of heaven is leveled against his bosom, while he proudly defies the vengeance of his tyrant, and sinks into the earth to the lower regions, calling on the Powers of Justice to avenge his wrongs."

In trying to persuade the defiant Prometheus to relent, AEschylus represents Mercury as thus addressing him:

"I have indeed, methinks, said much in vain, For still thy heart, beneath my showers of prayers, Lies dry and hard! nay, leaps like a young horse Who bites against the new bit in his teeth, And tugs and struggles against the new-tried rein, Still fiercest in the weakest thing of all, Which sophism is—for absolute will alone, When left to its motions in perverted minds, Is worse than null for strength! Behold and see, Unless my words persuade thee, what a blast And whirlwind of inevitable woe Must sweep persuasion through thee! For at first The Father will split up this jut of rock With the great thunder and the bolted flame, And hide thy body where the hinge of stone Shall catch it like an arm! and when thou hast passed A long black time within, thou shalt come out To front the sun; and Zeus's winged hound, The strong, carnivorous eagle, shall wheel down To meet thee—self-called to a daily feast— And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear off The long rags of thy flesh, and batten deep Upon thy dusky liver!

"Do not look For any end, moreover, to this curse, Or ere some god appear to bear thy pangs On his own head vicarious, and descend With unreluctant step the darks of hell, And the deep glooms enringing Tartarus! Then ponder this: the threat is not growth Of vain invention—it is spoken and meant! For Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie, And doth complete the utterance in the act. So, look to it, thou! take heed! and nevermore Forget good counsel to indulge self-will!

To which Prometheus answers as follows:

"Unto me, the foreknower, this mandate of power, He cries, to reveal it! And scarce strange is my fate, if I suffer from hate At the hour that I feel it! Let the rocks of the lightning, all bristling and whitening, Flash, coiling me round! While the ether goes surging 'neath thunder and scourging Of wild winds unbound! Let the blast of the firmament whirl from its place The earth rooted below— And the brine of the ocean, in rapid emotion, Be it driven in the face Of the stars up in heaven, as they walk to and fro! Let him hurl me anon into Tartarus—on— To the blackest degree, With necessity's vortices strangling me down! But he cannot join death to a fate meant for me!" —Trans. by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE SUFFERINGS OF PROMETHEUS.

We close this subject with a brief extract from the Prometheus Bound of the English poet SHELLEY, in which the sufferings of the defiant captive are vividly portrayed:

"No change, no pause, no hope! yet I endure. I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm, Heaven's ever-changing shadow, spread below, Have its deaf waves not heard my agony? Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, forever!

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears Of their moon-freezing crystals; the bright chains Eat with their burning gold into my bones. Heaven's winged hound, polluting from thy lips His beak in poison not his own, tears up My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by— The ghastly people of the realm of dream Mocking me; and the Earthquake fiends are charged To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds When the rocks split and close again behind; While from their loud abysses howling throng The genii of the storm."

Returning now to the poet Ovid, we present the account which he gives of the Deluge, or the destruction of mankind by a flood, called by the Greeks,

THE DELUGE OF DEUCALION.

Deucalion is represented as the son of Prometheus, and is styled the father of the Greek nation of post-diluvian times. When Jupiter determined to destroy the human race on account of its impiety, it was his first design, OVID tells us, to accomplish it with fire. But his own safety demanded the employment of a less dangerous agency.

Already had Jove tossed the flaming brand, And rolled the thunder in his spacious hand, Preparing to discharge on seas and land; But stopped, for fear, thus violently driven, The sparks should catch his axle-tree of heaven— Remembering, in the Fates, a time when fire Should to the battlements of heaven aspire, And all his blazing worlds above should burn, And all the inferior globe to cinders turn. His dire artillery thus dismissed, he bent His thoughts to some securer punishment; Concludes to pour a watery deluge down, And what he durst not burn resolves to drown.

In all this myth, it will be seen, Jupiter may very properly be considered as a personification of the elemental strife that drowned a guilty world. Deucalion, warned, by his father, of the coming deluge, thereupon made himself an ark or skiff, and, putting provisions into it, entered it with his wife, Pyrrha. The whole earth is then overspread with the flood of waters, and all animal life perishes, except Deucalion and his wife.

The northern breath that freezes floods, Jove binds, With all the race of cloud-dispelling winds: The south he loosed, who night and horror brings, And fogs are shaken from his flaggy wings. From his divided beard two streams he pours; His head and rheumy eyes distil in showers. The skies, from pole to pole, with peals resound; And showers enlarged come pouring on the ground.

Nor from his patrimonial heaven alone Is Jove content to pour his vengeance down: Aid from his brother of the seas he craves, To help him with auxiliary waves. The watery tyrant calls his brooks and floods, Who roll from mossy caves, their moist abodes, And with perpetual urns his palace fill; To whom, in brief, he thus imparts his will:

Small exhortation needs; your powers employ, And this bad world (so Jove requires) destroy. Let loose the reins to all your watery store; Bear down the dams and open every door."

The floods, by nature enemies to land, And proudly swelling with their new command, Remove the living stones that stopped their way, And, gushing from their source, augment the sea. Then with his mace their monarch struck the ground: With inward trembling Earth received the wound, And rising stream a ready passage found. The expanded waters gather on the plain, They float the fields and overtop the grain; Then, rushing onward, with a sweepy sway, Bear flocks and folds and laboring hinds away. Nor safe their dwellings were; for, sapped by floods, Their houses fell upon their household gods. The solid hills, too strongly built to fall, High o'er their heads behold a watery wall. Now seas and earth were in confusion lost— A world of waters, and without a coast.

One climbs a cliff; one in his boat is borne, And ploughs above where late he sowed his corn. Others o'er chimney-tops and turrets row, And drop their anchors on the meads below; Or, downward driven, they bruise the tender vine, Or, tossed aloft, are hurled against a pine. And where of late the kids had cropped the grass, The monsters of the deep now take their place. Insulting Ner'e-ids on the cities ride, And wondering dolphins o'er the palace glide. On leaves and masts of mighty oaks they browse, And their broad fins entangle in the boughs.

The frighted wolf now swims among the sheep, The yellow lion wanders in the deep; His rapid force no longer helps the boar, The stag swims faster than he ran before. The fowls, long beating on their wings in vain, Despair of land, and drop into the main. Now hills and vales no more distinction know, And levelled nature lies oppressed below. The most of mortals perished in the flood, The small remainder dies for want of food.

Deucalion and Pyrrha were conveyed to the summit of Mount Parnassus, the highest mountain in Central Greece. According to Ovid, Deucalion now consulted the ancient oracle of Themis respecting the restoration of mankind, and received the following response: "Depart from the temple, veil your heads, loosen your girded vestments, and cast behind you the great bones of your parent." At length Deucalion discovered the meaning of the oracle—the bones being, by a very natural figure, the stones, or rocky heights, of the earth. The poet then gives the following account of the abatement of the waters, and of the appearance of the earth:

"When Jupiter, surveying earth from high, Beheld it in a lake of water lie— That, where so many millions lately lived, But two, the best of either sex, survived— He loosed the northern wind: fierce Boreas flies To puff away the clouds and purge the skies: Serenely, while he blows, the vapors driven Discover heaven to earth and earth to heaven; The billows fall while Neptune lays his mace On the rough sea, and smooths its furrowed face. Already Triton [Footnote: Son of Neptune.] at his call appears Above the waves: a Tyrian robe he wears, And in his hands a crooked trumpet bears. The sovereign bids him peaceful sounds inspire, And give the waves the signal to retire. The waters, listening to the trumpet's roar, Obey the summons, and forsake the shore. A thin circumference of land appears, And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears, And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds: The streams, but just contained within their bounds, By slow degrees into their channels crawl, And earth increases as the waters fall: In longer time the tops of trees appear, Which mud on their dishonored branches bear. At length the world was all restored to view, But desolate, and of a sickly hue: Nature beheld herself, and stood aghast, A dismal desert and a silent waste.

When the waters had abated Deucalion left the rocky heights behind him, in obedience to the direction of the oracle, and went to dwell in the plains below.

MORAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE GODS, AND OF THEIR RULE OVER MANKIND.

It is a prominent feature of the polytheistic system of the Greeks that the gods are represented as subject to all the passions and frailties of human nature. There were, indeed, among them personifications of good and of evil, as we see in A'te, the goddess of revenge or punishment, and in the Erin'nys (or Furies), who avenge violations of filial duty, punish perjury, and are the maintainers of order both in the moral and the natural world; yet while these moral ideas restrained and checked men, the gods seem to have been almost wholly free from such control. "The society of Olympus, therefore," says MAHAFFY, "is only an ideal Greek society in the lowest sense—the ideal of the school-boy who thinks all control irksome, and its absence the greatest good—the ideal of a voluptuous man, who has strong passions, and longs for the power to indulge them without unpleasant consequences. It appears, therefore, that the Homeric picture of Olympus is very valuable, as disclosing to us the poet's notion of a society freed from the restraints of religion; for the rhapsodists [Footnote: Rhapsodist, a term applied to the reciters of Greek verse.] were dealing a death-blow (perhaps unconsciously) to the received religious belief by these very pictures of sin and crime among the gods. Their idea is a sort of semi-monarchical aristocracy, where a number of persons have the power to help favorites, and thwart the general progress of affairs; where love of faction overpowers every other consideration, and justifies violence or deceit. [Footnote: "Social Life in Greece," by J. P. Mahaffy.]

MR. GLADSTONE has given us, in the following extract, his views of what he calls the "intense humanity" of the Olympian system, drawn from what its great expounder has set forth in the Iliad and the Odyssey. "That system," he says, "exhibits a kind of royal or palace life of man, but on the one hand more splendid and powerful, on the other more intense and free. It is a wonderful and a gorgeous creation. It is eminently in accordance with the signification of the English epithet—rather a favorite, apparently, with our old writers—the epithet jovial, which is derived from the Latin name of its head. It is a life of all the pleasures of mind and body, of banquet and of revel, of music and of song; a life in which solemn grandeur alternates with jest and gibe; a life of childish willfulness and of fretfulness, combined with serious, manly, and imperial cares; for the Olympus of Homer has at least this one recommendation to esteem—that it is not peopled with the merely lazy and selfish gods of Epicurus, but its inhabitants busily deliberate on the government of man, and in their debates the cause of justice wins.

"I do not now discuss the moral titles of the Olympian scheme; what I dwell upon is its intense humanity, alike in its greatness and its littleness, its glory and its shame. As the cares and joys of human life, so the structure of society below is reflected, by the wayward wit of man, on heaven above. Though the names and fundamental traditions of the several deities were wholly or in great part imported from abroad, their characters, relations, and attributes passed under a Hellenizing process, which gradually marked off for them special provinces and functions, according to laws which appear to have been mainly original and indigenous, and to have been taken by analogy from the division of labor in political society. The Olympian society has its complement of officers and servants, with their proper functions. He-phaes'tus (or Vulcan) moulds the twenty golden thrones which move automatically to form the circle of the council of the gods, and builds for each of his brother deities a separate palace in the deep-folded recesses of the mighty mountain. Music and song are supplied by Apollo and the Muses; Gan-y-me'de and He'be are the cup-bearers, Hermes and Iris are the messengers; but Themis, in whom is impersonated the idea of deliberation and of relative rights, is the summoner of the Great Assembly of the gods in the Twentieth Iliad, when the great issue of the Trojan war is to be determined." [Footnote: Address to the Edinburgh University, November 3, 1865.]

But, however prone the gods were to evil passions, and subject to human frailties, they were not believed to approve (in men) of the vices in which they themselves indulged, but were, on the contrary, supposed to punish violations of justice and humanity, and to reward the brave and virtuous. We learn that they were to be appeased by libations and sacrifice; and their aid, not only in great undertakings, but in the common affairs of life, was to be obtained by prayer and supplication. For instance, in the Ninth Book of HOMER'S Iliad the aged Phoe'nix—warrior and sage—in a beautiful allegory personifying "Offence" and "Prayers," represents the former as robust and fleet of limb, outstripping the latter, and hence roaming over the earth and doing immense injury to mankind; but the Prayers, following after, intercede with Jupiter, and, if we avail ourselves of them, repair the evil; but if we neglect them we are told that the vengeance of the wrong shall overtake us. Thus, Phoenix says of the gods,

"If a mortal man Offend them by transgression of their laws, Libation, incense, sacrifice, and prayer, In meekness offered, turn their wrath away. Prayers are Jove's daughters, Which, though far distant, yet with constant pace Follow Offence. Offence, robust of limb, And treading firm the ground, outstrips them all, And over all the earth before them runs, Hurtful to man. They, following, heal the hurt. Received respectfully when they approach, They yield us aid and listen when we pray; But if we slight, and with obdurate heart Resist them, to Saturinian Jove they cry. Against us, supplicating that Offence May cleave to us for vengeance of the wrong." —COWPER'S Trans.

In the Seventeenth Book, Men-e-la'us is represented going into battle, "supplicating, first, the sire of all"—that is, Jupiter, the king of the gods. In the Twenty-third Book, Antil'ochus attributes the ill-success of Eu-me'lus in the chariot-race to his neglect of prayer. He says,

"He should have offered prayer; then had be not Arrived, as now, the hindmost of us all."

Numerous other instances might be given, from the works of the Grecian poets, of the supposed efficacy of prayer to the gods.

The views of the early Greeks respecting the dispensations of an overruling Providence, as shown in their belief in retributive justice, are especially prominent in some of the sublime choruses of the Greek tragedians, and in the "Works and Days" of Hesiod. For instance, AEschylus says,

The ruthless and oppressive power May triumph for its little hour; But soon, with all their vengeful train, The sullen Furies rise, Break his full force, and whirl him down Thro' life's dark paths, unpitied and unknown. —POTTER'S Trans.

The following extracts from Hesiod illustrate the certainty with which Justice was believed to overtake and punish those who pervert her ways, while the good are followed by blessings. They also show that the crimes of one are often "visited on all."

Earth's crooked judges—lo! the oath's dread god Avenging runs, and tracks them where they trod. Rough are the ways of Justice as the sea, Dragged to and fro by men's corrupt decree; Bribe-pampered men! whose hands, perverting, draw The right aside, and warp the wrested law.

Though while Corruption on their sentence waits They thrust pale Justice from their haughty gates, Invisible their steps the Virgin treads, And musters evil o'er their sinful heads. She with the dark of air her form arrays, And walks in awful grief the city ways: Her wail is heard; her tear, upbraiding, falls O'er their stained manners and devoted walls.

But they who never from the right have strayed— Who as the citizen the stranger aid— They and their cities flourish: genial peace Dwells in their borders, and their youth increase; Nor Jove, whose radiant eyes behold afar, Hangs forth in heaven the signs of grievous war; Nor scath, nor famine; on the righteous prey— Peace crowns the night, and plenty cheers the day. Rich are their mountain oaks: the topmost tree The acorns fill, its trunk the hiving bee; Their sheep with fleeces pant; their women's race Reflect both parents in the infant face: Still flourish they, nor tempt with ships the main; The fruits of earth are poured from every plain.

But o'er the wicked race, to whom belong The thought of evil and the deed of wrong, Saturnian Jove, of wide-beholding eyes, Bids the dark signs of retribution rise; And oft the deeds of one destructive fall— The crimes of one—are visited on all. The god sends down his angry plagues from high— Famine and pestilence—in heaps they die! Again, in vengeance of his wrath, he falls On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls;

Scatters their ships of war; and where the sea Heaves high its mountain billows, there is he!

Ponder, O Judges! in your inmost thought The retribution by his vengeance wrought. Invisible, the gods are ever nigh, Pass through the midst, and bend th' all-seeing eye. The man who grinds the poor, who wrests the right, Aweless of Heaven, stands naked to their sight: For thrice ten thousand holy spirits rove This breathing world, the delegates of Jove; Guardians of man, their glance alike surveys The upright judgments and the unrighteous ways.

A virgin pure is Justice, and her birth August from him who rules the heavens and earth— A creature glorious to the gods on high, Whose mansion is yon everlasting sky. Driven by despiteful wrong she takes her seat, In lowly grief, at Jove's eternal feet. There of the soul unjust her plaints ascend: So rue the nations when their kings offend— When, uttering wiles and brooding thoughts of ill, They bend the laws, and wrest them to their will. Oh! gorged with gold, ye kingly judges, hear! Make straight your paths, your crooked judgments fear, That the foul record may no more be seen— Erased, forgot, as though it ne'er had been. —Trans. by ELTON.

OATHS.

As in the beginning of the foregoing extract, so the poets frequently refer to the oaths that were taken by those who entered into important compacts, showing that then as now, and as in Old Testament times, some overruling deity was invoked to witness the agreement or promise, and punish its violation. Sometimes the person touched the altar of the god by whom he swore, or the blood that was shed in the ceremonial sacrifice, while some walked through the fire to sanctify their oaths. When Abraham swore unto the King of Sodom that he would not enrich himself with any of the king's goods, he lifted up his hand to heaven, pointing to the supposed residence of the Deity, as if calling on him to witness the oath. When he requires his servant to take an oath unto him he says, "Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh: and I will make thee swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and earth;" and Jacob requires the same ceremony from Joseph when the latter promises to carry his father's bones up out of Egypt.

When the goddess Vesta swore an oath in the very presence of Jupiter, as represented in Homer's hymn, she touched his head, as the most fitting ceremonial.

Touching the head of AEgis-bearing Jove, A mighty oath she swore, and hath fulfilled, That she among the goddesses of heaven Would still a virgin be.

We find a military oath described by AEschylus in the drama of "The Seven Chiefs against Thebes":

O'er the hollow of a brazen shield A bull they slew, and, touching with their hands The sacrificial stream, they called aloud On Mars, Eny'o, and blood-thirsty Fear, And swore an oath or in the dust to lay These walls, and give our people to the sword, Or, perishing, to steep the land in blood!

That there was sometimes a fire ordeal to sanctify the oath, we learn from the Antig'o-ne of SOPHOCLES. The Messenger who brought tidings of the burial of Polyni'ces says,

"Ready were we to grasp the burning steel, To pass through fire, and by the gods to swear The deed was none of ours, nor aught we knew Of living man by whom 'twas planned or done."

In the Twelfth Book of VIRGIL'S AEne'id, when King Turnus enters into a treaty with the Trojans, he touches the altars of his gods and the flames, as part of the ceremony:

"I touch the sacred altars, touch the flames, And all these powers attest, and all their names, Whatever chance befall on either side, No term of time this union shall divide; No force nor fortune shall my vows unbind, To shake the steadfast tenor of my mind."

The ancient poets and orators denounce perjury in the strongest terms, and speak of the offence as one of a most odious character.

THE FUTURE STATE.

The future state in which the Greeks believed was to some extent one of rewards and punishments. The souls of most of the dead, however, were supposed to descend to the realms of Ha'des, where they remained, joyless phantoms, the mere shadows of their former selves, destitute of mental vigor, and, like the spectres of the North American Indians, pursuing, with dreamlike vacancy, the empty images of their past occupations and enjoyments. So cheerless is the twilight of the nether world that the ghost of Achilles informs Ulysses that it would rather live the meanest hireling on earth than be doomed to continue in the shades below, even though as sovereign ruler there. Thus Achilles asks him—

"How hast thou dared descend into the gloom Of Hades, where the shadows of the dead, Forms without intellect, alone reside?"

And when Ulysses tries to console him by reminding him that he was even there supreme over all his fellow-shades, he receives this reply:

"Renowned Ulysses! think not death a theme Of consolation: I would rather live The servile hind for hire, and eat the bread Of some man scantily himself sustained, Than sovereign empire hold o'er all the shades." —Odyssey, by COWPER, B. XI.

But even in Hades a distinction is made between the good and the bad, for there Ulysses finds Mi'nos, the early law-giver of Crete, advanced to the position of judge over the assembled shades— absolving the just, and condemning the guilty.

High on a throne, tremendous to behold, Stern Minos waves a mace of burnished gold; Around, ten thousand thousand spectres stand, Through the wide dome of Dis, a trembling band; Whilst, as they plead, the fatal lots he rolls, Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls. —Odyssey, by POPE, B. XI.

The kinds of punishment inflicted here are, as might be expected, wholly earthly in their nature, and may be regarded rather as the reflection of human passions than as moral retributions by the gods. Thus, Tan'talus, placed up to his chin in water, which ever flowed away from his lips, was tormented with unquenchable thirst, while the fruits hanging around him constantly eluded his grasp. The story of Tantalus is well told by PROFESSOR BLACKIE, as follows:

Tantalus.

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 forever. 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.

The poet then goes on to describe the gossip, and pleasures, and jealousies, and scandals of Olympus which Tantalus heard and witnessed, and then proceeds as follows:

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.

Like in character was the punishment inflicted upon Sis'y-phus, "the most crafty of men," as Homer calls him. Being condemned to roll a huge stone up a hill, it proved to be a never-ending, still-beginning toil, for as soon as the stone reached the summit it rolled down again into the plain. So, also, Ix-i'on, "the Cain of Greece," as he is expressly called—the first shedder of kindred blood—was doomed to be fastened, with brazen bands, to an ever-revolving fiery wheel. But the very refinement of torment, similar to that inflicted upon Prometheus, was that suffered by the giant Tit'y-us, who was placed on his back, while vultures constantly fed upon his liver, which grew again as fast as it was eaten.

THE DESCENT OF OR'PHEUS.

Only once do we learn that these torments ceased, and that was when the musician Orpheus, lyre in hand, descended to the lower world to reclaim his beloved wife, the lost Eu-ryd'i-ce. At the music of his "golden shell" Tantalus forgot his thirst, Sisyphus rested from his toil, the wheel of Ixion stood still, and Tityus ceased his moaning. The poet OVID thus describes the wonderful effects of the musician's skill:

The very bloodless shades attention keep, And, silent, seem compassionate to weep; Even Tantalus his flood unthirsty views, Nor flies the stream, nor he the stream pursues: Ixion's wondrous wheel its whirl suspends, And the voracious vulture, charmed, attends; No more the Bel'i-des their toil bemoan, And Sisyphus, reclined, sits listening on the stone. —Trans. by CONGREVE.

Pope's translation of this scene from the Iliad is peculiarly melodious:

But when, through all the infernal bounds Which flaming Phleg'e-thon surrounds, Love, strong as death, the poet led To the pale nations of the dead, What sounds were heard, What scenes appeared, O'er all the dreary coasts! Dreadful gleams, Dismal screams, Fires that glow, Shrieks of woe, Sullen moans, Hollow groans, And cries of tortured ghost!!!

But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; And see! the tortured ghosts respire! See! shady forms advance! Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, Ixion rests upon his wheel, And the pale spectres dance; The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurled hang listening round their heads.

The Greeks also believed in an Elys'ium—some distant island of the ocean, ever cooled by refreshing breezes, and where spring perpetual reigned—to which, after death, the blessed were conveyed, and where they were permitted to enjoy it happy destiny. In the Fourth Book of the Odyssey the sea god Pro'teus, in predicting for Menelaus a happier lot than that of Hades, thus describes the Elysian plains:

But oh! beloved of Heaven! reserved for thee A happier lot the smiling Fates decree: Free from that law beneath whose mortal sway Matter is changed and varying forms decay, Elysium shall be thine—the blissful plains Of utmost earth, where Rhadaman'thus reigns. Joys ever young, unmixed with pain or fear, Fill the wide circle of the eternal year. Stern Winter smiles on that auspicious clime; The fields are florid with unfading prime; From the bleak pole no winds inclement blow, Mould the round hail, or flake the fleecy snow; But from the breezy deep the blest inhale The fragrant murmurs of the western gale. —POPE'S Trans.

Similar views are expressed by the lyric poet PINDAR in the following lines:

All whose steadfast virtue thrice Each side the grave unchanged hath stood, Still unseduced, unstained with vice— They, by Jove's mysterious road, Pass to Saturn's realm of rest— Happy isle, that holds the blest; Where sea-born breezes gently blow O'er blooms of gold that round them glow, Which Nature, boon from stream or strand Or goodly tree, profusely showers; Whence pluck they many a fragrant band, And braid their locks with never-fading flowers. —Trans. by A. MOORE.

There is so much similarity between the mythology of the early Greeks and that of many of the Asiatic nations, that we give place here to the supposed meditations of a Hindu prince and skeptic on the great subject of a future state of existence, as a fitting close of our brief review of the religious beliefs of the ancients. Among the Asiatic nations are to be found accounts of the Creation, and of multitudes of gods, good and evil, all quite as pronounced as those that are derived from the Grecian myths; and while the wildest and grossest of superstitious fancies have prevailed among the common people, skepticism and atheistic doubt are known to have been nearly universal among the learned. The poem which we give in this connection, therefore, though professedly a Hindu creation, may be accepted not only as portraying Hindu doubt and despondency, but also as a faithful picture of the anxiety, doubt, and almost utter despair, not only of the ancient Greeks; but of the entire heathen world, concerning the destiny of mankind.

The Hindu skeptic tells us that ever since mankind began their race on this earth they have been seeking for the "signs and steps of a God;" and that in mystical India, where the deities hover and swarm, and a million shrines stand open, with their myriad idols and, legions of muttering priests, mankind are still groping in darkness; still listening, and as yet vainly hoping for a message that shall tell what the wonders of creation mean, and whither they tend; ever vainly seeking for a refuge from the ills of life, and a rest beyond for the weary and heavy-laden, He turns to the deified heroes of his race, and though long he watches and worships for a solution of the mysteries of life, he waits in vain for an answer, for their marble features never relax in response to his prayers and entreaties; and he says, mournfully, "Alas! for the gods are dumb." The darts of death still fall as surely as ever, hurled by a Power unseen and a hand unknown; and beyond the veil all is obscurity and gloom.

I.

All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod, Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God? Westward across the ocean, and northward beyond the snow, Do they all stand gazing, as ever? and what do the wisest know?

II.

Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm; In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen, Yet we all say, "Whence is the message—and what may the wonders mean?"

III.

A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings, As they bow to a mystic symbol or the figures of ancient kings; And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry Of those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loath to die.

IV.

For the destiny drives us together like deer in a pass of the hills: Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the shot that kills. Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown, We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.

V.

The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim, And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim; And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest— Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?

VI.

The path—ah, who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide? The haven—ah, who has known it? for steep is the mountain-side. For ever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death!

VII.

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the first of an ancient name— Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame. They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race: Ever I watch and worship—they sit with a marble face.

VIII.

And the myriad idols around me, and the legion of muttering priests— The revels and rites unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts— What have they wrung from the silence? Hath even a Whisper come Of the secret—whence and whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.

Getting no light from the religious guides of his own country, he turns to the land where the English—the present rulers of India—dwell, and asks,

IX.

Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea? "The secret, hath it been told you? and what is your message to me? It is naught but the wide-world story, how the earth and the heavens began— How the gods are glad and angry, and a deity once was man.

And so he gathers around him the mantle of doubt and despondency; he asks if life is, after all, but a dream and delusion, while ever and ever is forced upon him that other question, "Where shall the dreamer awake?"

X.

I had thought, "Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell, Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell, They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main—" Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.

XI.

Is life, then, a dream and delusion? and where shall the dreamer awake? Is the world seen like shadows on water? and what if the mirror break? Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and gone From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?

XII.

Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled, But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world— The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep, With the dirge and the sounds of lamenting, and voices of women who weep? —The Cornhill Magazine.

What a commentary on all this doubt and despondency are the meditations of the Christian, who, "sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust," approaches his grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams! —BRYANT.

* * * * *

II. THE EARLIEST INHABITANTS OF GREECE.

The earliest reliable information that we possess of the country called Greece represents it in the possession of a number of rude tribes, of which the Pelas'gians were the most numerous and powerful, and probably the most ancient. Of the early character of the Pelasgians, and of the degree of civilization to which they had attained before the reputed founding of Argos, we have unsatisfactory and conflicting accounts. On the one hand, they are represented as no better than the rudest barbarians, dwelling in caves, subsisting on reptiles, herbs, and wild fruits, and strangers to the simplest arts of civilized life. Other and more reliable traditions, however, attribute to them a knowledge of agriculture, and some little acquaintance with navigation; while there is a strong probability that they were the authors of those huge structures commonly called Cyclopean, remains of which are still visible in many parts of Greece and Italy, and on the western coast of Asia Minor.

Argos, the capital of Ar'golis, is generally considered the most ancient city of Greece; and its reputed founding by In'achus, a son of the god O-ce'anus, 1856 years before the Christian era, is usually assigned as the period of the commencement of Grecian history. But the massive Cyclopean walls of Argos evidently show the Pelasgic origin of the place, in opposition to the traditionary Phoenician origin of Inachus, whose very existence is quite problematical. Indeed, although many of the traditions of the Greeks point to a contrary conclusion, the accounts usually given of early foreign settlers in Greece, who planted colonies there, founded dynasties, built cities, and introduced a knowledge of the arts unknown to the ruder natives, must be taken with a great degree of abatement. The civilization of the Greeks and the development of their language bear all the marks of home growth, and probably were little affected by foreign influence. Still, many of these traditions are exceedingly interesting, and have attained great celebrity. One of the most celebrated is that which describes the founding of Athens, one of the renowned Grecian cities.

THE FOUNDING OF ATHENS.

Ce'crops, an Egyptian, is said to have led a colony from the Delta to Greece, about the year 1556 B.C. Two years later he proceeded to Attica, which had been desolated by a deluge a century before, and there he is said to have founded, on the Cecropian rock—the Acrop'olis—a city which, under the following circumstances, he called Athens, in honor of the Grecian goddess Athe'na, whom the Romans called Minerva.

It is an ancient Attic legend that about this time the gods had begun to choose favorite spots among the dwellings of man for their own residence; and whatever city a god chose, he gave to that city protection, and there that particular deity was worshipped with special homage. Now, it happened that both Neptune and Minerva contended for the supremacy over this new city founded by Cecrops; and Cecrops was greatly troubled by the contest, as he knew not to which deity to render homage. So Jove summoned a council of the gods, and they decided that the supremacy should be given to the one who should confer the greatest gift upon the favored city. The story of the contest is told by PROFESSOR BLACKIE in the following verses.

Mercury, the messenger of the gods, being sent to Cecrops, thus announces to him the decision of the Council:

"On the peaks of Olympus, the bright snowy-crested, The gods are assembled in council to-day, The wrath of Pos-ei'don, 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 Erech'theus 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 forever, With Jove for a judge, and the Styx for a vow."

So the gods assembled, in the presence of Cecrops himself, on the "hill of Erechtheus"—afterward known as the Athenian Acropolis—to witness the trial between the rival deities, as described in the following language. First; Neptune strikes the rock with his trident:

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 eyesight; and, lo! It showed 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!"

Thus Neptune offered, as his gift—symbolized in the salt spring that he caused to issue from the rock—the dominion of the sea, with all the wealth and renown that flow from unrestricted commerce with foreign lands.

But Minerva was now to make her trial:

Then the gods, with a high-sounding paean, Applauded; but Jove hushed the many-voiced tide; "For now with the lord of the briny AEge'an Athe'na 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, were 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 gray 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 walls 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, gayly 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.

Thus Jove decided in favor of the peaceful pursuits of industry on the land, as against the more alluring promises but uncertain results of commerce, thereby teaching this lesson in political economy—that a people consisting of mere merchants, and neglecting the cultivation of the soil, never can become a great and powerful nation. So Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, and patroness of all the liberal arts and sciences, became the tutelary deity of Athens. The contest between her and Neptune was represented on one of the pediments of the Parthenon.

Of the history of Athens for many centuries subsequent to its alleged founding by Cecrops we have no certain information; but it is probable that down to about 683 B.C. it was ruled by kings, like all the other Grecian states. Of these kings the names of The'seus and Co'drus are the most noted. To the former is ascribed the union of the twelve states of Attica into one political body, with Athens as the capital, and other important acts of government which won for him the love of the Athenian people. Consulting the oracle of Delphi concerning his new government, he is said to have received the following answer:

From royal stems thy honor, Theseus, springs; By Jove beloved, the sire supreme of kings. See rising towns, see wide-extended states, On thee dependent, ask their future fates! Hence, hence with fear! Thy favored bark shall ride Safe o'er the surges of the foamy tide.

About half a century after the time of Cecrops another Egyptian, named Dan'a-us, is said to have fled to Greece, with a family of fifty daughters, and to have established a second Egyptian colony in the vicinity of Argos. He subsequently became king of Argos, and the inhabitants were called Dan'a-i. About the same time Cadmus, a Phoenician, is reported to have led a colony into Boeo'tia, bringing with him the Phoenician alphabet, the basis of the Grecian; and to have founded Cadme'a, which afterward became the citadel of Thebes. Another colony is said to have been led from Asia by Pe'lops, from whom the southern peninsula of Greece derived its name of Peloponne'sus, and of whom Agamemnon, King of Myce'nae, was a lineal descendant. About this time a people called the Helle'nes—but whether a Pelasgic tribe or otherwise is uncertain—first appeared in the south of Thessaly, and, gradually diffusing themselves over the whole country, became, by their martial spirit and active, enterprising genius, the ruling class, and impressed new features upon the Grecian character. The Hellenes gave their name to the population of the whole peninsula, although the term Grecians was subsequently applied to them by the Romans.

In accordance with the Greek custom of attributing the origin of their tribes or nations to some remote mythical ancestor, Hel'len, a son of the fabulous Deuca'lion and Pyrrha, is represented as the father of the Hellen'ic nation. His three sons were AE'o-lus, Do'rus, and Xu'thus, from the two former of whom are represented to have descended the AEo'lians and Do'rians; and from Achae'us and I'on, sons of Xuthus, the Achae'ans and Io'nians. These four Hellen'ic or Grecian tribes were distinguished from one another by many peculiarities of language and institutions. Hellen is said to have left his kingdom to AEolus, his eldest son; and the AEolian tribe spread the most widely, and long exerted the most influence in the affairs of the nation; but at a later period it was surpassed by the fame and the power of the Dorians and Ionians.

* * * * *

III. THE HEROIC AGE.

The period from the time of the first appearance of the Hellenes in Thessaly to the return of the Greeks from the expedition against Troy—a period of about two hundred years—is usually called the Heroic Age. It is a period abounding in splendid fictions of heroes and demi-gods, embracing, among others, the twelve wonderful labors of Hercules; the exploits of the Athenian king The'seus, and of Mi'nos, King of Crete, the founder of Grecian law and civilization; the events of the Argonautic expedition; the Theban and Argol'ic wars; the adventures of Beller'ophon, Per'seus, and many others; and concluding with the Trojan war and the supposed fall of Troy. These seem to have been the times which the archangel Michael foretold to Adam when he said,

For in those days might only shall be admired, And valor and heroic virtue called: To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory; and, for glory done, Of triumph to be styled great conquerors, Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods— Destroyers rightly called, and plagues of men. —Paradise Lost, B. XI.

THE LABORS OF HERCULES.

The twelve arduous labors of the celebrated hero Hercules, who was a son of Jupiter by the daughter of an early king of Mycenae, are said to have been imposed upon him by an enemy—Eurys'theus—to whose will Jupiter, induced by a fraud of Juno and the fury-goddess A'te, and unwittingly bound by an oath, had made the hero subservient for twelve years. Jupiter grieved for his son, but, unable to recall the oath which he had sworn, he punished Ate by hurling her from Olympus down to the nether world.

Grief seized the Thunderer, by his oath engaged; Stung to the soul, he sorrowed and he raged. From his ambrosial head, where perched she sate, He snatched the fury-goddess of debate: The dread, the irrevocable oath he swore, The immortal seats should ne'er behold her more; And whirled her headlong down, forever driven From bright Olympus and the starry heaven: Thence on the nether world the fury fell, Ordained with man's contentious race to dwell. Full oft the god his son's hard toils bemoaned, Cursed the dire folly, and in secret groaned. —HOMER'S Iliad, B. XIX. POPE'S Trans.

The following, in brief, are the twelve labors attributed to Hercules: 1. He strangled the Ne'mean lion, and ever after wore his skin. 2. He destroyed the Lernae'an hydra, which had nine heads, eight of them mortal and one immortal. 3. He brought into the presence of Eurystheus a stag famous for its incredible swiftness and golden horns. 4. He brought to Mycenae the wild boar of Eryman'thus, and slew two of the Centaurs, monsters who were half men and half horses. 5. He cleansed the Auge'an stables in one day by changing the courses of the rivers Alphe'us and Pene'us. 6. He destroyed the carnivorous birds of the lake Stympha'lus, in Arcadia. 7. He brought into Peloponnesus the prodigious wild bull which ravaged Crete. 8. He brought from Thrace the mares of Diome'de, which fed on human flesh. 9. He obtained the famous girdle of Hippol'y-te, queen of the Amazons. 10. He slew the monster Ge'ry-on, who had the bodies of three men united. 11. He brought from the garden of the Hesper'i-des the golden apples, and slew the dragon which guarded them. 12. He went down to the lower regions and brought upon earth the three-headed dog Cer'berus.

The favor of the gods had completely armed Hercules for his undertakings, and his great strength enabled him to perform them. This entire fable of Hercules is generally believed to be merely a fanciful representation of the sun in its passage through the twelve signs of the zodiac, in accordance with Phoenician mythology, from which the legend is supposed to be derived. Thus Hercules is the sun-god. In the first month of the year the sun passes through the constellation Leo, the lion; and in his first labor the hero slays the Nemean lion. In the second month, when the sun enters the sign Virgo, the long-extended constellation of the Hydra sets—the stars of which, like so many heads, rise one after another; and, therefore, in his second labor, Hercules destroys the Lernaean hydra with its nine heads. In like manner the legend is explained throughout. Besides these twelve labors, however, Hercules is said to have achieved others on his own account; and one of these is told in the fable of Hercules and Antae'us, in which the powers of art and nature are supposed to be personified.

FABLE OF HERCULES AND ANTAEUS.

Antae'us—a son of Neptune and Terra, who reigned over Libya, or Africa, and dwelt in a forest cave—was so famed for his Titanic strength and skill in wrestling that he was emboldened to leave his woodland retreat and engage in a contest with the renowned hero Hercules. So long as Antaeus stood upon the ground he could not be overcome, whereupon Hercules lifted him up in the air, and, having apparently squeezed him to death in his arms, threw him down; but when Antaeus touched his mother Earth and lay at rest upon her bosom, renewed life and fresh power were given him.

In this fable Antaeus, who personifies the woodland solitude and the desert African waste, is easily overcome by his adversary, who represents the river Nile, which, divided into a thousand arms, or irrigating canals, prevents the arid sand from being borne away and then back again by the winds to desolate the fertile valley. Thus the legend is nothing more than the triumph of art and labor, and their reclaiming power over the woodland solitudes and the encroaching sands of the desert. An English poet has very happily versified the spirit of the legend, to which he has appended a fitting moral, doubtless suggested by the warning of his own approaching sad fate.[Footnote: This gifted poet, Mortimer Collins, died in 1876, at the age of forty-nine, a victim to excessive literary labor and anxiety.]

Deep were the meanings of that fable. Men Looked upon earth with clearer eyesight then, Beheld in solitude the immortal Powers, And marked the traces of the swift-winged Hours. Because it never varies, all can bear The burden of the circumambient air; Because it never ceases, none can hear The music of the ever-rolling sphere— None, save the poet, who, in moor and wood, Holds converse with the spirit of Solitude.

And I remember how Antaeus heard, Deep in great oak-woods, the mysterious word Which said, "Go forth across the unshaven leas To meet unconquerable Hercules." Leaving his cavern by the cedar-glen, This Titan of the primal race of men, Whom the swart lions feared, and who could tear Huge oaks asunder, to the combat bare Courage undaunted. Full of giant grace, Built up, as 'twere, from earth's own granite base. Colossal, iron-sinewed, firm he trod The lawns. How vain against a demi-god! Oh, sorrow of defeat! He plunges far Into his forests, where deep shadows are, And the wind's murmur comes not, and the gloom Of pine and cedar seems to make a tomb For fallen ambition. Prone the mortal lies Who dared mad warfare with the unpitying skies, But lo! as buried in the waving ferns, The baffled giant for oblivion yearns, Cursing his human feebleness, he feels A sudden impulse of new strength, which heals His angry wounds; his vigor he regains— His blood is dancing gayly through his veins. Fresh power, fresh life is his who lay at rest On bounteous Hertha's kind creative breast. [Footnote: Hertha, a goddess of the ancient Germans, the same as Terra, or the Earth. Her favorite retreat was a sacred grove in an island of the ocean.]

Even so, O poet, by the world subdued, Regain thy health 'mid perfect solitude. In noisy cities, far from hills and trees, The brawling demi-god, harsh Hercules, Has power to hurt thy placid spirit—power To crush thy joyous instincts every hour, To weary thee with woes for mortals stored, Red gold (coined hatred) and the tyrant's sword.

Then—then, O sad Antaeus, wilt thou yearn For dense green woodlands and the fragrant fern; Then stretch thy form upon the sward, and rest From worldly toil on Hertha's gracious breast; Plunge in the foaming river, or divide With happy arms gray ocean's murmuring tide, And drinking thence each solitary hour Immortal beauty and immortal power, Thou may'st the buffets of the world efface And live a Titan of earth's earliest race. —MORTIMER COLLINS.

THE ARGONAUTIC EXPEDITION.

From what was probably a maritime adventure that plundered some wealthy country at a period when navigation was in its infancy among the Greeks, we get the fable of the Argonautic Expedition. The generally accepted story of this expedition is as follows: Pe'lias, a descendant of AE'o-lus, the mystic progenitor of the Great AEol'ic race, had deprived his half-brother AE'son of the kingdom of Iol'cus in Thessaly. When Jason, son of AEson, had attained to manhood, he appeared before his uncle and demanded the throne. Pelias consented only on condition that Jason should first capture and bring to him the golden fleece of the ram which had carried Phrix'us and Hel'le when they fled from their stepmother I'no. Helle dropped into the sea between Sigae'um and the Cher'sonese, which was named from her Hellespon'tus; but Phrixus succeeded in reaching Col'chis, a country at the eastern extremity of the Euxine, or Black Sea. Here he sacrificed the ram, and nailed the fleece to an oak in the grove of Mars, where it was guarded by a sleepless dragon.

Joined by the principal heroes of Greece, Hercules among the number, Jason set sail from Iolcus in the ship Argo, after first invoking the favor of Jupiter, the winds, and the waves, for the success of the expedition. The ceremony on this occasion, as descried by the poets, reads like an account of the "christening of the ship" in modern times, but we seem to have lost the full significance of the act.

And soon as by the vessel's bow The anchor was hung up, Then took the leader on the prow In hands a golden cup, And on great father Jove did call; And on the winds and waters all Swept by the hurrying blast, And on the nights, and ocean ways, And on the fair auspicious days, And sweet return at last.

From out the clouds, in answer kind, A voice of thunder came, And, shook in glistening beams around, Burst out the lightning flame. The chiefs breathed free, and, at the sign, Trusted in the power divine. Hinting sweet hopes, the seer cried Forthwith their oars to ply, And swift went backward from rough hands The rowing ceaselessly. —PINDAR. Trans. by Rev. H. F. CARY.

After many adventures Jason reached Col'chis, where, by the aid of magic and supernatural arts, and through the favor of Me-de'a, daughter of the King of Colchis, he succeeded in capturing the fleece. After four months of continued danger and innumerable hardships, Jason returned to Iolcus with the prize, accompanied by Medea, whom he afterward deserted, and whose subsequent history is told by the poet Euripides in his celebrated tragedy entitled Medea.

Growing out of the Argonautic legend is one concerning the youth Hy'las, a member of the expedition, and a son of the King of Mys'ia, a country of Asia Minor. Hylas was greatly beloved by Hercules. On the coast of Mysia the Argonauts stopped to obtain a supply of water, and Hylas, having gone from the vessel alone with an urn for the same purpose, takes the opportunity to bathe in the river Scaman'der, under the shadows of Mount Ida. He throws his purple chlamys, or cloak, over the urn, and passes down into the water, where he is seized by the nymphs of the stream, and, in spite of his struggles and entreaties, he is borne by them "down from the noonday brightness to their dark caves in the depths below." Hercules went in search of Hylas, and the ship sailed from its anchorage without him. We have a faithful and beautiful reproduction of this Greek legend, both in theme and spirit, in a poem by BAYARD TAYLOR, from which the following extracts are taken:

Hylas.

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water. No cloud was seen: on blue and craggy Ida The hot noon lay, and on the plains enamel; Cool in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander. "Why should I haste?" said young and rosy Hylas; The seas are rough, and long the way from Colchis. Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason, Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther; The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen Doze on the benches. They may wait for water Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander."

He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it On the smooth sole that answered at the surface: Alas! the shape dissolved in glittering fragments. Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters Swirled round his limbs, and deeper, slowly deeper, Till on his breast the river's cheek was pillowed; And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's bosom His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.

There, as he floated with a rapturous motion, The lucid coolness folding close around him, The lily-cradling ripples murmured, "Hylas!" He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine Curls that had lain unwet upon the water, And still the ripples murmured, "Hylas! Hylas!" He thought—"The voices are but ear-born music. Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley; So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontus, Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo's forehead, That I misdeem the fluting of this current For some lost nymph"—again the murmur, "Hylas!"

The sound that seemed to come from the lilies was the voice of the sea-nymphs, calling to him to go with them where they wander—

"Down beneath the green translucent ceiling— Where, on the sandy bed of old Scamander, With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses, Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing."

To all their entreaties Hylas exclaims:

"Leave me, naiads! Leave me!" he cried. "The day to me is dearer Than all your caves deep-spread in ocean's quiet. I would not change this flexile, warm existence, Though swept by storms, and shocked by Jove's dread thunder, To be a king beneath the dark-green waters. Let me return! the wind comes down from Ida, And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber, Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight shadow Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city. I am not yours—I cannot braid the lilies In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices. Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being— Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo!"

But the remonstrances and struggles of Hylas unavailing:

The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water Pleading for help; but heaven's immortal archer; Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead; And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated, So warm and silky that the stream upbore them, Closing reluctant as he sank forever. The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros. Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows. The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors, And up the mast was heaved the snowy canvas. But mighty Hercules, the Jove-begotten, Unmindful stood beside the cool Scamander, Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay before him; And when he called, expectant, "Hylas! Hylas!" The empty echoes made him answer—"Hylas!"

THE TROJAN WAR.

Of all the events of the Heroic period, however, the Trojan war has been rendered the most celebrated, through the genius of Homer. The alleged causes of the war, briefly stated, are these: Helen, the most beautiful woman of the age, and the daughter of Tyn'darus, King of Sparta, was sought in marriage by all the Princes of Greece. Tyndarus, perplexed with the difficulty of choosing one of the suitors without displeasing all the rest, being advised by the sage Ulysses, bound all of them by an oath that they would approve of the uninfluenced choice of Helen, and would unite to restore her to her husband, and to avenge the outrage, if ever she was carried off. Menela'us became the choice of Helen, and soon after, on the death of Tyndarus, succeeded to the vacant throne of Sparta.

Three years subsequently, Paris, son of Priam, King of Ilium, or Troy, visited the court of Menelaus, where he was hospitably received; but during the temporary absence of the latter he corrupted the fidelity of Helen, and induced her to flee with him to Troy. When Menelaus returned he assembled the Grecian princes, and prepared to avenge the outrage. Combining their forces under the command of Agamem'non, King of Myce'nae, a brother of Menelaus, they sailed with a great army for Troy. The imagination of the poet EURIPIDES describes this armament as follows:

With eager haste The sea-girt Aulis strand I paced, Till to my view appeared the embattled train Of Hellas, armed for mighty enterprise, And galleys of majestic size, To bear the heroes o'er the main; A thousand ships for Ilion steer, And round the two Atridae's spear The warriors swear fair Helen to regain.

After a siege of ten years Troy was taken by stratagem, and the fair Helen was recovered. On the fanciful etymology of the word Helen, from a Greek verb signifying to take or seize, the poet AECHYLUS indulges in the following reflections descriptive of the character and the history of this "spear-wooed maid of Greece:"

Who gave her a name So true to her fame? Does a Providence rule in the fate of a word? Sways there in heaven a viewless power O'er the chance of the tongue in the naming hour? Who gave her a name, This daughter of strife, this daughter of shame, The spear-wooed maid of Greece! Helen the taker! 'tis plain to see, A taker of ships, a taker of men, A taker of cities is she! From the soft-curtained chamber of Hymen she fled, By the breath of giant Zephyr sped, And shield-bearing throngs in marshalled array Hounded her flight o'er the printless way, Where the swift-flashing oar The fair booty bore To swirling Sim'o-is' leafy shore, And stirred the crimson fray. —Trans. by BLACKIE.

According to Homer, the principal Greek heroes engaged in the siege of Troy, aside from Agamemnon, were Menelaus, Achilles, Ulysses, Ajax (the son of Tel'amon), Di'omed, Patro'clus, and Palame'des; while among the bravest of the defenders of Troy were Hector, Sarpe'don, and AEne'as.

The poet's story opens, in the tenth year of the siege, with an account of a contentious scene between two of the Grecian chiefs —Achilles and Agamemnon—which resulted in the withdrawal of Achilles and his forces from the Grecian army. The aid of the gods was invoked in behalf of Achilles, and Jupiter sent a deceitful vision to Agamemnon, seeking to persuade him to lead his forces to battle, in order that the Greeks might realize their need of Achilles. Agamemnon first desired to ascertain the feeling or disposition of the army regarding the expedition it had undertaken, and so proposed a return to Greece, which was unanimously and unexpectedly agreed to, and an advance was made toward the ships. But through the efforts of the valiant and sagacious Ulysses all discontent on the part of the troops was suppressed, and they returned to the plains of Troy.

Among those in the Grecian camp who had complained of their leaders, and of the folly of the expedition itself, was a brawling, turbulent, and tumultuous character named Thersi'tes, whose insolence Ulysses sternly and effectively rebuked. The following sketch of Thersites reads like a picture drawn from modern life; while the merited reproof administered by Ulysses is in the happiest vein of just and patriotic indignation:

Ulysses and Thersites.

Thersites only clamored in the throng, Loquacious, loud, and turbulent of tongue; Awed by no shame, by no respect controlled, In scandal busy, in reproaches bold; With witty malice, studious to defame; Scorn all his joy, and censure all his aim; But chief he gloried, with licentious style, To lash the great, and monarchs to revile.

His figure such as might his soul proclaim: One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame; His mountain shoulders half his breast o'erspread, Thin hairs bestrew'd his long misshapen head; Spleen to mankind his envious heart possessed, And much he hated all—but most, the best. Ulysses or Achilles still his theme; But royal scandal his delight supreme. Long had he lived the scorn of every Greek, Vext when he spoke, yet still they heard him speak: Sharp was his voice; which, in the shrillest tone, Thus with injurious taunts attacked the throne.

Ulysses, in his tent, listens awhile to the complaints, and censures, and scandals against the chiefs, with which Thersites addresses the throng gathered around him, and at length—

With indignation sparkling in his eyes, He views the wretch, and sternly thus replies: "Peace, factious monster, born to vex the state With wrangling talents formed for foul debate, Curb that impetuous tongue, nor, rashly vain, And singly mad, asperse the sovereign reign.

"Have we not known thee, slave! of all our host The man who acts the least, upbraids the most? Think not the Greeks to shameful flight to bring; Nor let those lips profane the name of King. For our return we trust the heavenly powers; Be that their care; to fight like men be ours.

"But grant the host, with wealth our chieftain load; Except detraction, what hast thou bestowed? Suppose some hero should his spoil resign, Art thou that hero? Could those spoils be thine? Gods! let me perish on this hateful shore, And let these eyes behold my son no more, If on thy next offence this hand forbear To strip those arms thou ill deserv'st to wear, Expel the council where our princes meet, And send thee scourged and howling through the fleet." —B. II. POPE'S Trans.

COMBAT OF MENELAUS AND PARIS.

The opposing armies being ready to engage, a single combat is agreed upon between Menelaus, and Paris son of Priam, for the determination of the war. Paris is soon vanquished, but is rescued from death by Venus; and, according to the terms on which the combat took place, Agamemnon demands the restoration of Helen. But the gods declare that the war shall go on. So the conflict begins, and Diomed, assisted by the goddess Pallas (or Minerva), performs wonders in this day's battle, wounding and putting to flight Pan'darus, AEneas, and the goddess Venus, even wounding the war-god Mars, who had challenged him to combat, and sending him groaning back to heaven.

Hector, the eldest son of Priam King of Troy, and the chief hero of the Trojans, leaves the field for a brief space, to request prayers to Minerva for assistance, and especially for the removal of Diomed from the fight. This done, he seeks a momentary interview with his wife, the fair and virtuous Androm'a-che, whose touching appeal to him, and his reply, are both, perhaps, without a parallel in tender, natural solicitude.

Parting of Hector and Andromache.

"Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he? For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain! Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun.

"No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father's aid, no mother's tender care. The fierce Achilles wrapp'd our walls in fire, Laid The'be waste, and slew my warlike sire! By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell; In one sad day beheld the gates of hell. My mother lived to bear the victor's bands, The queen of Hippopla'cia's sylvan lands.

"Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee: Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all Once more will perish, if my Hector fall. Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share: Oh, prove a husband's and a father's care! That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, Where yon wild fig-trees join the walls of Troy; Thou from this tower defend the important post; There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, That pass Tydi'des, Ajax, strive to gain, And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. Let others in the field their arms employ, But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."

The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, Nor that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame! My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to the embattled plains: Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories and my own.

"Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothel's gasping on the shore, As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread.

"I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led! In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes, of which so large a part was thine! To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring The weight of waters from Hype'ria's spring. There, while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry: 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife!' Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs shall waken at the name! May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Pressed with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."

Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hasted to relieve his child; The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer:

"O thou! whose glory fills the ethereal throne, And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age! So when triumphant from successful toils, Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame;' While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."

He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; Soft on her fragrant breast the babe he laid, Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd. The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, She mingled with the smile a tender tear. The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd, And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:

"Andromache, my soul's far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. Fix'd is the term to all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth, No force can then resist, no flight can save— All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home, There guide the spindle and direct the loom: Me, glory summons to the martial scene— The field of combat is the sphere of men; Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, as the first in fame."

Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes His towery helmet black with shading plumes. His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That stream'd at every look; then, moving slow, Sought her own palace and indulged her woe. There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, Through all her train the soft infection ran: The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn the living Hector as the dead. —B. VI. POPE'S. Trans.

HECTOR'S EXPLOITS, AND DEATH OF PATRO'CLUS.

Hector hastened to the field, and there his exploits aroused the enthusiasm and courage of his countrymen; who drove back the Grecian hosts. Disheartened, the Greeks sent Ulysses and Ajax to Achilles to plead with that warrior for his return with his forces to the Grecian camp. But Achilles obstinately refused to take part in the conflict, which was continued with varying success, until the Trojans succeeded in breaking through the Grecian wall, and attempted to fire the Greek ships, which were saved by the valor of Ajax. In compliance with the request of the aged Nestor, however, of whom the poet YOUNG tells us that—

When Nestor spoke, none asked if he prevailed; That god of sweet persuasion never failed—

Achilles now placed his own armor on Patroclus, and, giving him also his shield, sent him to the aid of the Greeks. The Trojans, supposing Patroclus to be the famous Achilles, became panic-stricken, and were pursued with great slaughter to the walls of Troy.

Apollo now goes to the aid of the Trojans, smites Patroclus, whose armor is strewn on the plain, and then the hero is killed by Hector, who proudly places the plume of Achilles on his own helmet.

His spear in shivers falls; his ample shield Drops from his arm; his baldric strews the field; The corslet his astonished breast forsakes; Loose is each joint; each nerve with horror shakes; Stupid he stares, and all assistless stands: Such is the force of more than mortal hands.

Achilles' plume is stained with dust and gore: That plume which never stooped to earth before, Long used, untouched, in fighting fields to shine, And shade the temples of the mad divine. Jove dooms it now on Hector's helm to nod; Not long—for fate pursues him, and the god. —B. XVI.

Then ensued a most terrific conflict for the body of the slain warrior, in which Ajax, Glaucus, Hector, AEneas, and Menelaus participated, the latter finally succeeding in bearing it off to the ships. The grief of Achilles over the body of his friend, and at the loss of his wonderful armor, is represented as being intense; and so great a blow to the Greeks was the loss of the armor considered, that Vulcan formed for Achilles a new one, and also a new shield. Homer's description of the latter piece of marvelous workmanship—which is often referred to as a truthful picture of the times, and especially of the advanced condition of some of the arts and sciences in the Heroic, or post-Heroic, age—is too long for insertion here entire; but we proceed to give sufficient extracts from it to show at least the magnificent conception of the poet.

How Vulcan Formed the Shield of Achilles.

He first a vast and massive buckler made; There all the wonders of his work displayed, With silver belt adorned, and triply wound, Orb within orb, the border beaming round. Five plates composed the shield; these Vulcan's art Charged with his skilful mind each varied part.

There earth, there heaven appeared; there ocean flowed; There the orbed moon and sun unwearied glowed; There every star that gems the brow of night— Ple'iads and Hy'ads, and O-ri'on's might; The Bear, that, watchful in his ceaseless roll Around the star whose light illumes the pole, Still eyes Orion, nor e'er stoops to lave His beams unconscious of the ocean wave.

There, by the god's creative power revealed, Two stately cities filled with life the shield. Here nuptials—solemn rites—and throngs of gay Assembled guests; forth issuing filled the way. Bright blazed the torches as they swept along Through streets that rung with hymeneal song; And while gay youths, swift circling round and round, Danced to the pipe and harp's harmonious sound, The women thronged, and wondering as they viewed, Stood in each portal and the pomp pursued.

Next on the shield a forum met the view; Two men, contending, there a concourse drew: A citizen was slain; keen rose the strife— 'Twas compensation claim'd for loss of life. This swore, the mulct for blood was strictly paid: This, that the fine long due was yet delayed. Both claim'd th' award and bade the laws decide; And partial numbers, ranged on either side, With eager clamors for decision call, Till the feared heralds seat and silence all. There the hoar elders, in their sacred place, On seats of polished stone the circle grace; Rise with a herald's sceptre, weigh the cause, And speak in turn the sentence of the laws; While, in the midst, for him to bear away Who rightliest spoke, two golden talents lay.

The other city on the shield displayed Two hosts that girt it, in bright mail arrayed; Diverse their counsel: these to burn decide, And those to seize, and all its wealth divide. The town their summons scorned, resistance dared, And secretly for ambush arms prepared. Wife, grandsire, child, one soul alike in all, Stand on the battlements and guard the wall. Mars, Pallas, led their host: gold either god, A golden radiance from their armor flowed.

Next, described as displayed on the shield, is a picture of spies at a distance, an ambuscade, and a battle; the scene then changes to ploughing and sowing, and the incidents connected with the gathering of a bountiful harvest; then are introduced a vineyard, the gathering of the grapes, and a merrymaking by the youths at the close of the day; then we have a wild outlying scene of herdsmen with their cattle, the latter attacked by two famished lions, and the tumult that followed. The description closes as follows:

Now the god's changeful artifice displayed Fair flocks at pasture in a lovely glade; And folds and sheltering stalls peeped up between, And shepherd-huts diversified the scene.

Now on the shield a choir appear'd to move, Whose flying feet the tuneful labyrinth wove; Youths and fair girls there, hand in hand, advanced, Timed to the song their steps, and gayly danced. Round every maid light robes of linen flowed; Round every youth a glossy tunic glowed; Those wreathed with flowers, while from their partners hung Swords that, all gold, from belts of silver swung.

Train'd by nice art each flexile limb to wind, Their twinkling feet the measured maze entwined, Fleet as the wheel whose use the potter tries, When, twirl'd beneath his hand, its axle flies. Now all at once their graceful ranks combine, Each rang'd against the other, line with line.

The crowd flock'd round, and, wondering as they view'd, Thro' every change the varying dance pursued; The while two tumblers, as they led the song, Turned in the midst and rolled themselves along. Then, last, the god the force of Ocean bound, And poured its waves the buckler's orb around. —B. XVIII. SOTHEBY'S Trans.

Achilles Engages in the Fight.

Desire to avenge the death of Patroclus proves more powerful in the breast of Achilles than anger against Agamemnon, and, clad in his new armor, he is with difficulty restrained from rushing alone into the fight while his comrades are resting. Turning and addressing his horses, he reproaches them with the death of Patroclus. One of them is represented as being Miraculously endowed with voice, and, replying to Achilles, prophesies his death in the near future; but, with unabated rage, the intrepid chief replies:

"So let it be! Portents and prodigies are lost on me. I know my fate: to die, to see no more My much-loved parents and my native shore. Enough—when Heaven ordains I sink in night. Now perish Troy!" he said, and rushed to fight.

Jupiter now assembles the gods in council, and permits them to assist either party. The poet vividly describes the terrors of the combat and the tumult that arose when "the powers descending swelled the fight." Achilles first encounters AEne'as, who is preserved by Neptune; he then meets Hector, whom he is on the point of killing, when Apollo rescues him and carries him away in a cloud. The Trojans, defeated with terrible slaughter, are driven into the river Scamander, where Achilles receives the aid of Neptune and Pallas.

This Death of Hector.

Vulcan having dried up the Scamander in aid of the Trojans, all those who survive, save Hector, seek refuge in Troy. This hero alone remains without the walls to oppose Achilles. At the latter's advance, however, Hector's resolution and courage fail him, and he flees, pursued by Achilles three times around the city; At length he turns upon his pursuer, determined to meet his fate; and the account of the meeting and contest with Achilles, as translated by BRYANT, is as follows:

He spake, and drew the keen-edged sword that hung, Massive and finely tempered, at his side, And sprang—as when an eagle high in heaven Through the thick cloud darts downward to the plain, To clutch some tender lamb or timid hare. So Hector, brandishing that keen-edged sword, Sprang forward, while Achilles opposite Leaped toward him, all on fire with savage hate, And holding his bright buckler, nobly wrought, Before him. As in the still hours of night Hesper goes forth among the host of stars, The fairest light of heaven, so brightly shone, Brandished in the right hand of Pe'leus' son, The spear's keen blade, as, confident to slay The noble Hector, o'er his glorious form His quick eye ran, exploring where to plant The surest wound. The glittering mail of brass Won from the slain Patroclus guarded well Each part, save only where the collar-bones Divide the shoulder from the neck, and there Appeared the throat, the spot where life is most In peril. Through that part the noble son Of Peleus drave his spear; it went quite through The tender neck, and yet the brazen blade Cleft not the windpipe, and the power to speak Remained.

And then the crested Hector faintly said: "I pray thee, by thy life, and by thy knees, And by thy parents, suffer not the dogs To tear me at the galleys of the Greeks. Accept abundant store of brass and gold, Which gladly will my father and the queen, My mother, give in ransom. Send to them My body, that the warriors and the dames Of Troy may light for me the funeral pile."

The swift Achilles answered, with a frown: "Nay, by my knees entreat me not, thou cur, Nor by my parents. I could even wish My fury prompted me to cut thy flesh In fragments and devour it, such the wrong That I have had from thee. There will be none To drive away the dogs about thy head, Not though thy Trojan friends should bring to me Tenfold and twentyfold the offered gifts, And promise others—not though Priam, sprung From Dar'danus, should send thy weight in gold. Thy mother shall not lay thee on thy bier, To sorrow over thee whom she brought forth; But dogs and birds of prey shall mangle thee."

And then the crested Hector, dying, said: "I know thee, and too clearly I foresaw I should not move thee, for thou hast a heart Of iron. Yet reflect that for my sake The anger of the gods may fall on thee When Paris and Apollo strike thee down, Strong as thou art, before the Scae'an gates."

Thus Hector spake, and straightway o'er him closed The light of death; the soul forsook his limbs, And flew to Hades, grieving for its fate, So soon divorced from youth and youthful might.

The great achievement of Achilles was followed by funeral games in honor of Patroclus, and by the institution of various other festivities. At their close Jupiter sends The'tis to Achilles to influence him to restore the dead body of Hector to his family, and sends Iris to Priam to encourage him to go in person to treat for it. Priam thereupon sets out upon his journey, and, having arrived at the camp of Achilles, thus appeals to his compassion:

Priam Begging for the Body of Hector.

"Think, O Achilles, semblance of the gods, On thine own father, full of days like me, And trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Some neighbor chief, it may be, even now Oppresses him, and there is none at hand, No friend, to succor him in his distress. Yet, doubtless, hearing that Achilles lives, He still rejoices, hoping day by day That one day he shall see the face again Of his own son, from distant Troy returned. But me no comfort cheers, whose bravest sons, So late the flowers of Ilium, are all slain.

"When, Greece came hither I had fifty sons; But fiery Mars hath thinned them. One I had— One, more than all my sons, the strength of Troy, Whom, standing for his country, thou hast slain— Hector. His body to redeem I come Into Achaia's fleet, bringing, myself, Ransom inestimable to thy tent. Rev'rence the gods, Achilles! recollect Thy father; for his sake compassion show To me, more pitiable still, who draw Home to my lips (humiliation yet Unseen on earth) his hand who slew my son!" —COWPER'S Trans.

Achilles, moved with compassion, granted the request of the grief-stricken father, and sent him home with the body of his son. First to the corse the weeping Androm'ache flew, and thus spoke:

Lamentation of Andromache.

"And oh, my Hector! Oh, my lord! (she cries) Snatched in thy bloom from these desiring eyes! Thou to the dismal realms forever gone! And I abandoned, desolate, alone! An only son, once comfort of our pains, Sad product now of hapless love, remains! Never to manly age that son shall rise, Or with increasing graces glad my eyes; For Ilion now (her great defender slain) Shall sink a smoking ruin on the plain.

"Who now protects her wives with guardian care? Who saves her infants from the rage of war? Now hostile fleets must waft those infants o'er (Those wives must wait them) to a foreign shore: Thou too, my son, to barbarous climes shalt go, The sad companion of thy mother's woe; Or else some Greek whose father pressed the plain, Or son, or brother, by great Hector slain, In Hector's blood his vengeance shall enjoy, And hurl thee headlong from the towers of Troy." [Footnote: Such was the fate of Astyanax, Hector's son, when Troy was taken:

"Here, from the tower by stem Ulysses thrown, Andromache bewailed her infant son." —MERRICK'S Tryphiodo'rus.]

The death of Hector was also lamented by Helen, and her lamentation is thus spoken of by COLERIDGE: "I have always thought the following speech, in which Helen laments Hector, and hints at her own invidious and unprotected situation in Troy, as almost the sweetest passage in the poem. It is another striking instance of that refinement of feeling and softness of tone which so generally distinguish the last book of the Iliad from the rest."

Helen's Lamentation.

"Ah, dearest friend! in whom the gods had joined The mildest manners with the bravest mind, Now twice ten years (unhappy years) are o'er Since Paris brought me to the Trojan shore; (Oh, had I perished ere that form divine Seduced this soft, this easy heart of mine!) Yet was it ne'er my fate from thee to find A deed ungentle, or a word unkind: When others cursed the authoress of their woe, Thy pity checked my sorrows in their flow: If some proud brother eyed me with disdain, Or scornful sister, with her sweeping train, Thy gentle accents softened all my pain. For thee I mourn; and mourn myself in thee, The wretched source of all this misery. The fate I caused forever I bemoan; Sad Helen has no friend, now thou art gone! Through Troy's wide streets abandoned shall I roam! In Troy deserted, as abhorred at home!" —POPE'S Trans.

THE FATE OF TROY.

Homer's Iliad ends with the burial of Hector, and gives no account of the result of the war and the fate of the chief actors in the conflict. But in VIRGIL'S AEne'id, which gives an account of the escape of AEne'as, from the flames of Troy, and of his wanderings until he reaches the shores of Italy, the way in which Troy is taken, soon after the death of Hector, is told by AEneas to Dido, the Queen of Carthage. By the advice of Ulysses a huge wooden horse was constructed in the Greek camp, in which he and other Grecian warriors concealed themselves, while the remainder burned their tents and sailed away to the island of Ten'edos, behind which they secreted their vessels. AEneas begins his account as follows: