danger again of falling into the hands of the enemy. Iris, the
messenger of heaven, is sent to Achilles, and persuades him to
come forth in his strength, and scatter the Trojans. Athena,
or Pallas, throws round him her immortal shield;

And like a crown the goddess threw a vapour round his head
Distinct with golden rays, from which a flame of glory spread.
As when the smoke goes up to heaven from some far inland town,
When deadly battle in the streets is raging up and down,
And as the light of day declines, from many beacon fires
Up to the darkening heaven the flames shoot up in forky spires,
A signal to the dwellers near to bring their timely aid :—
So rose the heavenly flame in air around Achilles' head.

At the sight of him the Trojans fly in dismay, and the mourn-
ful corse of his friend is brought in and laid on a bier, and

washed, and wept over by himself and his companions.

But now the heavenly arms are being fabricated, and the Book XVIII shield, on which divine art was lavished, is described in verses

of exquisite beauty:

And first he wrought a mighty shield of solid work entire,
With care inlaid on every side; and round, a shining tyre,
Triple, and glorious; and besides a belt of silver bright;
Five-fold he made the inner shield, with cunning skill bedight.

In it he wrought the earth and heaven, and ocean's brimming tide,
The sun's unwearied strength, the moon with monthly light supplied:
And all the constellations bright wherewith the heaven is set,
Orion, and the northern wain, in ocean never wet.

In it he wrought two cities; in the one were marriage songs,
And feastings; from the chambers came the brides in joyful throngs,
By light of festal torches; and the youths were dancing round
To music of the flute and pipe, and harps tumultuous sound;
While at the doors admiring stood their women and their sires.

In it he wrought a fallow field where plowers many a one

Were plowing, and whene'er their yokes came back where they begun,

A brimming cup was reached to them of honey-tasted wine,

Which having drunk they turned again along the furrowed line.

In it he wrought the harvest-time; and in the yellow land

Book XX.

The youths were reaping, holding sharp bright sickles in their hand;
Some handfuls fall along the rows, and some the shearers bind;
And boys were gathering up the gleanings following on behind.
A sceptred king among them stood surveying their employ;
And some prepared beneath an oak the feast of harvest joy.

Book XIX. These and many others are the wonders of the shield; and with this, and the rest of the arms, Achilles goes forth, knowing that his course will be short, but glorious. The gods now mingle unrestrainedly in the fight; and the combat assumes a Book XXI. higher and more awful cast. Hector flies, and is only saved by Apollo from the wrath of his foe. Not content with mortal foes, the hero engages with the river Scamander, the offspring of the gods, who rises in defence of his Trojans to overwhelm their destroyer. He flies before the rushing waters; the river pursues where he flies; till at last Hera, fearing for her Greeks and their chief, beseeches the fire god, who burns up the river. This scene, wild and supernatural as it is, is told grandly and appropriately; the personality and power given to inanimate things is mysteriously shadowed out, and an impression of awe and terror left on the mind of the reader.

Book XXII.

Book XXIII

Book XXIV.

His

The next book completes the glory of Achilles. great foe, the slayer of his friend, is slain by him, and dragged round the walls of Troy at the wheels of his chariot. This being accomplished, he performs the funeral rites to his yet unburied friend, and institutes solemn games over his tomb.

But strikingly beautiful is the close of this wonderful poem. The aged Priam, the disconsolate sire of Hector, comes to the fiery Achilles to beg his body. The sacred corse has been preserved many days miraculously-the wounds have been healed-the blood is washed by unseen hands. The meeting of age and youth, helplessness and strength, sorrow and fury, is powerfully related by this great master of human feelings. The savage warrior is melted; the sad father bears back his son, the last defence of Troy-the pile is lit; the sacred rites performed; and the action ceases, with

'Twas thus they wrought the burial rites of Hector good and true.

the Iliad.

Thus ends a poem, which in very many respects, most Excellence of deserves the admiration of mankind of all that have ever been composed. It raises a trifling piratical war into a subject of deep and lasting interest. It invests men of no historical importance with undying names. It arrests the grandeur and beauty of nature, and in a few short words or lines raises up a thousand images in the soul. It deals alike with the majestic and the minute, the terrible and the pathetic; and in its dealings with all these, stands unrivalled. From scenes of promiscuous bloodshed, and superhuman fury, to pictures of domestic tenderness, the master's hand is alike seen in all which he touches or describes.

It has one faculty, which belongs to none but the greatest productions of human genius, and the inspired writings, that of appearing more beautiful, the oftener it is read.

From this book the sages of Ancient Greece took their maxims and morals; her warriors their tactics, and her statesmen their politics. There is no poet who has not drawn from this source; the incidents of the Iliad, and the legends which have been built on them, have formed an inexhaustible fund for dramatic plots, lyric allusions, and superstructure of new epic poems; the similes have furnished many very beautiful descriptive sketches, which have been worked up, and are even now worked up, by modern artists in verse.

In our next chapter we shall give a similar sketch of the Odyssey; a poem not holding so high a place as the Iliad, but likely, from reasons which we shall then explain, always to be a greater favourite. Meantime we will take leave of our readers with the following sonnet, which occurred to us while ruminating on the subject of this chapter:

Ilion, along whose streets in olden days
Shone that divinest form, for whose sweet face

A monarch sire, with all his kingly race,
Were too content to let their temples blaze-

Where art thou now?-no massive columns raise

Their serried shafts to heaven; we may not trace

Xanthus and Simois, nor each storied place
Round which poetic memory fondly plays.
But in the verse of the old man divine
Thy windy towers are built eternally;
Nor shall the ages, as they ruin by,
Print on thy bulwarks one decaying sign;
So true is beauty clothed in endless rime;
So false the sensual monuments of time.

CHAPTER III.

HOMER-THE ODYSSEY.

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ference from

We observed in the last chapter, that the Odyssey has many Points of difpoints of difference from the Iliad. These must now be more the Iliad. specially detailed. In the first place, the subject and style are widely different. The Iliad is full of fields of battle, deeds of heroes, and the struggles of human passion. The Odyssey, on the other hand, relates the endeavours of a weary traveller to reach his beloved home, through perils by the adverse powers of nature. The Iliad abounds with images of dread and majesty the Odyssey with exquisite pastoral descriptions of sea and land and sky, and the works of men, gardens and palaces, farms and cities. The Iliad seems to partake more of the severe truth of patriarchal days, when the first fathers of men, mighty in stature and heart, were still in fulness of power and strength of will. The Odyssey belongs rather to the middle age of imaginative legend; its creations are all mingled with the fanciful and grotesque; it remembers, not relates, mighty deeds and passions; it takes its rise from an age when men and actions stand prominently forth, and in which we can imagine ourselves to be living and doing, and getting in its course more unreal and mysterious, it at last fades off into a region dim and unknown. In the Iliad, the mightier emotions bear rule, and the softer parts of humanity serve them, and are crushed beneath them in the Odyssey the love of home, of parent, wife and child, is ever before us, and weaves through adventure and fable its golden thread.

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