A generous cause a Victim did demand; And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; A self-devoted Chief-by Hector slain.»>

Supreme of Heroes-bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore; Thou found'st-and I forgive thee-here thou artA nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

<< But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave;
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.

«No Spectre greets me,-no vain Shadow this:
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
To me, this day, a second time thy bride!»

Jove frowned in heaven; the conscious Parce threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

« This visage tells thee that my doom is past:
Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast

And surely as they vanish.-Earth destroys
Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains:
Calm pleasures there abide―majestic pains.

«Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
A fervent, not ungovernable love.
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—»

<«< Ah, wherefore?-Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated Corse,

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Eson stood a Youth 'mid youthful peers.

«The Gods to us are merciful-and they Yet further may relent for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distrest,

Of all that is most beauteous-imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,

And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
Climes which the Sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue.-« Ill,» said he, << The end of man's existence I discerned,

Who from ignoble games and revelry

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight
While tears were thy best pastime,—day and night:

<< And while my youthful peers, before my eyes,
(Each Hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports,-or, seated in the tent,
Chieftains and kings in council were detained;
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

«The wished-for wind was given :-I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea;

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,-
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

«Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—
The paths which we had trod-these fountains-flowers;
My new-planned Cities, and unfinished Towers.

«But should suspense permit the Foe to cry,

Behold they tremble!-haughty their array,

Yet of their number no one dares to die!'-
In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred :-but lofty thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

«< And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak In reason, in self-government too slow;

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blest re-union in the shades below.

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized;

Be thy affections raised and solemnized.

« Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object.-Love was given,

«But if thou go'st I follow-» «Peace!» he said—
She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away-no strife to heal—
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued:

For this the passion to excess was driven-
That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.»

Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes re-appears!
Round the dear Shade she would have clung-'tis vain.
The hours are past-too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain:

Swift, tow'rd the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.

By no weak pity might the Gods be moved; She who thus perished not without the crime

Of Lovers that in Reason's spite have loved,
Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime,
Apart from happy Ghosts-that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes.-Upon the side
Of Hellesport (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew

From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
A constant interchange of growth and blight!!

HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,

And she came far from over the main.
She has a Baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,

She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

« Sweet Babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely Baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle, here,
My lovely Baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

« A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me.
But then there came a sight of joy:
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little Boy,
My little Boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.

« Suck, little Babe, oh suck again!"
It cools my blood; it cools my brain:
Thy lips I feel them, Baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band.
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree;

It comes to cool my Babe and me.

For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural History, lib. 16, cap. 44; and for the features in the character of Protesilaus (page 89) see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides.Virgil places the Shade of Laodamia in a mournful region, among unhappy Lovers,

It comes.

His Laodamia

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low,

To me that morning did it happen so ;'

And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;

Dim sadness-and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the Sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful Hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me-
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness:

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a Pool bare to the eye of Heaven

I saw a Man before me unawares:

The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,

By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep-in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,
Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood :
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a Cloud the Old Man stood;
That heareth not the loud winds when they call;
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond
Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
«This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.»
A gentle answer did the Old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
«What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you.»>
Ile answered, while a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest;
Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather Leeches, being old and poor :
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The Old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole Body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.
My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills:
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
-Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,

I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there.»

« But wherefore to the mountain-top
Can this unhappy woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow?»

«T is known, that twenty years are passed
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
Gave with a maiden's true good will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,

While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved.

<«< And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another Maid
Had sworn another oath;

And, with this other Maid, to church
Unthinking Stephen went

Poor Martha! on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;

A Fire was kindled in her breast,

Which might not burn itself to rest.

«Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!

Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn Infant wrought
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again :

And when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

« More know I not, I wish I did,
And it should all be told to you;
For what became of this poor
Child
No Mortal ever knew;
Nay-if a Child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell;
And if 't was born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.

« And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,

'T was worth your while, though in the dark, The church-yard path to seek:

For many a time and oft were heard
Cries coming from the mountain-head:
Some plainly living voices were;
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:

I cannot think, whate'er they say,
They had to do with Martha Ray.

« But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which I described to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,

I will be sworn is true.

For one day with my telescope,
To view the occan wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climb'd the mountain's height:
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.

«'T was mist and rain, and storm and rain;
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in faith it was

A wind full ten times over.

I look'd around, I thought I saw

A jutting crag, and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain;
And as I am a man,

Instead of jutting crag, I found
A woman seated on the ground..

« I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face!-it was enough for me;
I turn'd about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!"

And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make
The waters of the Pond to shake,
As all the country know,

She shudders, and you hear her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!'

«But what's the Thorn? and what the Pond? And what the hill of moss to her?

And what the creeping breeze that comes
The little Pond to stir?»

<< I cannot tell; but some will say
She hang'd her Baby on the tree;
Some say
she drown'd it in the Pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,

The little Babe was buried there,
Beneath that Hill of moss so fair.

«I've heard the moss is spotted red
With drops of that poor infant's blood:
But kill a new-born infant thus,

I do not think she could!
Some say, if to the Pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 't is plain
The baby looks at you again.