épareià, lovely streams (Il. xxi. 218), 'Hμadínv ěpareiηy, the lovely country of Emathia, (xiv. 226.) Orpheus speaks of lovely health, and the lovely harmony of hymns. Pindar of lovely water and 'the lovely light of the beautiful-eyed moon.' (Olymp. vi. 146, x. 90.) Virgil, describing the dark and gloomy waters of Acheron, calls it palus inamabilis, ‘the unlovely lake.' (Æn. vi. 438.) Milton has 'amiable' fruit, reminding us of the Scriptural How amiable are thy tabernacles!' (Psalm lxxxiv. 1.)

304. The qualities of anger, envy, charity, &c., are ascribed to nature in precisely the same manner, as alluded to in 299, but far less frequently in colloquial than in the poet's language. Milton's envious darkness, courteous echo,' and kind hospitable woods,' (alluding to their wild fruits and nuts) are remarkably beautiful instances. That also is fine in Ovid, when, describing a terrible tumult produced by the sudden incursion of enemies, he says it is like the sea

6

Quod sæva quietum

Ventorum rabies motis exasperat undis.

'Which when smooth, an impetuous storm of winds exasperates by the commotion of its waves.' (Met. v. 6, 7.)

The finest piece of sustained personification in any language, ancient or modern, is the following passage in Shelley's Cenci :

'Two miles on this side of the fort, the road
Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow,
And winds with short turns down the precipice;

And in its depth there is a mighty rock
Which has, from unimaginable years,
Sustained itself with terror and with toil

Over the gulph, and with the agony

With which it clings, seems slowly coming down;
Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour,
Clings to the mass of life, and clinging, leans,
And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss
In which it fears to fall;-beneath this crag,

Huge as despair, as if in weariness
The melancholy mountain yawns; below
You hear but see not an impetuous torrent
Raging among the caverns; and a bridge
Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow
With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,
Cedars, and yews, and pines, whose tangled hair
Is matted in one solid roof of shade
By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here
"Tis twilight, and at sunset, blackest night.'

305. The ancients' personifications of the powers and energies of nature as gods and goddesses rested on the same general principles. This, however, is a subject distinct from language, except as regards the epithets which were applied to the various deities, and which largely enter into classic poetry. Until we obtain a clue therefore to the principles of their application, half the charm of ancient verse is veiled. Thetis, for instance, the goddess of the sea, is styled the 'blue-robed' and the silver-footed.' The former epithet refers to the colour of the sea, which is the mantle of the goddess; the latter is an exquisite allusion to the white foam and spray produced by the dashing of the waves upon the beach, the sea being here at its extreme border, and thus equivalent to her feet.

306. There is yet another department of personification, namely, that which comprises the appeals which men address to the objects of nature, speaking to them as if they were listening and sentient beings like themselves. Such appeals are extremely frequent in the ancient Greek poetry, which they strikingly embellish. They are not infrequent likewise in the compositions of many of the most tasteful English poets. Scripture also gives examples, as in the 148th Psalm, and in the Canticle of the Three Children extracted into the Church of England Liturgy, and beginning "O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord!" In this there is nothing whimsical. As with every other procedure of the human mind in reference to the external world, there lies at the bottom of it a profound and elegant philosophy. Men at all periods of life, and under all circumstances, find in nature friendship, sympathy and welcome. When wearied with cares, or preyed upon by melancholy; when whispered to by the mild encouraging voice of hope, or animated by unexpected happiness and good fortune, they still spontaneously go out to the sweet sceneries and influences of nature; finding in the woods, and green fields, on the slopes of the sunny hills, or beside the shining river, balm for their wounds, or delicious though silent congenialities with their gladness. However listless, either in mind or body, in the presence of nature all again becomes buoyant and refreshed. Even if sullen and discontented, the blue sky looks down reprovingly, and drives away the tempter. How sublime from its infinite truthfulness and simplicity is Homer's picture of Achilles, when aggrieved by the injustice of Agamemnon, going down to the sea shore, and there playing on his harp to the waves, so that their united voices might give him rest! (Il. ix. 182.) Feeling therefore in the recesses of their being, how wonderful, intense and lovely is the sympathy of nature, the minds of men accustomed to seek her for her own sweet sake,

become insensibly attuned to gratitude, expressing it either in the eloquence of oft-repeated visits, or if gifted with the poet's tongue, in the utterance of spoken thanks and invocations. If troubled, they speak to nature as they would to the amiable and generous of their own species: if animated by a lively piety, they spontaneously call on her to join in praising God. Hence the sublime orisons ascribed by Milton to Adam and Eve in Eden, and the beautiful burst of feeling in Thomson's hymn at the end of the "Seasons," together with the Psalmist's above noticed. So long however as the material world endures, so long will it be unnecessary for man to call upon nature to lift up her voice to God, for it is she who sets him the example. When the wind, and the sea, and the waterfalls become silent, when the sweet solitudes of the country forget to utter their incomparable melodies, then first will it be needful for man to invite them to their duty.