and now his frown cast a gloom over the forum like a thundercloud. But the speech in which he reproves Euryalus is full of wisdom and majesty, being meant not for him alone, but for all in the Forum.

"Heaven, it seems,

Imparts not, all to one, the various gifts
And ornaments of body, mind, and speech.
This man in figure less excels, yet Jove

Crowns him with eloquence; his hearers charm'd
Behold him, while with unassuming tone
He bears the prize of fluent speech from all;
And when he walks the city, as they pass,
All turn and gaze as they had pass'd a god.
Another, form'd with symmetry divine,
Yet wants the grace that twines itself around
The listening hearers' hearts. Such deem I thee:
Thy form is excellent-not Jove himself

Could mend it—but the mind is nothing worth.”

So saying, he seized a huge stone, and swiftly swinging it, sent it while it sang far beyond the farthest mark of a heavy three-pound Phæacian quoit! The natives were astonished; and then with another frown, bent chiefly on Euryalus, he stepped into the middle of the ring, and cried,

"Then come the man, whose courage prompts him forth,
To box, to wrestle with me, or to run;

For ye have chafed me much, and I decline
No strife with any here-I CHALLENGE ALL
PHEACIA, save Laodamas alone.

He is mine host."

You might have heard a mouse stirring; and though he was no boaster, looking around on the silent sea of heads all fear-frozen, he exclaimed,—

"There is no game athletic in the use

Of all mankind too difficult for me."

He soon lets out that he was at the siege of Troy, and acknowledges no superior among mortal men-in the use of the bow-save Philoctetes. To a few of ancient times he yields the palm-to Hercules-to Echalion Eurytus, who dared defy to archery the gods themselves, and whom there

fore Apollo slew. Alcinous applauds his speech, and confines now his praises of his people's feats to light-footedness in the race, skill in navigation, feasting, harping, singing, changing of garments, dancing, the tepid bath, and the delights of love. And Demodocus adapts his tuneful chords to a sprightly strain-singing the loves of Mars. and Venus enveloped in that invisible web by Vulcan, among the gibes and jeers of all the gods and goddesses-a voluptuous lay, and all unfit for the ears of Nausicaa; but she is in her chamber, pensively thinking perhaps of him with the locks of hyacinth.

"Such was the theme of the illustrious Bard."

And Ulysses heard the song with delight-for, as all the world knows, he was no woman-hater, and no remiss worshipper of Venus, who soon recovered from the shame of that exposure in her Paphian home,

“Where deep in myrtle groves

Her incense-breathing altar stands embower'd."

By this time the temper of Ulysses had become quite amiable—and there is something very pleasant in the sly humour of his panegyric on the astonishing dancing-feats of the agile and ball-catching Phæacians.

"ILLUSTRIOUS ABOVE ALL PHEACIA'S SONS!
INCOMPARABLE ARE YE IN THE DANCE,

EVEN AS THOU SAIDST. ASTONISH'D I BEHOLD
FEATS UNPERFORM'D BUT BY YOURSELVES ALONE.'

HIS PRAISE THE KING ALCINOUS WITH DELIGHT RECEIVED."

All hearts are opened, and all hands. The King and his Twelve Peers make splendid presents of gold and garments to Ulysses; and Euryalus generously makes friends with him by the gift of a steel-bladed, silver-hilted, ivory-sheathed sword, which the hero slings athwart his shoulders. It is now near sunset, and they all return to the palace, where golden gifts are heaped on golden gifts-and above all, "one splendid cup elaborate," that what time he pours libation to Jove and all the gods in his own house at home, the stranger may remember the giver, and bless the roof-tree of Alcinous.

Not one word, it would appear, had Ulysses interchanged

with Nausicaa since they parted at Minerva's grove! She had kept her chamber all evening on her return from the Silver Fountains, and all next day; and why she did so, must have been better known to herself than to us—though even to herself not very distinctly; but now, when all are doing honour to the stranger, and loading him with gifts, and that all preparations have been made for his departure on the morrow, she too must join the congratulating throng: she who was so communicative ere she mounted her car by the river-side, cannot surely refuse to say a few words of farewell-and a few she does say to him, as standing beside the portal of the hall, with admiring eyes, she beholds him entering bold, bright, and beautiful from the bath,—

Hail, stranger! at thy native home arrived
Remember me! thy first deliverer here."

These are all her last words-and he answers his preserver in as few-solemnly assuring her, that while he lives, he will adore her as he adores the gods!

But the night is all before them, and Demodocus must resume his harp, and sing them another lay. He sings, and the song is again of Troy and Ulysses! Again the hero weeps and now Alcinous feels he is entitled to ask the name of the mysterious stranger. The time is come for that revelation, and for the recital of the tale of all the exploits and adventures of the much-enduring man, since he and the Peers laid Ilion in the dust. Not at once does he answer the question of Alcinous; but in language the most beautiful gives utterance to sentiments the most amiable, all laudatory of the gracious and noble reception he had met with from the King and Queen, and their delightful Court. How charmingly it reads in Cowper! But in the Greek!

"Alcinous! o'er Phæacia's sons supreme!
Pleasant it is to listen, while a bard
Like this, melodious as Apollo, sings.
The world, in my account, no sight affords

More gratifying than a people blest

With cheerfulness and peace, a palace throng'd

With guests in order seated, and regaled

With harp and song, while plenteous viands steam
On every table, and the cups, with wine

From brimming beakers fill'd, pass brisk around.
No lovelier sight I know. But thou, it seems,
Thy thoughts has turn'd to ask me whence my groans
And tears, that I may sorrow still the more.

I AM ULYSSES! "

What sensation must have been created by that announcement ! Or had they begun-the more thoughtful among them -to conjecture which of the heroes this might be who had fought before Troy? "Famed o'er all the earth for noblest. wisdom, and renowned to heaven," could it be that Ulysses himself had been storm-blown to Phæacia? And Demodocus the divine, rushed on by Apollo in all his power, has he filled the great hero's eyes with tears, by a song recording his own triumphs, during the night of that great conflagration,

GREEK DRAMA.

THE AGAMEMNON OF ESCHYLUS.1

[AUGUST 1831]

PHILOSOPHICAL critics-from Aristotle to North-have often been pleased to institute inquiries into the grounds of the comparative difficulty, importance, and grandeur of the dif ferent kinds of poetical composition. But, in our humble opinion, they might have far better employed their time and talents in elucidation of the principles common to all departments of the Art sacred to "the Vision and the Faculty Divine.” The same genius, in our humble opinion, shines in them all— the Genius of the Soul. Sometimes we see it lustrous in Epic, sometimes in Dramatic, sometimes in Lyrical Poetry. Observing some mysterious law of heaven, it assumes now the shape of a Homer, or a Dante, or a Milton-now of an Eschylus, a Shakespeare, or a Baillie-now of a Pindar, a Chiabrera, or a Wordsworth. It sleepeth perhaps for a long time, but is never dead; it effulges by eras; the same spirit, believe us, but in different manifestations; while "far off its coming shone," clothed, in divers climes and ages, in various raiment -yet ever and everywhere but one glorious apparition.

The truth of this assertion-at first perhaps startling—is so clear the moment you consider it calmly, that it needs neither proof nor attestation. Two sentences will show it in the light of day.. Homer was the Father of Epic Poetry-because in him the Genius of the Soul, obeying heavenly instinct and instruction, chose to be Epic. But how dramatic, too, and how lyric likewise, is the blind Melesegines! Had it not been his

1 Family Library-Dramatic Series, No. IV., Potter's Eschylus. The Agamemnon of Eschylus, translated by John Symmons, A.M., late Student of Christ Church.