But now he seized Briseïs' heavenly charms,
And of my valor's prize defrauds my arms,
Defrauds the votes of all the Grecian train;
And service, faith, and justice plead in vain.
But, goddess! thou thy suppliant son attend.
To high Olympus' shining court ascend,
Urge all the ties to former service owed,
And sue for vengeance to the thundering god.
Oft hast thou triumphed in the glorious boast,
That thou stood'st forth of all the ethereal host,
When bold rebellion shook the realms above,
The undaunted guard of cloud-compelling Jove;
When the bright partner of his awful reign,
The warlike maid, and monarch of the main,
The traitor gods, by mad ambition driven,
Durst threat with chains the omnipotence of Heaven.
Then, called by thee, the monster Titan came
(Whom gods Briareus, men Ægeon name),
Through wondering skies enormous stalked along;
Not he that shakes the solid earth so strong:
With giant pride at Jove's high throne he stands,
And brandished round him all his hundred hands:
The affrighted gods confessed their awful lord,
They dropped the fetters, trembled, and adored.
This, goddess, this to his remembrance call,
Embrace his knees, at his tribunal fall;
Conjure him far to drive the Grecian train,
To hurl them headlong to their fleet and main,
To heap the shores with copious death, and bring
The Greeks to know the curse of such a king:
Let Agamemnon lift his haughty head

O'er all his wide dominion of the dead,
And mourn in blood that e'er he durst disgrace
The boldest warrior of the Grecian race."

"Unhappy son! (fair Thetis thus replies,
While tears celestial trickle from her eyes)
Why have I borne thee with a mother's throes
To Fates averse, and nursed for future woes?
So short a space the light of heaven to view!
So short a space! and filled with sorrow too!
O might a parent's careful wish prevail,
Far, far from Ilion should thy vessels sail,
And thou, from camps remote, the danger shun
Which now, alas! too nearly threats my son.
Yet (what I can) to move thy suit I'll go

To great Olympus crowned with fleecy snow.
Meantime, secure within thy ships, from far
Behold the field, nor mingle in the war.
The sire of gods and all the ethereal train,
On the warm limits of the farthest main,
Now mix with mortals, nor disdain to grace
The feasts of Ethiopia's blameless race;
Twelve days the powers indulge the genial rite,
Returning with the twelfth revolving light.
Then will I mount the brazen dome, and move
The high tribunal of immortal Jove."

The goddess spoke: the rolling waves unclose;
Then down the steep she plunged from whence she rose,
And left him sorrowing on the lonely coast,

In wild resentment for the fair he lost.

In Chrysa's port now sage Ulysses rode;
Beneath the deck the destined victims stowed:
The sails they furled, they lash the mast aside,
And dropped their anchors, and the pinnace tied.
Next on the shore their hecatomb they land;
Chryeïs last descending on the strand.
Her, thus returning from the furrowed main,
Ulysses led to Phoebus' sacred fane;
Where at his solemn altar, as the maid
He gave to Chryses, thus the hero said:

:

"Hail, reverend priest! to Phoebus' awful dome

A suppliant I from great Atrides come:
Unransomed, here receive the spotless fair;
Accept the hecatomb the Greeks prepare;
And may thy god who scatters darts around,
Atoned by sacrifice, desist to wound."

At this, the sire embraced the maid again,
So sadly lost, so lately sought in vain.
Then near the altar of the darting king,
Disposed in rank their hecatomb they bring;
With water purify their hands, and take

The sacred offering of the salted cake;

While thus with arms devoutly raised in air,
And solemn voice, the priest directs his prayer :—
"God of the silver bow, thy ear incline,

Whose power encircles Cilla the divine;
Whose sacred eye thy Tenedos surveys,

And gilds fair Chrysa with distinguished rays!
If, fired to vengeance at thy priest's request,

Thy direful darts inflict the raging pest:

8

Once more attend! avert the wasteful woe,
And smile propitious, and unbend thy bow."

So Chryses prayed. Apollo heard his prayer:
And now the Greeks their hecatomb prepare;
Between their horns the salted barley threw,
And, with their heads to heaven, the victims slew;
The limbs they sever from the inclosing hide
The thighs, selected to the gods, divide:
On these, in double cauls involved with art,
The choicest morsels lay from every part.
The priest himself before his altar stands,
And burns the offering with his holy hands,
Pours the black wine, and sees the flames aspire;
The youth with instruments surround the fire:
The thighs thus sacrificed, and entrails dressed,
The assistants part, transfix, and roast the rest:
Then spread the tables, the repast prepare;
Each takes his seat, and each receives his share.
When now the rage of hunger was repressed,
With pure libations they conclude the feast;
The youths with wine the copious goblets crowned,
And, pleased, dispense the flowing bowls around;
With hymns divine the joyous banquet ends,
The pæans lengthened till the sun descends:
The Greeks, restored, the grateful notes prolong;
Apollo listens, and approves the song.

'Twas night; the chiefs beside their vessel lie,
Till rosy morn had purpled o'er the sky:
Then launch, and hoist the mast; indulgent gales,
Supplied by Phoebus, fill the swelling sails;
The milk-white canvas bellying as they blow,

The parted ocean foams and roars below:
Above the bounding billows swift they flew,

Till now the Grecian camp appeared in view.
Far on the beach they haul their bark to land,
(The crooked keel divides the yellow sand,)
Then part, where stretched along the winding bay,
The ships and tents in mingled prospect lay.

But raging still, amidst his navy sat

The stern Achilles, steadfast in his hate;
Nor mixed in combat, nor in council joined;

But wasting cares lay heavy on his mind:

In his black thoughts revenge and slaughter roll,
And scenes of blood rise dreadful in his soul.

Twelve days were past, and now the dawning light VOL. II. —9

The gods had summoned to the Olympian height:
Jove, first ascending from the watery bowers,
Leads the long order of ethereal powers.
When, like the morning mist in early day,
Rose from the flood the daughter of the sea;
And to the seats divine her flight addressed.
There, far apart, and high above the rest,

The thunderer sat; where old Olympus shrouds
His hundred heads in heaven, and props the clouds.
Suppliant the goddess stood: one hand she placed
Beneath his beard, and one his knees embraced.

"If e'er, O father of the gods! (she said)
My words could please thee, or my actions aid,
Some marks of honor on my son bestow,
And pay in glory what in life you owe.
Fame is at least by heavenly promise due
To life so short, and now dishonored too.
Avenge this wrong, O ever just and wise!
Let Greece be humbled, and the Trojans rise;
Till the proud king and all the Achaian race
Shall heap with honors him they now disgrace."
Thus Thetis spoke; but Jove in silence held
The sacred counsels of his breast concealed.
Not so repulsed, the goddess closer pressed,
Still grasped his knees, and urged the dear request.
"O sire of gods and men! thy suppliant hear;
Refuse, or grant; for what has Jove to fear?
Or oh! declare, of all the powers above,
Is wretched Thetis least the care of Jove?"

She said: and, sighing, thus the god replies,

Who rolls the thunder o'er the vaulted skies:

"What hast thou asked? ah, why should Jove engage

In foreign contests and domestic rage,

The gods' complaints, and Juno's fierce alarms,
While I, too partial, aid the Trojan arms?
Go, lest the haughty partner of my sway
With jealous eyes thy close access survey;
But part in peace, secure thy prayer is sped:
Witness the sacred honors of our head,
The nod that ratifies the will divine,
The faithful, fixed, irrevocable sign;
This seals thy suit, and this fulfills thy vows
He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows,
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate and sanction of the god.

THE DEATH OF HECTOR.

(From the "Iliad": translated by W. E. Aytoun.)

[WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN, Scotch poet, man of letters, and humorist, was born in 1813 and died in 1865. He was son-in-law of John Wilson; one of the editors of Blackwood's, and professor of rhetoric and belles-lettres in the University of Edinburgh. He is best remembered by the "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers" and the "Bon Gaultier Ballads."]

PRONE he fell, and thus Achilles triumphed o'er his fallen foe:"So thou thoughtest, haughty Hector, when thou didst Patroclus slay,

That no vengeance should o'ertake thee, and that I was far away! Fool! a stronger far was lying at the hollow ships that day

An avenger

who hath made thee his dear blood with thine repay; I was left, and I have smote thee. To the ravenous hounds and kites

Art thou destined, whilst thy victim shall receive the funeral rites!" Him thus answered helmèd Hector, and his words were faint and slow:

"By thy soul, thy knees, thy parents- let them not entreat me so!
Suffer not the dogs to rend me by the vessels on the shore,
But accept the gold and treasure sent to thee in ample store
By my father and my mother. O, give back my body, then,
That the funeral rites may grace it, offered by my countrymen!"

Then the swift Achilles, sternly glancing, answered him again :"Speak not of my knees or parents-dog! thou dost implore in vain;

For I would my rage and hatred could so far transport me on,
That I might myself devour thee, for the murders thou hast done:
Therefore know that from thy carcass none shall drive the dogs

away,

Not although thy wretched parents ten and twenty ransoms pay, And should promise others also - not though Dardan Priam brought Gold enough to weigh thee over, shall thy worthless corpse be bought: Never shall thy aged mother, of her eldest hope bereft,

Mourn above thee to the mercies of the dog and vulture left!"

Then the helmèd Hector, dying, once again essayed to speak:"Tis but what my heart foretold me of thy nature, ruthless Greek! Vain indeed is my entreaty, for thou hast an iron heart! Yet bethink thee for a moment, lest the gods should take my part, When Apollo and my brother Paris shall avenge my fate, Stretching thee, thou mighty warrior, dead before the Scaan gate!" Scarcely had the hero spoken, ere his eyes were fixed in death, And his soul, the body leaving, glided to the shades beneath;