With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest,
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wandering fires that move
In mystic dance not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth

Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

HECTOR'S FUNERAL RITES

Trans. by George Chapman.

Close of the Iliad-xxiv. 777-804.

These words made even the commons mourn, to whom the king said: "Friends,

Now fetch wood for our funeral fire, nor fear the foe intends

Ambush, or any violence: Achilles gave his word,

At my dismission that twelve days he would keep sheathed his sword,

And all men's else." Thus oxen, mules, in chariots straight they put,

Went forth, and an unmeasured pile of sylvan matter cut, Nine days employed in carriage, but when the tenth morn shined

On wretched mortals, then they brought the fit-to-bedivined

Forth to be burned. Troy swum in tears. Upon the pile's most height

They laid the person, and gave fire. All day it burned, all night,

But when the eleventh morn let on earth her rosy fingers shine,

The people flocked about the pile, and first with blackish wine

Quenched all the flames. His brothers then, and friends, the snowy bones

Gathered into an urn of gold, still pouring on their moans. Then wrapt they in soft purple veils the rich urn, digged a pit,

Graved it, rammed up the grave with stones, and quickly built to it

A sepulchre. But while that work and all the funeral rites

Were in performance, guards were held at all parts, days and nights,

For fear of false surprise before they had imposed the crown

To these solemnities. The tomb advanced once, all the town

In Jove-nursed Priam's court partook a passing sumptuous feast:

And so horse-taming Hector's rites gave up his soul to rest.

ODYSSEY: VI.—BOOK VIII. 454-468.

Trans. by Wm. Cullen Bryant.

Him then the maidens bathe and rub with oil, And in rich robe and tunic clothe with care, He from the bath, cleansed from the dust of toil, Passed to the drinkers; and Nausicaa there Stood, molded by the gods exceeding fair. She, on the roof-tree pillar leaning, heard Odysseus; turning she beheld him near. Deep in her breast admiring wonder stirred, And in a low sweet voice, she spake this winged word:

"Hail, stranger guest! when fatherland and wife Thou shalt revisit, then remember me, Since to me first thou owest the price of life." And to the royal virgin answered he:"Child of a generous sire, if willed it be By Thunderer Zeus, who all dominion hath, That I my home and dear return yet see, There at thy shrine will I devote my breath, There worship thee, dear maid, my savior from dark death.'

XIII. Elegiac Poetry

The Elegiac poetry being of a sad and mournful nature, celebrating the virtues of one deceased, is rarely, if ever, written in any other measure than the Iambic. The slow and stately tread of the thought as regards wonderful and virtuous triumphs could find no measure which would as

truthfully portray the thoughts of the speaker equal to those of Iambic.

The most celebrated elegies written are: Milton's "Lycidas," Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard," Tennyson's "In Memoriam," and Shelley's "Adonais."

The Elegy should be rendered directly to the audience, that is, speaking to intelligence, not to individuals, and is primarily a plea, and it also should be a pleading with intelligence for a sympathetic participation in the griefs and sorrows of the speaker for his friend who has departed this life.

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

Thomas Gray.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour-

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

XIV. Dramatic Poetry

Dramatic poetry ranks with the Epic in dignity and excellence. Like the Epic, the Drama, at least in its higher forms, must have some great and heroic transaction for its subject; it must even more than the Epic, maintain Unity in the action; it must have one leading character hero; it must have some complication of plot.

In its form, the Drama is essentially unlike the Epic and all other narrative poems. What they narrate as having been done, the Drama represents as actually doing before our eyes. In the Drama, the action is carried on solely by means of dialogue between the actors. In Epic poetry, indeed, the narrative often becomes dramatic, and takes the form of dialogue; but in the Drama, the form is exclusively that of dialogue.

The two principal kinds of drama are Tragedy and Comedy. Tragedy is more akin to the Epic, being serious and dignified, and having for its subject some great transaction. It undertakes to delineate the strongest passions, and to move the soul of the spectator in the highest degree. It is especially conversant with scenes of suffering and violence, and ends almost uniformly with the death of the persons in whom the spectator is most interested.