A golden quiver too has he

And in it many arrows be,

to sympathize with such gay and gladsome fancies as these, the effusions of

Which oft have made his mother hearts that had never felt a painful

We

wound, nor known the want of a night's
desired rest. Yet poets soon learn the
art of self-troubling; and the eyes of
each of the Three-though they all
died young-he may say so-may
have shed as many and as bitter tears
as those of Christopher North.
are in that mood to-night, when "plea-
sant thoughts bring sad thoughts to
the mind;" and yet that voice of thine
-heaven bless thee, Mary-reciting so
playfully those playful gracefulnesses
-reverses the sentiment of "the
Bard," and makes sad thoughts bring
pleasant ones-thou witch! but now
listen to us a rhapsodist—for we are
conscious of an "os magna sonatu-
rum"-and-ay the crutch-let us
stretch ourselves up to our full length,
what may be called an Ode.
and in a commanding attitude recite

CHRYTO AND THESPIS.

Two classes of Religion and Heroism contrasted in the Athenian and the Thracian.

Chryto (falling listlessly on a couch). A spiritual life 'tis given us to inhale,

We are its vigorous denizens to-day,

To-morrow, weak, disconsolate, and pale,

We sink to shadowy nothingness away:

Then spread the couch, the flowing goblet crown,

In mirth we'll mock the soul-corroding powers,

Let Phoebus in Hesperian deeps go down,

"The present moment and its joys be ours."
Brave Thespis, for thy song! and let it be
Of Pæon, Pallas, or Pelasgic Jove,
Or any other theme that pleaseth thee;
Thy songs we all admire, thy music love.

Thes. I Thespis am a man of Thrace,
Her rugged sons, a martial race,

Two deities adore,

Come fill your bumpers and be ready,
Give the chorus deep and steady;
Ye have heard the song before.
(He sings.)

Lo, where the thunder-clouds are
rending,

From their livid folds descending,

Who is it guides the sable car, Toward troubled earth his coursers bending?

'Tis the furious god of war.
(Chorus). 'Tis the furious god of

war.

Yonder their dragon wings unfurling,
The brands of hate and discord hurling,

While the hideous lightnings glare,
I see their serpent tresses curling!
Oh, the Furies they are there.
(Cho.) Oh, the Furies they are there.
On the orient panther riding,
Over the festal scene presiding,
Crowned with ivy and with vine,
Red are his eyes, all cares deriding,
'Tis the jolly god of wine!
(Cho.) 'Tis the jolly god of wine.

See the revel train advancing
(Loud the singing, light the dancing)
Over the silvan glades and lawns,
Cloven-footed, rudely prancing,

Yonder reel the frolic Fauns.
(Cho.) Yonder reel the frolic Fauns.,
[THESPIS ends,

Chryto. Brave Thespis ! thou thy part hast nobly done;

Dear is the memory in the Hero's soul

Of toils and triumphs, and proud trophies won,
Roused by the raptures of the generous bowl!
E'en now, O Marathon, thy glory shines,
Yonder our helmets and our lances gleam,
There ride the Satraps, there the Median lines,
And there the gallies pour a turban'd stream.
E'en now I hear the pean and the shout,
The trumpet and the timbrel, and behold
The fiery sword of Freedom, and the rout
Of reeking carnage to red Ocean rolled.

I see "Earth-shaking Neptune" knit his brows,
And with huge trident wake the slumbering wave;
He spurns the splendour of the ensanguined prows,
The trembling tyrant and the toiling slave!
And oh the glad return, the crowded gates!
Sires, wives, and children swell the proud acclaim,
And the aspiring song that consecrates
The Hero's memory to eternal fame!

But thine, great goddess of the Gorgon shield!
Thine were the triumphs of that glorious day!
Thine was the arm that forced our foes to yield,
And now thy deity demands a lay!
Comrades, we sing Minerva's high renown,
Wise in the council, in the combat bold,
Queen of our navies, guardian of the town,
Jove's unborn daughter of celestial mould.

Set down the goblet, bare the brow,
Before the plumed goddess bow ;
She demands no festal bowl,
But the homage of the soul;
Hers is the all-presiding eye
That can the inmost heart descry;
Hers the patriot's purest thought,
His purest actions nobly wrought;
Hers the indignant hands that tear
The tyrant from his gilded car,
And plant an empire of her own
Upon the ruins of his throne,
Where the olive's peaceful root
Branches, blooms, and bears its fruit.

CHRYTO sings a votive ode.
Queen of Reason and of Right,
Queen of majesty and might
(Who, from Jove's threshold thunder-
ing, toss'd

Impious Terra's giant host),
Bless the lyre, its fervours raise,
Ere it celebrate thy praise!
Trembling mortals turn to thee,
Guardian of the just and free!
They adore thee, they implore thee
To vindicate their liberty!
Seated in the heavenly hall,
High above yon fulgent star,
Hear thy votaries when they call,
Shake thy ægis, mount thy car,
Thunder from thy sacred wall
Upon the adverse ranks of war.

But shed on us the "light of truth;"
Shield the virtue of our youth;
Tell them that the victor's wreath
Crowns not him who shrinks at death;
Bid them know that winged Fame
Wafts wide the hero's godlike name,
And that applauding heavens behold
The immortal actions of the bold!
So shall thy favour'd race inherit
From age to age a dauntless spirit,
Fearless, peerless in the field,
By their deeds their blood declaring,
Every death and danger daring,
Foremost fighting, last to yield,
And, as they strike the conscious
earth,

Shall from their valour tell their
birth,

And to the staggering foemen say,
"The sons of conquering Greece are
they!

Haste from the hopeless strife retire,
Pallas fills their souls with fire!"
But when the sacred fanes shall bear
The trophies of the finished war,
And the nations bow'd and broken
By Athena's lightning spear,
Tremble at the noble token
Which our youths triumphant rear,
Shadowing forth their high degree
And the favours shown by thee,
Then, Goddess, with thy olive rod
Touch the furrow and the sod,

Calling down the precious aid
Of Ceres, Heaven-descended maid,
And bid the fragrant-bosom'd Flora
Spread her spangled garb before her,
While the Naiades bestow,

From darksome caves and pathless
mountains,

All the freshness of their fountains,
Instilling vigour as they flow,
Then, too, will we our prayers
combine,

We will build her up a shrine,
Where, at evening's votive hours,
Each youth and maiden, richly laden,
Shall appear with fruits and flowers.
But most of all, omniscient Queen,
Let the force of Mind be seen,
Bid us still be great and good,
Pure in purpose as in blood,
Unsubdued by hostile arms,
Unrelax'd by pleasure's charms;
Aid us in the deep debate,
Teach us how to think and feel
For the honour of the state,
All our wishes consecrate,
Bind them to the public weal!
Bid the patriot seek renown
In the senatorial gown;
Tell him that ambition reigns
Over scourges over chains,
While the devoted virtuous soul
Can the free-born man control,

And mightiest nations pay respect
To its presiding Intellect;
But where old Ilyssus gleams,
Pouring wide his wandering streams,
And the solemn groves resound
With the awful voice of Truth,
Calling loud from age to youth,
There let thy sacred light abound,
There shed a reverence profound;
While the flood of Reason flows,
And the generous fervour glows,
Let head and heart alike receive
All the lessons thou may'st give.
Then our honour and our glory
(Living in immortal story),
Guardian of the Just and Free,
Pallas, shall redound to thee!
A lordly offering be it thine,
Better far than vain oblations
Or the blood of spotless kine,
'Tis the tribute of all nations,
All that draw the patriot's band,
Or Corruption's course withstand;
'Tis the applause of Reason sent
Up to the starry firmament;
'Tis the noble soul's devotion,
Deep and boundless as the ocean ;
'Tis an offering meet for thee,
Guardian of the Just and Free!

Now, comrades! let us rise; night's cloudy car Drives o'er the Hellespont, and ere the morn Beams from her orient portal, quit the glare Of sickly lamps, to tranquil sleep withdrawn. Cursed is the revelry that steals away The hours of rest, and staggers into day. The Mighty Minstrel recited old ballads with a warlike march of sound that made one's heart leap, while his usually sweet smile was drawn in, and disappeared among the glooms that sternly gathered about his lowering brows, and gave his whole aspect a most heroic character. Rude verses that from ordinary lips would have been almost meaningless, from his were inspired with passion. Philip Sidney, who said that Chevy Chace roused him like the sound of a trumpet, had he heard Sir Walter Scott recite it, would have gone distracted. Yet the best judges" said he murdered his own poetry-we say about as much as Homer. Wordsworth recites his own Poetry magnificently— while his eyes seem blind to all outward objects, like those of a somnambulist. Coleridge was the sweetest of singsongers and his silver voice. war

Sir

(Ends.)

bled melody." Next to theirs, we believe our own recitation of Poetry to be the most impressive heard in modern times, though we cannot deny that the leathern-eared have pronounced it detestable, and the long-eared ludicrous; their delight being in what is called Elocution, as it is taught by player-folks. The Ode you now see is, we think, a fine one; but had you heard it, as Mrs Gentle has, all the while ambidexterously plying her knitting-needles, you would have jumped from your chair (she shows emotion only by stiller quietude), and with the poker charged the Persians. The author modestly signs "Rusticus Quondam ;" and one or two of his rhymes betray the Londoner-but he is of the good old school, is full of thought, and his flight is sustained with unflagging wing and an easy vigour. He is of the race of Eagles.

Two of Homer's Hymns-Hymn to Venus, Hymn to Mars. Turn over our Volumes 30, 31, 32, and you will find versions of seven or eight of them by "the Sketcher." They are very free, and in various measures-and display extraordinary power over the most difficult kinds of versification. In his hands the Hymn to Pan grows even more picturesque than the original; and in every stanza we feel that the "shepherd's awe-inspiring god" must be cloven-footedhe cuts such miraculous capers. W. E. L. B. in his versions aims at closest fidelity, and he succeeds; turned from them to a small volume of Translations from Homer (published at Oxford (1831) by Talboys,) by William John Blew, B.A., and we cannot doubt that he is our contributor. By this time he must be in orders; and we hope that he will not be offended with us for reading aright the

we

"letters four that form his name." We have read with great pleasure in his volume (too thin) the "Delian Appollo" and "The Bacchus or the Rovers." Clio calls on him for other contributions, new to Magaas these his present are; and who will essay the Greater Hymn to Venus? That would be indeed an achievement of which any scholar and poet might be ambitious-and which, so far as we know, has not yet been accom

plished.

The Homeric Hymns, amounting to Thirty Three, were discovered in the last century at Moscow, and edited by Ruhnken. They are easily divisible, says Henry Nelson Coleridge, in his Introduction to the study of the Greek Classic Poets (why have we not another volume :) into two classes-first, regular poèms consisting of a prologue, an appropriate legend or fable, and an epilogue or conclusion, of which class are the Hymns to Apollo, Mer cury, Venus, and Ceres; and second, mere preludes, or short preparatory addresses to, or eulogies of the divinity at whose festivals the Rhapsode was present, and was about to recite some poem of greater length. To this class belong the two here so excellently translated by Mr Blew. In the Hymn to Mars, Mr Coleridge observes, is contained a piece of astronomy, some.. thing later in date than the Homeric age, and involving a representation at variance with the popular account of the god of war. The poet, too, counts from Saturn through Jupiter to Mars; and the word rugavvos is used, which is not to be found in the Iliad or Odyssey. Hermann alone, of eminent modern critics, attributes these hymns to Homer; but the ancients believed they were his with almost as much confidence as his two great Epics..

HYMN TO VENUS.

ADOR'D, gold-crown'd, bright-blushing Aphrodite,
I sing the Queen of Cyprus' sea-girt height,
Whither the dank breath of the blowing West,
Wave-cradled, bare her in her foamy nest,
O'er the froth'd Ocean's wildly-boiling breast.

Her, then, the gem-wreathed Hours with greeting glad
Received, and straight in deathless raiment clad:

And on her brow immortal proudly set

A glorious, golden, rich-wrought coronet :

And hung a jewel in each pierced ear,

Of mountain-brass, than gold itself more dear.

Then round her tender neck and breasts of snow
Those golden chains they wound, whose sunny glow
Had oft their own bright shapes illum'd, when they
Join'd in Jove's halls th' Immortals' glad array:
Thus, by their gentle hands attired, the Hours
Led the young Goddess to the Ethereal Powers.
They saw, and kindly welcomed her, and laid
Softly their hands on hers, and inly pray'd-
Each, that the nymph, his virgin-bride become,
With him might hasten to his starry home.