Note 548:B — Chapter XII · (continued 2)
Reading edition
Of the soothing and delightful effect of this contrasted repose, Homer, more than any other writer, affords us abundant examples; perpetually introducing, in the midst of slaughter and contention, similes fraught with pathetic incident or picturesque description. One of these, for the purpose of being followed by an imitation which, in my opinion, greatly transcends the original, I shall now transcribe. The Grecian bard, after mentioning the fall of Simoisius, slain by Ajax, in the bloom of youth and beauty, thus proceeds:—
"——————————— Him, what time she went From Ida, with her parents to attend Their flocks on Simois' side, his mother bore, And thence they named him. But his days were few, Too few to recompense the care that rear'd His comely growth; for Ajax, mighty Chief, Received him on his pointed spear, and, pierced Through breast and shoulder, in the dust he fell. So, nourish'd long in some well-water'd spot, Crown'd with green boughs, the smooth-skinn'd poplar falls, Doom'd by the builder to supply with wheels Some splendid chariot, on the bank it lies, A lifeless trunk, to parch in summer airs."
Cowper, Iliad IV.
Tender and beautiful as this must be deemed, greatly am I mistaken, if the following lines be not preferred. They are taken from an unpublished poem, entitled Alfred, the composition of Mr. John Fitchett of Warrington, whom I have the pleasure of personally knowing, and who, I trust, will pardon the liberty thus assumed, of endeavouring to accelerate the publication of his work, by the production of one of its numerous beauties. Alfred consists of twenty books, ten of which, in a printed form, lie now before me. In the eighth book, Berthun, a brave and youthful thane, is slain by the pagan Amund:—
"—————————— Down the hero fell, Riv'n through the brain. Sleep overcast his eyes. Full many a tear his early fate shall mourn Where on the woody side of Axham's vale His pleasant dwelling stands. In vain shall look At dawn or eve his tender wife to hail His glad return, but hopeless to her heart Press his fair image in her smiling babe. He fell, as by some murm'ring riv'let's side The tow'ring poplar, whose broad branches shade A rural cottage, guardian of its peace, Sinks crashing, and uptears the flow'ry bank, Whelm'd by the tempest; the defenceless cot Howls to the moaning wind: the birds behold Their nests, their young, in ruin lost: the brook Rolls o'er the tree whose image long it loved."