Extract from Bryant’s Translation of the Iliad. Book I. (620-774.)
Reading edition
* * * But when now, at length, The twelfth day came, the ever-living gods Returned together to the Olympian mount With Jove, their leader. Thetis kept in mind Her son’s desire, and, with the early morn, Emerging from the depths of ocean, climbed To the great heaven and the high mount, and found All-seeing Jove, who, from the rest apart, Was seated on the loftiest pinnacle Of many-peaked Olympus. She sat down Before the son of Saturn, clasped his knees With her left arm, and lifted up her right In supplication to the Sovereign One: “O Jupiter, my father, if among The immortals I have ever given thee aid By word or act, deny not my request. Honor my son, whose life is doomed to end So soon; for Agamemnon, king of men, Hath done him shameful wrong: he takes from him And keeps the prize he won in war. But thou, Olympian Jupiter, supremely wise, Honor him now, and give the Trojan host The victory, until the humbled Greeks Heap large increase of honors on my son.” She spake, but cloud-compelling Jupiter Answered her not; in silence long he sat. But Thetis, who had clasped his knees at first, Clung to them still, and prayed him yet again:— “O promise me, and grant my suit; or else Deny it,—for thou need’st not fear,—and I Shall know how far below the other gods Thou holdest me in honor.” As she spake, The cloud-compeller, sighing heavily, Answered her thus: “Hard things dost thou require, And thou wilt force me into new disputes With Juno, who will anger me again With contumelious words; for ever thus, In presence of the immortals, doth she seek Cause of contention, charging that I aid The Trojans in their battles. Now depart, And let her not perceive thee. Leave the rest To be by me accomplished; and that thou Mayst be assured, behold, I give the nod; For this, with me, the immortals know, portends The highest certainty: no word of mine Which once my nod confirms can be revoked, Or prove untrue, or fail to be fulfilled.” As thus he spake, the son of Saturn gave The nod with his dark brows. The ambrosial curls Upon the Sovereign One’s immortal head Were shaken, and with them the mighty mount Olympus trembled. Then they parted, she Plunging from bright Olympus to the deep, And Jove returning to his palace home; Where all the gods, uprising from their thrones, At sight of the Great Father, waited not For his approach, but met him as he came. And now upon his throne the Godhead took His seat, but Juno knew—for she had seen— That Thetis of the silver feet, and child Of the gray Ancient of the Deep, had held Close counsel with her consort. Therefore she Bespake the son of Saturn harshly, thus:— “O crafty one, with whom, among the gods, Plottest thou now? Thus hath it ever been Thy pleasure to devise, apart from me, Thy plans in secret; never willingly Dost thou reveal to me thy purposes.” Then thus replied the Father of the gods And mortals: “Juno, do not think to know All my designs, for thou wilt find the task Too hard for thee, although thou be my spouse. What fitting is to be revealed, no one Of all the immortals or of men shall know Sooner than thou; but when I form designs Apart from all the gods, presume thou not To question me or pry into my plans.” Juno, the large-eyed and august, rejoined:— “What words, stern son of Saturn, hast thou said! It never was my wont to question thee Or pry into thy plans, and thou art left To form them as thou wilt; yet now I fear The silver-footed Thetis has contrived— That daughter of the Ancient of the Deep— To o’erpersuade thee, for, at early prime, She sat before thee and embraced thy knees; And thou hast promised her, I can not doubt, To give Achilles honor and to cause Myriads of Greeks to perish by their fleet.” Then Jove, the cloud-compeller, spake again:— “Harsh-tongued! thou ever dost suspect me thus, Nor can I act unwatched; and yet all this Profits thee nothing, for it only serves To breed dislike, and is the worse for thee. But were it as thou deemest, ’tis enough That such has been my pleasure. Sit thou down In silence, and obey, lest all the gods Upon Olympus, when I come and lay These potent hands on thee, protect thee not.” He spake, and Juno, large-eyed and august, O’erawed, and curbing her high spirit, sat In silence; meanwhile all the gods of heaven Within the halls of Jove were inly grieved.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
A man of true genius.—Edgar A. Poe.
A man’s heart beats in his every line.—George Gilfillan.
Of all our poets Longfellow best deserves the title of artist.—Griswold.
They (Longfellow’s poems) appear to me more beautiful than on former readings, much as I then admired them. The exquisite music of your verses dwells more agreeably than ever on my ear, and more than ever am I affected by their depth of feeling and their spirituality, and the creative power with which they set before us passages from the great drama of life.—William Cullen Bryant in letter to Longfellow.
Santa Filomena.
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,— The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England’s annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.
Rural Life in Sweden.
There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land—almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, “God bless you!” The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the flagrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travelers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings you her heavy silver spoons—an heirloom—to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before, or bread with anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark.
Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travelers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and, hanging around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant-women, traveling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of their foot, and soles of birch bark.
Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and harvests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man’s words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer’s wealth. It may end in a wedding.
Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one by one; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the folds of trailing clouds sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel-shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells.
Passages from Longfellow.
If you borrow my books do not mark them, for I shall not be able to distinguish your marks from my own, and the pages will become like the doors in Bagdad, marked by Morgiana’s chalk.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
The Cathedral of Rouen.—I unexpectedly came out in front of the magnificent cathedral. If it had suddenly risen from the earth the effect would not have been more powerful and instantaneous. It completely overpowered my imagination; and I stood for a long time motionless, gazing entranced upon the stupendous edifice. I had before seen no specimen of Gothic architecture, save the remains of a little church at Havre, and the massive towers before me, the lofty windows of stained glass, the low portal, with its receding arches and rude statues, all produced upon my untrained mind an impression of awful sublimity. When I entered the church the impression was still more deep and solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The religious twilight of the place, the lamps that burned on the distant altar, the kneeling crowd, the tinkling bell, and the chant of the evening service that rolled along the vaulted roof in broken and repeated echoes, filled me with new and intense emotions. When I gazed on the stupendous architecture of the church, the huge columns that the eye followed up till they were lost in the gathering dusk of the arches above, the long and shadowy aisles, the statues of saints and martyrs that stood in every recess, the figures of armed knights upon the tombs, the uncertain light that stole through the painted windows of each little chapel, and the form of the cowled and solitary monk, kneeling at the shrine of his favorite saint, or passing between the lofty columns of the church—all I had read of, but had not seen—I was transported back to the Dark Ages, and felt as I can never feel again.—Outre-Mer.
Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. —Maidenhood.
As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so change of studies a dull brain.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
We often excuse our want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.
[End of Required Reading for January.]