"But vain my words ;-the tender-cruel hand "Thus here all bootless adorations paid, I dared the height of this tremendous shore; What were your agonies, ye hope-betrayed! When to your bosoms I came back no more? "Of the mysterious pass, that leads through death, From life to life, I must not speak to thee; Enough that now I breathed another breath, Beyond the portals of mortality. "A stream received me, whose æthereal flow "And opposite a tide of sound was driven, "At last I came to a gigantic gate, That opened to a steep-ascending lawn, Whence rose a Temple, whose white marble state Was fused into that gold and purple dawn. "Sisterly voices were around me chanting, 'Hail! Thou whom Song has numbered with the blest, From fear, and hope, and passion's feverish panting, Pass to thy crown, a Muse's glorious rest.' "Entranced I entered, but there stood between Me and the fane, a queenly form and stern, Upon whose brow, in letters all of sheen, I saw the ancient name of Themis burn. "She laid her hand on mine, it felt so cold, She asked me, 'Whether I, whose soul had earned This highest Heaven, now felt serene and bold;' Then I into my conscious self returned. "She asked me, 'Whether all that heart-distress, In which my yielding womanhood had erred From this my Goddess-state with bitterness And shame was seen;' I answered not a word. "Then, piercingly, she asked me 'Whether He, Was clear forgot ;'-I answered slowly, 'No.' "Strange strength was in me; with consummate scorn, I spoke of That Apollo, who could deem, That by his magic leap, the true love-lorn Could wake to bliss, as from a troublous dream.' "I said, "The promised peace, the calm divine, "There was dead blackness on the golden sky, There was dumb silence in the resonant air, But still I cried aloud in agony, 'Heaven was not Heaven, if Phaon was not there.' "With arms upraised, and towering looks averse, That fearful Being uttered,- Be it so, Blessing thou wilt not, thou shalt have a curse; High bliss thou wilt not, thou shalt have deep woe. "Thou hast defiled the Gods' most choicest dower, As in its atmosphere;—that placid flower "Within the cold abyss, degraded, lone, Beneath the rock whose power thou hast blasphemed, From thy Parnassian, long-expectant, throne, Lie banished, till by some new fate redeemed.' "When will that new fate be? I linger on,— Here paused the Voice, and now, methought, I spoke, THE RETURN OF ULYSSES. THE identity of Ithaca and Thiáke is satisfactorily demonstrated by Sir W. Gell, and other writers. There still remains, too, in the minds of the islanders, the legendary remembrance of the wandering king and the faithful wife, who weaves and spoils her web for very sorrow and distraction. The localities are quite as recognisable as could be expected :-a Grotto was discovered a few years ago by the shepherds, just above the shore of the deep bay (λιμένος πολυβενθέος), which bears a faithful likeness to the Homeric portrait of the cave of the nymphs. It is beautifully hung with stalactites, which are evidently the "distaffs" of its divine inhabitants, and its floor is strewn with fragments of votive amphoræ and other relics of ancient worship. In another part of the island is a Fountain, still called "Melannéron." Now the cattle of Eumæus come to the fount of Arethusa to drink the "black water;" and as this is still the common drinking-place of all the neighbouring cattle, the name has probably come down from the Homeric times. As to the house of Ulysses, two sites of ancient cities are clearly to be traced, the one on the Eagle-height ("A.Tw), near the narrowest part, the other to the north of the western coast, still called the city (Στήνπολι or Πόλις); but I should not hesitate to take the former for the more important, if not elder one, and, consequently, the most likely to have been the dwelling of the Chief of the Republic of the Islands. But any such detailed and special identification as that attempted by Gell is fantastical; and some correspondence between the description and the plan of the remains, proves nothing more than a generic similarity between the dwellings of nearly the same age in the same country. THE Man of wisdom and endurance rare, A sundry-coloured and strange-featured way, The hero rode undaunted, night and day, (Such was Minerva's power, and Jove's behest) Scorns the inglorious strife and lays his wrath to rest. And how returns the tempest-tossed? his prows And laid upon his own beloved shore, Even as a wearied child, in quiet sleep once more! |